CHAPTER I
THE PSYCHOLOGICAL MOMENT
No. 2 Union Square, December 14.
I am the most beautiful woman in the world!
I feel like a daughter of the gods. Bewildered, amazed, at timesincredulous of my good fortune--but happy, happy, happy!
There is no joy in heaven or earth like the joy of beingbeautiful--incomparably beautiful! It's such a never-ending surpriseand delight that I come out of my musings with a start, a dozen times aday, and shudder to think: "What if it were only a dream!"
Happy? I have no faith in the old wives' fables that we are mostmiserable when we get what we want. It isn't true that the weak andpoor are to be envied beyond the powerful. Ask the fortunate if theywould change! I wouldn't; not for the Klondike?
I'm so happy! I want to take into my confidence the whole world ofwomen. I want them to know how the gift was gained that they are someday to share. I want them to know that there are still good fairies inthe world; and how I was fated to meet one, how he waved his wand overme and how my imperfections fled. Every woman will read the story of mylife with rapt attention because of the Secret. I shall tell that lastof all. Now it's my own.
Is it true that I have longed for beauty more passionately than mostwomen; or is it only that I know myself, not the others? I can rememberthe time, away back, when the longing began--when I was----
Incredible! Was I ever an ugly little girl, careless of my appearance,happiest in a torn and dirty dress; and homely, homely, homely? Oh,miracle! The miracle!
They say all girls begin life thus heedless of beauty; but none get faralong the road before they meet the need of it. So it was with me; andnow I love to recall every pitiful detail of the beginning of the Questof Beauty, the funny little tragedy of childhood that changed thecurrent of my life--and of your lives, all you women who read.
It was one day after school, in the old life that has closedforever--after the prairie school, dull, sordid, uninspiring, away inthe West--that a playmate, Billy Reynolds, was testing upon me hispowers of teasing. I remember the grin of pleasure in his cruelty thatwrinkled his round, red face when at last he found the dart that stung.His words--ah, they are no dream! They were the awakening, the preludeof to-day.
"Janey's prettier'n what you be," he said; and of a sudden I knew thatit was true, and felt that the knowledge nearly broke my heart.
But could there be any doubt of the proper reply?
"Huh!" I said, shrugging my lean shoulders. "I don't care!"
The day before it would have been true, but that day it was a lie. Idid care; the brave words blistered my throat, sudden tears burned myeyeballs, and to hide them I turned my back upon my tormentor.
It was not that I was jealous. I cared no more for Billy than for adozen other playmates. It was just the fact that hurt. I was homely!Not that the idea was new to me, either. Dear me, no! Why, from myearliest years I had been accustomed to think of myself as plain, andhad not cared. My earliest recollection, almost, is of two women whoone day talked about me in my presence, not thinking that I wouldunderstand.
"Ain't she humbly?" said one.
"Dretful! It's a pity. Looks means so much more to a gal."
"But she's smart."
By these words--you can see that I was young--I was exalted, not castdown. And for five years, remembering them, I had been proud of being"smart." But now, in the moment of revelation, the law of sex was laidupon me, and the thought failed to bring its accustomed comfort. Smart?Perhaps. But--homely!
With feet as light as my heart was heavy because of Billy's taunt, Iflew home and ran up to my room. I had there a tiny mirror, abouttwo-thirds of which had fallen from its frame. I may before that dayhave taken in it brief, uncritical glimpses at my face, but they hadnot led to self-analysis. Now, with beating heart and solemnearnestness, I balanced a chair against the door--there was nolock--and looked long and unlovingly at my reflected image.
I saw many freckles, a nose too small, ears too big, honest eyes, hairwhich was an undecided brown; in short, an ordinary wind-blown littleprairie girl. Perhaps I was not so ill-looking, nor Janey so pretty, asBilly affected to think, but no such comforting conclusion then came tome. Sorrow fronted me in the glass.
The broken mirror gave no hint of my figure, but I know that I was leanand angular, with long legs forever thrusting themselves below the hemof my dress; the kind of girl for whose growth careful mothers provideskirts with tucks that can be let out to keep pace with theirincreasing stature.
Yes, I was homely! I could not dispute the evidence of the bit ofshivered glass.
My heart was swelling with grief as I slowly went down stairs, where mymother was getting supper for the hired men. I think it must have beenearly spring, for prairie schools need not expect boy pupils in seedingtime; I know that the door was open and the weather warm.
"Ma," I said as I entered the dining room, "will I ever be pretty?"
"Sakes alive! What _will_ the child think of next?"
"But will I, Ma?"
"'Han'some is as han'some does,' you know, Nelly," my mother responded,as she set on the table two big plates piled high with slices of bread.Then she went into the buttery and brought out a loaf of temperancecake, a plate of doughnuts and a great dish of butter.
"Oh, come now, Ma; please tell me," I wheedled, not content with aproverb.
"Why, Nelly, I don't know; the' ain't nobody does know. I waswell-favoured at your age, but your pa wan't much on looks. But Pa hada sister who was reel good-lookin', an' some says you've got her eyes.Maybe you'll take after her. But land! You can't never tell. I've seensome of the prettiest babies grow up peaked and pindlin' an' plain as apotato; whilst, on the other hand, reel homely children sometimes comeup an' fill out rosy-cheeked an' bright-eyed as you please. There wasmy half-sister Rachel, now, eight years younger'n me. I remember wellhow folks said she was the homeliest baby they ever see; an' she grewup homely, too, just a lean critter with big eyes an' tousled hair; butshe got to be reel pretty 'fore she died. Then there's my own CousinFrancie, she that married Tim'thy Baker an' went to New York to live.She's a bright, nice-lookin' woman, almost han'some; an' her littlegirls are, too; about your age they be. An'--"
I suppose the lonely prairie life had made Ma fond of talking, withoutmuch regard for her audience. Often have I heard her for an hour at atime steadily whispering away to herself. Now she had forgotten heronly auditor, a wide-eyed little girl, and was fairly launched uponmonologue, the subject answering as well as another her imperious need.
"Which of Pa's sisters, Ma?" I asked, interrupting.
"W'ich of his sisters--w'at? Wat you talkin' 'bout now?"
"Which is the good-looking one?"
"Oh, your Aunt Em'ly, o' course. Nobody ain't ever accused S'renie orKeren-Happuch o' bein' sinfully beautiful, fur's I know."
My Aunt Em'ly was invested for me with a new interest. Perhaps some dayI might take after her and grow equally well-favoured. I did notremember having noticed that she was beautiful, and resolved to studyher at the first opportunity.