The Clergyman's Wife and Other Sketches/The Coquette
The Coquette.
_-_initial_T.png)
he admired of many eyes and the beloved of numberless hearts, (male ones, be it understood, for women are strangely chary in bestowing affection upon her,) is Amanda Littleton. See how regally she stands, begirt by her worshipping subjects! How the ballroom moths, that float around her, sun themselves in the light of her liberally dispensed smiles!
As a juggler plays with his glittering balls, she is skilfully sporting with all those hearts, keeping them flying around her, yet attracted to her, powerless to break the charmed circle. But the artillery, with which she conquers, is so light that it seems cowardice to fly its graceful battery. The arts by which she ensnares, are so subtle that the wisest of her train can neither analyze nor withstand them. The favors she tosses as rewards, to this or that suppliant, are so harmless, so equally distributed, that none dare chide her prodigality. 'Tis but a languishing look she bestows on that adorer, a triumphant smile on this; that tender sigh is for another; something very like a blush is the guerdon of a fourth who is pouring soft flatteries into her ear. But even while she listens to his praises, her eyes are wandering afar, she arches her slender throat and glances over her snowy shoulder; the loadstone of that look attracts another admirer to her side; and the glance is repeated, again and again, with victorious result. An indefinable instinct, the fifth sense which belongs to coquetry, invariably warns her whenever a possible captive comes within reach of her enthralment.
What wondrous power lies concealed within the witching depths of those eyes of hers! We have watched their play, while her dewy lips mutely kissed each other, and the most impassioned words would have been less eloquent than the unspoken language telegraphed from those human windows. Now they are uplifted with saint-like expression, now musingly half-closed, now the clear orbs dance and flash, now gaze dreamily through liquid lustre; suddenly the sweeping lashes drop in confusion over the blooming cheek, then are rapidly raised in glad surprise. No need of utterance to convey her real or simulated emotions, with such eyes to say more than lips could fitly syllable.
But do not imagine that she is always thus silent; far from it; and her voice imparts a charm to the veriest persiflage by the rare faculty of attuning itself to the mood of the hearer. At one moment her tones are full of melting sweetness, at another, ringing with mirth; again gravely subdued, or breaking forth into a gush of silvery, but never loud, laughter; and now and then as she speaks, her aromatic breath touches the cheek that bows towards her and sets the listener's pulses throbbing in rapturous tumult.
The very rustling of her dress, as it sweeps along, has an alarum sound, that cries, "follow!" and truly a motley procession follows at the signal. The modern Alcisthenes walks arm in arm with the high priest of science; the laureled hero and head with cap and bells loom out, side by side, the Solon of the bench hobbles to keep pace with the springy step of the brainless exquisite.
Have we conveyed the impression that Amanda owes her fascination to the "fatal gift" of superlative beauty? That is an error. Strictly handsome she can scarcely be called; but she is so piquantly, picturesquely irresistible in face, and form, and mien, and ways, that the faultless beauty, who aspires to be a rival in her absence, flies the field, the instant that Amanda appears. Her supremacy lies in a kind of bewildering witchery, which makes itself felt in the very opening and shutting of her fan, the motion of her delicate hand, the transient peeping of her small foot from beneath her ample drapery, the heaving of her alabaster breast, ay, in the very rebellion of that tiny curl which invariably breaks the bondage of those glossy braids. Too suggestive of liberty is that recreant "love-lock," which jewelled fingers are constantly thrusting back, or which a toss of the Phidian head sets quivering along with the red rose imprisoned in her soft tresses, and the long spray, tipped with an opening bud, that roams caressingly down her white shoulders.
But there is no disorder about her toilet, save that which is apparent in the straying of the escaped ringlet, which brings to mind Pope's declaration that "man's imperial race" are ensnared by fair tresses, that beauty draws by "a single hair," and recalls what some other bard has sung about lovers "being tangled in the meshes of Phillis' locks."
Did we venture to use the word "disorder" in relation to Amanda's toilet? That expression was singularly inappropriate, for she is attired with such exquisitely elaborate care, that one might imagine there was no leisure in her day for any other employment than the arraying of her fair person; not time even for thanks to Him who fashioned the loveliness she delights to deck; or else we might fancy that she had revived the custom of those courtly belles in days of yore, whose toilets and devotions progressed at the same moment, who worshipped the idol reflected in their mirrors, and their God together; who gave audience at once to the chaplain and the hair-dresser, and joined in the prayers read by the former, while the skilful fingers of the latter twined the long ringlets, braided the shining tresses, or laced the broidered boddice over the unsanctified heart.
But if Amanda pleads not guilty to this grave charge, and is virtuously indignant at the comparison to those historic dames, those Helens of a laxer age; we must venture to assure her that there are other respects in which she bears them too strong a resemblance for denial.
Like them, she is somewhat too generous in the revealing of her charms; like them, she will listen unreprovingly to words too bold, and grant too much to man's entreaty; but she is prudent withal; she always pauses, self-possessed and immovable, on the verge of an indiscretion, for it is not the compulsive ardor of a sensuous nature, but a cold, calculating barter for admiration that urges her to the brink of danger.
But when some true heart, wholly subdued by her spells, some honorable wooer, thinks he has noted those "weather signs of love," which prognosticate a happy suit, and the hour comes for him to ask that question which is the highest tribute he can pay to womanhood, how is Amanda moved by the invitation to "walk the long path" by his side? Where is the bashful tremor that runs through a responsive heart? Where is the mantling veil of rose that seeks to enshroud an innocent face from a lover's gaze? Where is the downcast look of maidenly confusion, the stifled breath that with this strange, new joy, should choke her utterance, or turn her words into sobs? True, a flush is on her cheek, but it is the exultant flag uplifted at victory. The snowy lid falls over the eye, but it is to hide the glance of triumph. The voice has a faltering cadence, but it is not the accent of womanly agitation.
Amanda feigns a most charming surprise at this unexpected declaration, she murmurs some incoherent platitudes about friendship, chides herself for the hardness of her heart, and is zealous, with honied words, to pluck out the sting from her rejection, that she may not wholly lose one of her train. Thus, year after year, she plays her game, with consummate tact and unflagging spirit, and daily counts the hearts she has won, as religiously as a devotee tells the beads of her rosary.
Strange to say, the French bullion of Amanda's attractions has brighter glitter than the true gold of purer graces, and she holds her empire longer than many a lovelier, worthier contemporary. Two or three generations of lesser belles fade around her before Time lays a destroying finger on her meretricious charms. Even he, the remorseless, is kept at bay by her witchcraft.
But, in the end, the law of compensation will not suffer violence. We dare to predict that the retribution of one of two, equally deplorable, fates, is awaiting the conquering Amanda. Either she will miss the love of the only man whose affection she could have returned, and will spend her desolate and uncomforted age in mourning over the vanished triumphs which were her sole happiness, but which can never return; or else, just as she suspects that her light is beginning to wane, she will allow the most abject of her admirers, after numberless petitions, to swear himself her slave for life. But when he humbly encircles her taper finger with the golden round, the twain will change places. All the chains with which Amanda has manacled others will seem gathered together, and their weight heaped upon her own spirit; all the arrows she has sped will fly back and transfix her own heart. She will find the slave of yore transformed into the most unsparing of tyrants, and the dethroned sovereign will hopelessly sink into the humblest, dullest, most dejected of captives.
Hearken, fair Amanda, and be warned! Surrender at discretion! Lay down thine arms at the feet of some worthy suitor, yield thyself up trustingly to his mercy, and escape either destiny predicted.
_-_printer%27s_ornament_type_4.png)