As for
her dress, I remember few harder pieces of work than the painting
of it. She wore a silver-gray silk gown that seemed always
flashing out into some new light whenever she moved. It was as
stiff as a board, and rustled like the wind. Her head, neck, and
bosom were enveloped in clouds of the airiest-looking lace I ever
saw, disposed about each part of her with the most exquisite
grace and propriety, and glistening at all sorts of unexpected
places with little fairy-like toys in gold and precious stones.
On her right wrist she wore three small bracelets, with the hair
of her three pupils worked into them; and on her left, one large
bracelet with a miniature let in over the clasp. She had a dark
crimson and gold scarf thrown coquettishly over her shoulders,
and held a lovely little feather-fan in her hand. When she first
presented herself before me in this costume, with a brisk
courtesy and a bright smile, filling the room with perfume, and
gracefully flirting the feather-fan, I lost all confidence in my
powers as a portrait-painter immediately. The brightest colors in
my box looked dowdy and dim, and I myself felt like an unwashed,
unbrushed, unpresentable sloven.
"Tell me, my angels," said mademoiselle, apostrophizing her
pupils in the prettiest foreign English, "am I the cream of all
creams this morning? Do I carry my sixty years resplendently?
Will the savages in India, when my own love exhibits my picture
among them, say, 'Ah! smart! smart! this was a great dandy?' And
the gentleman, the skillful artist, whom it is even more an honor
than a happiness to meet, does he approve of me for a model? Does
he find me pretty and paintable from top to toe?" Here she
dropped me another brisk courtesy, placed herself in a
languishing position in the sitter's chair, and asked us all if
she looked like a shepherdess in Dresden china.
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