There is no silly weakness in the blue of my insolent eyes; the white
is pure mother-of-pearl, prettily marked with tiny veins, and the
thick, long lashes fall like a silken fringe. My forehead sparkles,
and the hair grows deliciously; it ripples into waves of pale gold,
growing browner towards the centre, whence escape little rebel locks,
which alone would tell that my fairness is not of the insipid and
hysterical type. I am a tropical blonde, with plenty of blood in my
veins, a blonde more apt to strike than to turn the cheek. What do you
think the hairdresser proposed? He wanted, if you please, to smooth my
hair into two bands, and place over my forehead a pearl, kept in place
by a gold chain! He said it would recall the Middle Ages.
I told him I was not aged enough to have reached the middle, or to
need an ornament to freshen me up!
The nose is slender, and the well-cut nostrils are separated by a
sweet little pink partition--an imperious, mocking nose, with a tip
too sensitive ever to grow fat or red. Sweetheart, if this won't find
a husband for a dowerless maiden, I'm a donkey. The ears are daintily
curled, a pearl hanging from either lobe would show yellow. The neck
is long, and has an undulating motion full of dignity. In the shade
the white ripens to a golden tinge. Perhaps the mouth is a little
large.
But how expressive! what a color on the lips! how prettily the
teeth laugh! Then, dear, there is a harmony running through all. What a gait! what
a voice! We have not forgotten how our grandmother's skirts fell into
place without a touch. In a word, I am lovely and charming. When the
mood comes, I can laugh one of our good old laughs, and no one will
think the less of me; the dimples, impressed by Comedy's light fingers
on my fair cheeks, will command respect. Or I can let my eyes fall and
my heart freeze under my snowy brows. I can pose as a Madonna with
melancholy, swan-like neck, and the painters' virgins will be nowhere;
my place in heaven would be far above them. A man would be forced to
chant when he spoke to me.
So, you see, my panoply is complete, and I can run the whole gamut of
coquetry from deepest bass to shrillest treble. It is a huge advantage
not to be all of one piece. Now, my mother is neither playful nor
virginal. Her only attitude is an imposing one; when she ceases to be
majestic, she is ferocious. It is difficult for her to heal the wounds
she makes, whereas I can wound and heal together. We are absolutely
unlike, and therefore there could not possibly be rivalry between us,
unless indeed we quarreled over the greater or less perfection of our
extremities, which are similar. I take after my father, who is shrewd
and subtle. I have the manner of my grandmother and her charming
voice, which becomes falsetto when forced, but is a sweet-toned chest
voice at the ordinary pitch of a quiet talk.