1
Their half sophisticated faces gripe me in the belly. There’s no business
to be done with them either way. They’re neither virtuous nor the other
thing, between which exist no perfections. Oh, the mothers will explain
that they are good girls. But these never guess that there’s more sense
in a sentence heard backward than forward most times. A country whose
flowers are without perfume and whose girls lack modesty—the saying
goes—. Dig deeper _mon ami_, the rock maidens are running naked in the
dark cellars.
* * * * *
_In disgust at the spectacle of an excess of ripe flesh that, in
accordance with the local custom of the place he is in, will be left to
wither without ever achieving its full enjoyment, a young man of the
place consoles himself with a vision of perfect beauty._
2
I’ll not get it no matter how I try. Say it was a girl in black I held
open a street door for. Let it go at that. I saw a man an hour earlier I
liked better much better. But it’s not so easy to pass over. Perfection’s
not a thing you’ll let slip so easily. What a body! The little flattened
buttocks; the quiver of the flesh under the smooth fabric! Agh, it isn’t
that I want to go to bed with you. In fact what is there to say? except
the mind’s a queer nereid sometimes and flesh is at least as good a
gauze as words are: something of that. Something of mine—yours—hearts
on sleaves? Ah _zut_ what’s the use? It’s not that I’ve lost her again
either. It’s hard to tell loss from gain anyway.
3
The words of the thing twang and twitter to the gentle rocking of a
high-laced boot and the silk above that. The trick of the dance is in
following now the words, _allegro_, now the contrary beat of the glossy
leg: Reaching far over as if—But always she draws back and comes down
upon the word flatfooted. For a moment we—but the boot’s costly and the
play’s not mine. The pace leads off anew. Again the words break it and
we both comes down flatfooted. Then—near the knee, jumps to the eyes,
catching in the hair’s shadow. But the lips take the rhythm again and
again we come down flatfooted. By this time boredom takes a hand and the
play’s ended.