Creole Sketches/Some Positive Opinions
SOME POSITIVE OPINIONS[1]
In a curiously illustrated edition of Balzac's "Peau de Chagrin" there is a strange and terrible face which some of you may remember having seen: it is the face of the bric-à-brac dealer who sold the mysterious parchment — a forehead of immense breadth; a nose like that of Mephisto in Retsch's outlines; a mouth thin, straight, and passionless; eyes large and sinister, with brows knotted above the nose like adders and rising wickedly toward the temples — in short, a face most sinister, most infernal, but withal fascinating with a diabolic fascination. Now, can you imagine such a visage transformed and softened by youth and femininity, made beautiful without losing its strength of menacing wickedness; the nose a little less rugged, the eyes a little larger, the brows a little lighter? Then you have before you an idea of the dancer's face.
We sat and talked under the fig-tree. At least she talked; I listened under the steady gaze of her basilisk eyes. She seemed to speak all modern tongues fluently; had excited passion by her lithe grace and surpassing skill of limb-curving in half the capitals of Europe. She talked about Havana, Buenos Ayres, Valparaiso, Vera Cruz, Mexico City; described Spanish dances in a mocking way peculiar to herself, speaking all the while in a voice deep and sweet as the lower tone of some reed instrument. But the depth of the voice and its sweetness wrought an unpleasant effect upon the listener — such an effect as a wizard's music might have, luring to danger.
"I hate men," she said, with Italian vehemence, and an indescribable gesture of disgust; — "oh, how I detest them! It amuses me when I am dancing to think of all those thousand eyes glaring upon me, as at something they are almost mad to touch and cannot reach, and dare not touch if they could. It gives me pleasure; and often when I smile on the stage the smile is not mechanical; it is prompted by a sense of amusement which is too strong for me to resist. I know that hundreds of young fools will leave the theatre devoured with a wish they cannot gratify. Ah! I hate men!
"Of course you know as well as I do that they pester and torment us. I am burdened with letters, presents—stuff! Love! Ah, bah! In a life such as mine one soon learns what love is worth! I used to read the letters I got. Now I seldom read more than the first line! Presents? Yes, all I want.
"Let me tell you my way of treating the fools. I never answer a letter unless it is accompanied by a present — and the present must have some value. Flowers! — I hate flowers! What good are flowers to me? What value have flowers twenty-four hours after being thrown at my feet? I would be as pleased to receive a jar of ashes or a box of sand. Do you imagine I would pick up their worthless flowers? Never! I can always find some way to avoid that.
"Then I never answer in writing — never! No woman who is not an idiot will do that. I let somebody else carry my message — always worded in such a way that the fool imagines it is the greatest privilege in the world to be permitted to see me. When he does see me, he pays dearly for it, if he is worth anything; and if he is not —which I soon find out — he never sees me again — except on the stage. And then it amuses me to know how I can torture him.
"I never say a pleasant word to an admirer. Why, if I did, the fool would really think he had made an immense impression! I have my own special way of treating him; he always brings me a present, of course. I never thank him! Never! I look at it; find fault with it; laugh at it; mock the man; and finally when he does not know what to do, I condescend to lay it aside. That means acceptance. He buys a better present next time; every time he buys me something, I treat him worse than before. Much worse! I have tormented men until they cried—yes, cried: the ridiculous fools!
"No; the worse you treat men, the better they like you! And you know it is all passion—wind and foam and smoke—a fancy—a passing beat of the blood, for which a man would sacrifice my life and happiness if he could and dared! But I know them! I can play with them as an angler plays with a fish! I sometimes let them kiss me if they are not too nasty — or feel my arms and shoulders, smooth me down — you know the way men like to stroke a woman, as if a woman was a cat! But I have a certain respect for myself. I believe in nothing but myself — and my mother, yes! Now, do you suppose I will allow men to make me their puppet, their doll, their kitten, their lemon to be squeezed and thrown away? Bah! I can play salamander. I am a juggler that can handle fire without burning my fingers. I can touch pitch and not be defiled. No man can boast of the contrary. There are liars who say such things about all stage characters; but what do I care? I have made men pay well for all that men have said about me.
"Afraid? Pooh! Of what? I know desperate men when I see them. I have not lived and traveled for nothing. And I calculate my time nicely. I know just what I can accomplish during my stay in a city. And do you know that no man has dared to insult my face? I mean coarsely and abusively. They are afraid of me. The secret of success in life is to make people afraid of you. Only fools remain on the defensive. I am always on the aggressive. Insult! — I would poniard a man if I saw a thought of insult in his eyes! Law! What do I care for law? I am a law unto myself. Why, a woman has always the advantage in such cases. Suppose I say: 'That man came to see me under some pretext. He attempted to take advantage; I know how to take care of myself; — I killed him!' Who will contradict me?
"Lover! Nonsense! Perhaps, when I leave the stage! But I shall be mistress. Do you think I would allow a man to say to me, Do this, Do that?
"I forgot what I was telling you — when I allow a man to kiss me, he begins to be elated. He thinks he has an easy road before him. He begins to look confident. He becomes airy. Then the day after I refuse to speak, to him, or see him at all! He feels as if struck by lightning. He imagines all kinds of things — that he has been slandered or something. He wants to make an explanation. He becomes pathetically eloquent. He writes crazy letters. I pay no attention to him. He becomes feverish, furious, frantic, desperate. He would sell his soul just to be able to say one little word to me; — one little word would be for him what one little drop of water would be to the tongue of the damned. And he cannot get the chance to speak. He thinks of killing somebody. Then is the time to step in and ask and receive. Finally they learn to hate me. That is just what I want, and this is how I rid myself of them. The Fools!"
- ↑ Item, April 27, 1881.