toss and twitter and the air of a little girl
8/19/2005
Musichetta
She moves in a whirl of flounce and flutter, skirts rustling and tongue twittering, and neither ever ceases. She is hardly rich, but the single string of pearls, a gift from some lover, and jealously guarded even after the lover has passed on by, becomes a band of perfect diamonds on her elegant neck, for all the care and delight she takes in them. Her gowns are few, and though well-cut, not of the highest quality - but in them, as well, she finds enough to carry her fancy, and her whimsy turns her meagre wardrobe into the boudoir of a queen.
She has the air of a child about her, a little girl playing at being grown-up. She has never quite caught the trick of being somber, and even her occasional gravities are touched by a sweet, tongue-in-cheek flippancy - aren't I clever? Look, don't I grieve well! - and the smile never wholly fades from her carefully reddened lips.
She is lucky enough to be beautiful by Nature's grace, and clever enough to add to it what cosmetics and deliberacy can; but even that is done with the same careless toss and twitter. She delights in making herself up beautifully because she loves beautiful things, not because she wants to attract the notice of other people. She does attract it - that is an unlooked-for bonus - but when she does her hair up in bright, soft auburn curls, and adds that touch of rouge and powder to her plump cheeks, she spends her time before the mirror, not the operahouse. She could spend hours looking into the mirror.
She has always loved beautiful things - jewels and dresses, fans and feathers, as well as roses and sunsets and moonlight and the curve of a bird in flight, and the mahogany glow in a cup of tea - and when the little girl looks into the mirror, and sees a fine, grown-up, beautiful woman reflected therein, she simply loves to stare at her, and admire her, and wish that it were she.
Musichetta
She moves in a whirl of flounce and flutter, skirts rustling and tongue twittering, and neither ever ceases. She is hardly rich, but the single string of pearls, a gift from some lover, and jealously guarded even after the lover has passed on by, becomes a band of perfect diamonds on her elegant neck, for all the care and delight she takes in them. Her gowns are few, and though well-cut, not of the highest quality - but in them, as well, she finds enough to carry her fancy, and her whimsy turns her meagre wardrobe into the boudoir of a queen.
She has the air of a child about her, a little girl playing at being grown-up. She has never quite caught the trick of being somber, and even her occasional gravities are touched by a sweet, tongue-in-cheek flippancy - aren't I clever? Look, don't I grieve well! - and the smile never wholly fades from her carefully reddened lips.
She is lucky enough to be beautiful by Nature's grace, and clever enough to add to it what cosmetics and deliberacy can; but even that is done with the same careless toss and twitter. She delights in making herself up beautifully because she loves beautiful things, not because she wants to attract the notice of other people. She does attract it - that is an unlooked-for bonus - but when she does her hair up in bright, soft auburn curls, and adds that touch of rouge and powder to her plump cheeks, she spends her time before the mirror, not the operahouse. She could spend hours looking into the mirror.
She has always loved beautiful things - jewels and dresses, fans and feathers, as well as roses and sunsets and moonlight and the curve of a bird in flight, and the mahogany glow in a cup of tea - and when the little girl looks into the mirror, and sees a fine, grown-up, beautiful woman reflected therein, she simply loves to stare at her, and admire her, and wish that it were she.