A Portrait

by Guy de Maupassant

　　

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Hello! there's Milial!" said somebody near me. I looked at the man whohad been pointed out as I had been wishing for a long time to meet thisDon Juan.He was no longer young. His gray hair looked a little like those furbonnets worn by certain Northern peoples, and his long beard, which felldown over his chest, had also somewhat the appearance of fur. He wastalking to a lady, leaning toward her, speaking in a low voice andlooking at her with an expression full of respect and tenderness.I knew his life, or at least as much as was known of it. He had lovedmadly several times, and there had been certain tragedies with which hisname had been connected. When I spoke to women who were the loudest inhis praise, and asked them whence came this power, they always answered,after thinking for a while: "I don't know--he has a certain charm abouthim."He was certainly not handsome. He had none of the elegance that weascribe to conquerors of feminine hearts. I wondered what might be hishid den charm. Was it mental? I never had heard of a clever saying ofhis. In his glance? Perhaps. Or in his voice? The voices of somebeings have a certain irresistible attraction, almost suggesting theflavor of things good to eat. One is hungry for them, and the sound oftheir words penetrates us like a dainty morsel. A friend was passing.I asked him: "Do you know Monsieur Milial?""Yes.""Introduce us."A minute later we were shaking hands and talking in the doorway. What hesaid was correct, agreeable to hear; it contained no irritable thought.The voice was sweet, soft, caressing, musical; but I had heard othersmuch more attractive, much more moving. One listened to him withpleasure, just as one would look at a pretty little brook. No tension ofthe mind was necessary in order to follow him, no hidden meaning arousedcuriosity, no expectation awoke interest. His conversation was ratherrestful, but it did not awaken in one either a desire to answer, tocontradict or to approve, and it was as easy to answer him as it was tolisten to him. The response came to the lips of its own accord, as soonas he had finished talking, and phrases turned toward him as if he hadnaturally aroused them.One thought soon struck me. I had known him for a quarter of an hour,and it seemed as if he were already one of my old friends, that I hadknown all about him for a long time; his face, his gestures, his voice,his ideas. Suddenly, after a few minutes of conversation, he seemedalready to be installed in my intimacy. All constraint disappearedbetween us, and, had he so desired, I might have confided in him as oneconfides only in old friends.Certainly there was some mystery about him. Those barriers that areclosed between most people and that are lowered with time when sympathy,similar tastes, equal intellectual culture and constant intercourseremove constraint--those barriers seemed not to exist between him and me,and no doubt this was the case between him and all people, both men andwomen, whom fate threw in his path.After half an hour we parted, promising to see each other often, and hegave me his address after inviting me to take luncheon with him in twodays.I forgot what hour he had stated, and I arrived too soon; he was not yethome. A correct and silent domestic showed me into a beautiful, quiet,softly lighted parlor. I felt comfortable there, at home. How often Ihave noticed the influence of apartments on the character and on themind! There are some which make one feel foolish; in others, on thecontrary, one always feels lively. Some make us sad, although welllighted and decorated in light-colored furniture; others cheer us up,although hung with sombre material. Our eye, like our heart, has itslikes and dislikes, of which it does not inform us, and which it secretlyimposes on our temperament. The harmony of furniture, walls, the styleof an ensemble, act immediately on our mental state, just as the air fromthe woods, the sea or the mountains modifies our physical natures.I sat down on a cushion-covered divan and felt myself suddenly carriedand supported by these little silk bags of feathers, as if the outline ofmy body had been marked out beforehand on this couch.Then I looked about. There was nothing striking about the room; every-where were beautiful and modest things, simple and rare furniture,Oriental curtains which did not seem to come from a department store butfrom the interior of a harem; and exactly opposite me hung the portraitof a woman. It was a portrait of medium size, showing the head and theupper part of the body, and the hands, which were holding a book. Shewas young, bareheaded; ribbons were woven in her hair; she was smilingsadly. Was it because she was bareheaded, was it merely her naturalexpression? I never have seen a portrait of a lady which seemed so muchin its place as that one in that dwelling. Of all those I knew I haveseen nothing like that one. All those that I know are on exhibition,whether the lady be dressed in her gaudiest gown, with an attractiveheaddress and a look which shows that she is posing first of all beforethe artist and then before those who will look at her or whether theyhave taken a comfortable attitude in an ordinary gown. Some are standingmajestically in all their beauty, which is not at all natural to them inlife. All of them have something, a flower or, a jewel, a crease in thedress or a curve of the lip, which one feels to have been placed therefor effect by the artist. Whether they wear a hat or merely their hairone can immediately notice that they are not entirely natural. Why?One cannot say without knowing them, but the effect is there. They seemto be calling somewhere, on people whom they wish to please and to whomthey wish to appear at their best advantage; and they have studied theirattitudes, sometimes modest, Sometimes haughty.What could one say about this one? She was at home and alone. Yes, shewas alone, for she was smiling as one smiles when thinking in solitude ofsomething sad or sweet, and not as one smiles when one is being watched.She seemed so much alone and so much at home that she made the wholelarge apartment seem absolutely empty. She alone lived in it, filled it,gave it life. Many people might come in and converse, laugh, even sing;she would still be alone with a solitary smile, and she alone would giveit life with her pictured gaze.That look also was unique. It fell directly on me, fixed and caressing,without seeing me. All portraits know that they are being watched, andthey answer with their eyes, which see, think, follow us without leavingus, from the very moment we enter the apartment they inhabit. This onedid not see me; it saw nothing, although its look was fixed directly onme. I remembered the surprising verse of Baudelaire:And your eyes, attractive as those of a portrait.They did indeed attract me in an irresistible manner; those painted eyeswhich had lived, or which were perhaps still living, threw over me astrange, powerful spell. Oh, what an infinite and tender charm, like apassing breeze, like a dying sunset of lilac rose and blue, a little sadlike the approaching night, which comes behind the sombre frame and outof those impenetrable eyes! Those eyes, created by a few strokes from abrush, hide behind them the mystery of that which seems to be and whichdoes not exist, which can appear in the eyes of a woman, which can makelove blossom within us.The door opened and M. Milial entered. He excused himself for beinglate. I excused myself for being ahead of time. Then I said: "Might Iask you who is this lady?"He answered: "That is my mother. She died very young."Then I understood whence came the inexplicable attraction of this man.

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