George Eliot, in one of her novels, has a good-natured mother, who
confesses that when she administers justice she is obliged to spare the
offenders who have fair hair, because they look so much more innocent
than the rest. And if this is the state of maternal feelings where all
are more or less fair, what must be the miscarriage of justice in
countries where a _blond_ angel makes his infrequent visit within the
family circle?
In England he is the rule, and supreme as a matter of course. He is
"English," and best, as is the early asparagus and the young potato,
according to the happy conviction of the shops. To say "child" in
England is to say "fair-haired child," even as in Tuscany to say "young
man" is to say "tenor." "I have a little party to-night, eight or ten
tenors, from neighbouring palazzi, to meet my English friends."
But France is a greater enthusiast than our now country. The fairness
and the golden hair are here so much a matter of orthodoxy, that they are
not always mentioned; they are frequently taken for granted. Not so in
France; the French go out of their way to make the exceptional fairness
of their children the rule of their literature. No French child dare
show his face in a book--prose or poetry--without blue eyes and fair
hair. It is a thing about which the French child of real life can hardly
escape a certain sensitiveness. What, he may ask, is the use of being a
dark-haired child of fact, when all the emotion, all the innocence, all
the romance, are absorbed by the flaxen-haired child of fiction? How
deplorable that our mothers, the French infants may say, should have
their unattained ideals in the nurseries of the imagination; how dismal
that they should be perpetually disillusioned in the nurseries of fact!
Is there then no sentiment for us? they may ask. Will not convention,
which has been forced to restore the advantage to truth on so many other
points, be compelled to yield on this point also, and reconcile our aunts
to the family colouring?
All the schools of literature are in a tale. The classic masters,
needless to say, do not stoop to the colouring of boys and girls; but as
soon as the Romantiques arise, the cradle is there, and no soft hair ever
in it that is not of some tone of gold, no eyes that are not blue, and no
cheek that is not white and pink as milk and roses. Victor Hugo, who
discovered the child of modern poetry, never omits the touch of
description; the word _blond_ is as inevitable as any epithet marshalled
to attend its noun in a last-century poet's dictionary. One would not
have it away; one can hear the caress with which the master pronounces
it, "making his mouth," as Swift did for his "little language." Nor does
the customary adjective fail in later literature. It was dear to the
Realist, and it is dear to the Symbolist. The only difference is that in
the French of the Symbolist it precedes the noun.
And yet it is time that the sweetness of the dark child should have its
day. He is really no less childlike than the other. There is a pretty
antithesis between the strong effect of his colouring and the softness of
his years and of his months. The blond human being--man, woman or
child--has the beauty of harmony; the hair plays off from the tones of
the flesh, only a few degrees brighter or a few degrees darker. Contrast
of colour there is, in the blue of the eyes, and in the red of cheek and
lip, but there is no contrast of tone. The whole effect is that of much
various colour and of equal tone. In the dark face there is hardly any
colour and an almost complete opposition of tone. The complete
opposition, of course, would be black and white; and a beautiful dark
child comes near to this, but for the lovely modifications, the warmth of
his white, and of his black alike, so that the one tone, as well as the
other, is softened towards brown. It is the beauty of contrast, with a
suggestion of harmony--as it were a beginning of harmony--which is
infinitely lovely.
Nor is the dark child lacking in variety. His radiant eyes range from a
brown so bright that it looks golden in the light, to a brown so dark
that it barely defines the pupil. So is his hair various, answering the
sun with unsuspected touches, not of gold but of bronze. And his cheek
is not invariably pale. A dusky rose sometimes lurks there with such an
effect of vitality as you will hardly get from the shallower pink of the
flaxened haired. And the suggestion is that of late summer, the colour
of wheat almost ready for the harvest, and darker, redder flowers--poppies
and others--than come in Spring.
The dark eyes, besides, are generally brighter--they shelter a more
liquid light than the blue or grey. Southern eyes have generally most
beautiful whites. And as to the charm of the childish figure, there is
usually an infantine slenderness in the little Southener that is at least
as young and sweet as the round form of the blond child. And yet the
painters of Italy would have none of it. They rejected the dusky
brilliant pale little Italians all about them; they would have none but
flaxen-haired children, and they would have nothing that was slim,
nothing that was thin, nothing that was shadowy. They rejoiced in much
fair flesh, and in all possible freshness. So it was in fair Flanders as
well as in dark Italy. But so it was not in Spain. The Pyrenees seemed
to interrupt the tradition. And as Murillo saw the charm of dark heads,
and the innocence of dark eyes, so did one English painter. Reynolds
painted young dark hair as tenderly as the youngest gold.