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shines like an enchanter's crown. We know nothing can happen to her, 3^et do we ? Things happen, we ourselves have known them to happen.., one bj^ one, our audience (already meagre) has risen, has blatantly stamped downstairs. I hear
words, whispers, English. "A thing like this filthy
no one but a foreigner would dare present it." La Petite Rue Sans Joie was a real, little street. It was a little war-street, a little, post-war street, therefore our little picture palace in our comparatively* broad-minded Lake Geneva town, is emptj'. People won't, they dare not face realitj^ .
And beauty, among other things, is reality, and beaut}' once in so many hundred years, raises a wan head, suddenb/ decides to avenge itself for all the slights that it has negligently accepted, sometimes through weariness, sometimes through sheer omnipotence, sometimes through cjmicism or through boredom. Simonetta, the famous Medician Venus (though I don't care for her), one and one and one, all stand a.s vritnesses that once in so often, beauty herself, Helen above Troy, rises triumphant and denounces the world for a season and then retires, spins a little web of illusion and shuffles off to forget men and their stale formulas of existence. Well beauty has been slurred over and laughed at and forgotten. But Helen of Troy didn't always sta}^ at home with ]\Ienelaus. Beautj' has been recognised and for that reason (as the world will not face realitj' and the ogre, the Censor, this Polyphemus knows well enough that beauty is a danger), ]\Iiss Garbo has been trained, and that with astonishing efficiencj^ to sway fon.vard and backward in long skirts with pseudo-Lillian Gish affectation, to pose with
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