THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMEN IN THE WORLD
The Irish, Hungarian and Spanish women--The beauty of the English
and French women--The redeeming feature of every American woman.
If I were asked to name the spots of the earth where my eyes had the
privilege of beholding the most beautiful specimens of womanhood, I
think I would name the streets of Buda-Pesth and the drawing-rooms of
Ireland. If, on the other hand, I were asked to say whether there is
not, perchance, a spot of the earth where no woman is absolutely,
helplessly plain, where she always has a redeeming feature to speak in
her favour, I would unhesitatingly answer: 'Yes, the United States of
America; for in that country, let a woman have as unpleasant a face as
possible, as bad a figure as "they make them," there is an air of
independence, a deliberate gait, a pair of intelligent eyes, that will
go a long way towards making you forget or overlook the shortcomings of
the body.'
On the whole, I think the Hungarian women are the most beautiful in the
world. They have the faces of Madonnas and the figures of Greek
statues; both Raphael and Phidias would have chosen them for models.
They are not languishing, diaphanous creatures; they are the embodiment
of health and strength. They stand erect and straight, are hearty and
vigorous to the core, perfect pictures of abounding vitality. Yet their
limbs and features are full of delicacy. They have large eyes and small
feet, full arms, plump hands with small, tapering fingers, and
delicious ankles. The inclination of the shoulders is perfect, and the
bosom absolutely classical. No curve is exaggerated, but every one is
there, the right size in the right place. The sun has spread a reddish
golden tint, like the colour of a beautiful ripe peach, over her
complexion.
* * * * *
She seldom presents a riddle to the psychologist, and effeminate
ethereal poets do not sing of her. She is the vigorous embodiment of
sensible womanhood. As her exterior, so her whole character is
enchantingly fresh and matter-of-fact. She eats well and heartily, and
is an athlete. She swims, dances, rides, walks. In England, you find
very pretty faces among the lowest class people; in France, you seldom
do. In Hungary, grace and beauty know no difference between high and
low, and often bestow upon a poor, barefooted, short-skirted peasant
girl (with her beautiful oval face framed in a kerchief tied under her
chin) the same ravishing form, the same graceful carriage, the same
magically attractive glance as upon her more favoured sister.
* * * * *
But who can touch--even approach--the Irish woman with her dark hair,
her blue, sometimes light purple large eyes, her glorious complexion,
her soft, velvety skin, her beautiful, graceful form? Sometimes the
lower portion of the face is a little too long, but her brow is beyond
competition. The Irish woman is a symphony in white satin. Add to these
physical attractions the brightness of her expression, the amiability
of her smile, and you will come to the conclusion that her charm is
unapproachable.
There is so much patriotism in the world, or, I should rather say, so
much provincialism, that men all over the earth give the palm for
beauty to the women of their own country. Now, dear American friends,
you know this is true. Would any of you deny that the American women
are the most beautiful women in the world?
I am sorry to say that the beauty of French women is praised by my
compatriots only.
I am such a cosmopolitan that I have no biassed mind. I have been a
traveller for thirty years. In 1870 I shed a pint of blood and lost the
use of my right arm (for military purposes at any rate), so that France
and myself are quits, and I feel I have a right to express myself on
French topics quite as freely and independently as on any other
country. I thoroughly believe that the French women are the most
charming and certainly the most sensible women (where would France be
now but for the women?), but they are far from being beautiful. They
have not the eyes of the Spanish women, nor the complexion and shapely
figures of the English, nor the brilliant faces of the American women;
but what makes them charming is that they have a little bit of
everything, of which they know how to make the best. The French woman
is an _ensemble_.
It must be admitted that, after praising the women of their own
country, most men award to Spanish women the palm for beauty. The
conclusion must naturally be that the Spanish woman is very beautiful;
but, to my mind, it is a kind of beauty that does not appeal to the
heart or the soul as it does to the senses. Her large eyes, veiled by
thick lashes, her delicate nose and well-formed, ever-moving nostrils,
her undulating form, the suppleness, almost boneless, beautifully
moulded limbs and figure, her vigour, her languor--every fibre of the
Spanish woman's body, I say, appeals to the senses. She does not make
you dream of sentimental walks by moonlight, much less still of a
quiet, happy life in some retired, secluded little cottage. In her
company, you would never dream of being mayor of your city and father
of a numerous family. No, the Spanish woman strikes you as a
bewitchingly beautiful creature, jealous, sensitive, proud, a sort of
mixture of lioness and tigress that would suggest to you the idea of
spending your life sailing on a stormy sea. On looking at her, you
would almost like to start an acquaintance with a quarrel. If I were
married to a fair woman of Andalusia, I would feel that the best
moments of my life would be 'making it up' with her.
* * * * *
If the law of my country made polygamy compulsory, I would make love to
an English woman or a fair daughter of Virginia; I would have my house
kept by a German wife; my artistic inclinations I would trust to a
French woman; my intellectual ones to an American one. Then, when life
got a bit dull and I wanted my blood stirred up, I would call on my
Spanish wife. I would get it.