Modern Screen (Dec 1934 - Nov 1935)

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One girl opens her mouth and her voice is rasping. Another has an unpleasant laugh. So many are ungracious in their movements. Most of them are dumb. What has that got to do with beauty, you say? I'll tell you later, but first look at Carole." We looked across the room. The music had finished in a primitive throb of drums. Carole and her escort were walking back toward their table. Jim brought his head down quickly so that he wouldn't be recognized. He nervously lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and continued. "Well, you know what she looks like. Everyone knows that she has a magnificent figure. But it's the little things that give her her genuine beauty. Her voice is alive and vibrant. When she laughs you know that she is genuinely amused. It has the mirthful quality of a silver bell that is ringing. And, then, grace ! That is one of the most precious qualities a woman can possess. Beauty of movement. Is there anything more disappointing than to see a nymph-like figure that is slightly awkward? Look at Carole's hands the next time you are with her. Note the fingers. She is so alive with energy that they are constantly moving. Not jerkily, but with rhythmic vitality. She is like a gazelle. Her whole body expresses her nervous animation with unconscious grace. Then, too, she is intelligent." Jim raised his eyes to beckon the waiter. His eyes were getting bloodshot, but his voice was steady. "Bring us two more," he said. I LOOKED over the tiers of heads to one that was shining blonde. Carole was absorbed in some conversation with her escort. Whatever they were talking about I knew it wasn't the movies. She doesn't like to talk shop. The orchestra leader was coming over toward her table. "What piece would you like?" I knew he would ask her. The waiter set the drinks down before us. "Well," Jim continued, "perhaps I can best illustrate what I mean by beauty and intelligence by recalling one evening at Carole's house when you were present. Beside ourselves, remember, there was a young scientist from Cal-Tech, a chap from Wall Street, some kind of an engineer, and a correspondent of the W ashington Post. Carole was the only woman. Yet I don't think six men ever spent a more enjoyable evening. Carole kept the conversation leaping from one subject to another. Every man got to talk about his particular interest, and everyone joined in. Ever stop to think why that evening was so successful? Because Carole didn't try to be the thoughtful hostess, that's why. She was genuinely interested in everything we talked about. She has a greed for knowledge. And she knew enough to keep us all on our toes. And when she didn't know, she wouldn't pretend. "Now here's the point. When we finally left, I'll wager each man thought she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever met. Why? Because she was so gorgeously ornamental? Because she looked like a Kohinoor diamond framed against that old rose damask of the Empire chair? Partially that, yes. But principally because she was beautiful as a human being. She was like a stimulant. She made everyone feel alive. Her mentality was a challenge. She had the gift to make each person feel important. CONSIDER the sirens of history. Caesar didn't tarry in Egypt because Cleopatra had a pretty leg. She was plump and fortyish ; but she had a brain that he couldn't find among the girls of Rome. And all the others : Diane de Poitiers, Pompadour, Catherine the Great, Madame de Sevigne. Madame de Stael even had young men fall in love with her when she was eighty years old. Their intelligence made men feel that they were beautiful. They had grace. They were charming. In short, there are two kinds of beauty. That which strikes you, and that which grows. Carole has both. The cool loveliness of a painting and the glowing warmth of a vital person. Her personality supplements her external appearance. She . . . say, am I boring you?" I had glanced up to see some people cluster around Carole's table. The tango had finished and a few friends followed as she left the floor. My mind went back to that evening to which Jim referred. I remembered particularly how she . . . but Jim was talking again. "I'll make it snappy now. I'm overflowing with words too much, I guess. The second reason I can't get her out of my blood is — those other points I classified as one — is her caprice. An utterly feminine quality. She changes her mind in such a provocative manner. At first you think it is whim. It's not that. Not entirely, anyway. Realizing that all things change, she changes with them. If a person doesn't progress as he lives, she leaves him far behind. She has, as I mentioned, a greed for life. Yet always changing, she still is herself. Get what I mean? Fancy anyone ever being bored around her? "And then — what is it the French say? — she has the joie de vivre. She enjoys every moment of life. She won't permit herself to worry. Each day, for her, is too full of possibilities to allow one precious minute for worry or regret. And I guess she'll be that way when she's sixty years old. Always a kid, eager for tomorrow's adventure. "But the principal reason of all, I think, is her boundless affection. Remember when I was laid up in the hospital? She sent flowers every day. And I know it is the same with everyone she knows. If she hears that you are discouraged, she'll call you up. It is those little attentions, when a person needs them, that you can't forget. There are a million other things I could mention but these. . . ." Jim suddenly stopped talking. Carole and her escort were leaving. As they walked toward the door, waving goodbye to friends, Jim bent over his glass. When he looked up, he stared for a moment after his departed dream. Then he shook his head, called for the check, and got unsteadily to his feet. "Let's go," he said. The reader, I hope, has surmised correctly. My friend's name isn't Jim. I wouldn't dare reveal his real identity.