I have found the definition of Beauty, of my Beauty. It is something
ardent and sad, something slightly vague, giving conjecture wing. I
will, if you please, apply my idea to a palpable object, for instance,
to the most interesting object in society, to a woman's countenance.
A seductive and beautiful head, a woman's head, I mean, is a head
that brings dreams at once--confusedly--of voluptuousness and of
sadness; which bears a suggestion of melancholy, of weariness, even of
satiety,--or perhaps an opposite emotion, an ardor, a wish to live,
mingled with pent up bitterness, as springs from privation or from
despair. Mystery, regret, are also characteristics of beauty.
A handsome male head need not convey, save perhaps in the eyes of
a woman, that suggestion of voluptuousness, which, in a female
countenance, is generally tantalizing in proportion as the face is
melancholy. But that head also will bear something ardent and sad,
spiritual needs, ambitions vaguely receding, the thought of a rumbling,
unused power, sometimes the thought of a vengeful lack of feeling (for
the ideal type of the dandy must not be neglected here), sometimes
also--and that is one of the most interesting characteristics of
beauty--mystery, and finally (let me have the courage to confess to
what degree I feel myself modern in esthetics) _misfortune_. I do not
claim that Joy cannot be associated with Beauty, but I do say that
Joy is one of its most vulgar ornaments, while Melancholy is, as it
were, its illustrious companion, to such a degree that I can scarcely
conceive (is my brain an enchanted mirror?) a type of beauty in which
is no _Misfortune_. Following--others might say: obsessed by--these
ideas, you can see that it would be difficult for me not to conclude
that the most perfect type of manly Beauty is Satan,--as pictured by
Milton.