Trilby | Page 6

a wondrous thing, the human foot--like the human hand; even
more so, perhaps; but, unlike the hand, with which we are so familiar, it
is seldom a thing of beauty in civilised adults who go about in leather
boots or shoes.
So that it is hidden away in disgrace, a thing to be thrust out of sight
and forgotten. It can sometimes be very ugly indeed--the ugliest thing
there is, even in the fairest and highest and most gifted of her sex; and
then it is of an ugliness to chill and kill romance, and scatter love's
young dream, and almost break the heart.
And all for the sake of a high heel and a ridiculously-pointed toe---
mean things, at the best!
Conversely, when Mother Nature has taken extra pains in the building
of it, and proper care or happy chance has kept it free of lamentable
deformations, indurations, and discolorations--all those grewsome
boot-begotten abominations which have made it so generally
unpopular---the sudden sight of it, uncovered, conies as a very rare and
singularly pleasing surprise to the eye that has learned how to see!
Nothing else that Mother Nature has to show, not even the human face
divine, has more subtle power to suggest high physical distinction,
happy evolution, and supreme development; the lordship of man over
beast, the lordship of man over man, the lordship of woman over all!

En voila de l'eloquence--a propos de bottes!
Trilby had respected Mother Nature's special gift to herself--had never
worn a leather boot or shoe, had always taken as much care of her feet
as many a fine lady takes of her hands. It was her one coquetry, the
only real vanity she had.
Gecko, his fiddle in one hand and his bow in the other, stared at her in
open-mouthed admiration and delight, as she ate her sandwich of
soldier's bread and fromage a la creme quite unconcerned.
When she had finished she licked the tips of her fingers clean of cheese,
and produced a small tobacco-pouch from another military pocket,
made herself a cigarette, and lit it and smoked it, inhaling the smoke in
large whiffs, filling her lungs with it, and sending it back through her
nostrils, with a look of great beatitude.
Svengali played 'Schubert's 'Rosemonde,' and flashed a pair of
languishing black eyes at her with intent to kill.
But she didn't even look his way. She looked at Little Billee, at big
Taffy, at the Laird, at the casts and studies, at the sky, the chimney-pots
over the way, the towers of Notre Dame, just visible from where she
sat.
Only when he finished she exclaimed: 'Mai'e, a'ie! c'est rudement bien
tape, c'te musique-la! Seulement, c'est pas gai, vous savez! Comment
q'ca s'appelle?'
'It is called the "Rosemonde" of Schubert, matemoiselle,' replied
Svengali. (I will translate).'
'And what's that--Rosemonde?' said she.
'Rosemonde was a princess of Cyprus, matemoiselle, and Cyprus is an
island.'
'Ah, and Schubert, then--where's that?'

'Schubert is not an island, matemoiselle. Schubert was a compatriot of
mine, and made music, and played the piano, just like me.'
'Ah, Schubert was a monsieur, then. Don't know him; never heard his
name.'
'That is a pity, matemoiselle. He had some talent. You like this better,
perhaps,' and he strummed.
'Messieurs les etudiants.
S'en vont a la chaumiere
Pour y danser le cancan,"
striking wrong notes, and banging out a key--a hideously grotesque
performance.
'Yes, I like that better. It's gayer, you know. Is that also composed by a
compatriot of yours?' asked the lady.
'Heaven forbid, matemoiselle.'
And the laugh was against Svengali.
But the real fun of it all (if there was any) lay in the fact that she was
perfectly sincere.
'Are you fond of music?' asked Little Billee.
'Oh, ain't I just!' she replied. 'My father sang like a bird. He was a
gentleman and a scholar, my father was. His name was Patrick Michael
O'Ferrall, Fellow of Trinity, Cambridge. He used to sing "Ben Bolt."
Do you know "Ben Bolt"?'
'Oh yes, I know it well,' said Little Billee. 'It's a very pretty song.'
'I can sing it,' said Miss O'Ferrall. 'Shall I?'

'Oh, certainly, if you will be so kind.'
Miss O'Ferrall threw away the end of her cigarette, put her hands on her
knees as she sat cross-legged on the model-throne, and sticking her
elbows well out, she looked up to the ceiling with a tender, sentimental
smile, and sang the touching song.
'Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
Sweet Alice, with hair so brown?' etc., etc.
As some things are too sad and too deep for tears, so some things are
too grotesque and too funny for laughter. Of such a kind was Miss
O'Ferrall's performance of 'Ben Bolt.'
From that capacious mouth and through that high-bridged bony