Un Retrato de Wateu

You are within the mysteries of a boudoir. You behold that nymph’s arm, those diminutive hands powdering the cluster of golden curls of her splendid hair. The chandelier of opaque lamps casts the languor of its girandole throughout the chamber. And lo, as that countenance turns, we dream of the good times past. A marchioness contemporary with Madame de Maintenon, solitary in her cabinet, puts the finishing touches to her toilet.

Everything is proper: the hair containing all the Orient in its strands, powdered and curled; the bodice neckline, wide and heart-shaped, revealing the beginning of a firm and polished bosom; the open sleeves displaying enticing whiteness; the slender waist that sways; the rich petticoat with long flounces; and the tiny foot in the red-heeled shoe.

Look upon the blue and dewy pupils, the mouth of wondrous contour with an enigmatic sphinx-like smile—perhaps a memory of gallant love, of the madrigal recited beside the tapestry of pastoral or mythological figures, or of the stolen kiss behind the statue of some sylvan god in the penumbra.

The lady surveys herself from head to foot between two large mirrors; she calculates the effect of her glance, her walk, her smile, and of the almost impalpable down stirred by the wind of the dance upon her fragrant, rosy nape. And she reflects, and sighs; and that sigh floats in the air impregnated with feminine perfume that fills a woman’s boudoir.

Meanwhile, gazing upon her with marble eyes, a Diana rises irresistible and naked upon her plinth; a bronze satyr, bearing a candelabrum amidst the vine leaves of his head, smiles at her boldly; and upon the handle of a Rouen vase filled with scented water, a siren with curved tail and shining silver scales stretches forth her arms and breasts, while upon the oval ceiling, across the vast bluish background on the back of a robust and divine bull, rides fair Europa amidst golden dolphins and burly tritons who, above the broad roar of the waves, sound the husky blast of their resounding conchs.

The beauty is satisfied; now she places pearls about her throat and gloves her hands in silk; now she turns swiftly toward the door where the carriage waits and the pair paw the ground. And behold her there, vain and graceful, that aristocratic lady of Santiago bound for a fancy-dress ball, such that the great Watteau would have dedicated his brushes to her.

Yesterday through a window I saw an urn filled with lilacs and pale roses upon a tripod. Its background was one of those yellow, opulent draperies that evoke the mantles of Eastern princes. The freshly cut lilacs stood out with their lovely, peaceful color beside the ruffled petals of tea roses.

Beside the urn, in a lacquer bowl adorned with inlaid golden ibises, fresh apples tempted the appetite—half-crimson, with the bloom of newly gathered fruit and the savory, swollen flesh that invites desire; golden and appetizing, giving promise of all juice as if awaiting the silver knife to slice the syrupy pulp; and a cluster of black grapes, still bearing the ashen dust of bunches newly plucked from the vine.

I drew near, I observed it all closely. The lilacs and roses were of wax, the apples and pears of painted marble, and the grapes of glass.