TWO VIVID PEN PICTURES.

Hokitika Guardian, 26 June 1920, Page 4

TWO VIVID PEN PICTURES.

BERLIN, April 22. A great lady has written a great hook. She has written it with a devastating analysis of the human sould that makes the ordinary reader .shiver. But the book lias its interest for many women today ! She is alive still, and still a caustic, resplendent European figure. She is Princess Pauline MoUernich, and her grandfather was the astute statesman Prince Met ternich, who dominated diplomancy in Europe during the collapse of Napoleon and kept, the Hag of reaction Hying in Central Europe with cynical light-ihcariedness until a vigorous little revolution in 18148 brought down. his subtle structure of administration like a house of cards. This wonderful old Princess Pauline has now written her Memoirs. 1 take therefrom two pen-portraits almost unparalleled in their utter sincerity. The first is of a famous beauty ; the second of a famous artist. Typical instances of women past their best, dealing with life in different ways. The first is of Princess Bngr ation, a noted European beauty of a century ago. Growing old, she visits the famous Metternich in l/ondon in the ’fifties of last century. Study this hitter and pathetic portrait: “ She had forgotten that she was growing old and still pictured herself as the admired beauty of a past generation. All her beauty had vanished. The marvellous blonde curls had tapered down to live or seven yellow curls. Her skin resembled the rind of a lemon. Her hotly . . • for one could see a great deal of it was a doddering

skeleton. The poor princess had scantily clothed herself iii a kind of shirt of white ‘batiste held together by two flimsy rose-coloured scarves. That was all. We were all speechless with anxiety lest the scarves should flv loose.

On tlie poor old weather-beaten head was perched a hat, which an eighteen-year-old shepherdess would have hesitated to wear. This attired—if one can call her attired—she entile to visit my grandfather. The poor thing sidled up to him and gave him sidelong languishing glances! Poor, tragic mummy-be-side the stately old diplomat, looking at him eagerly with faded blue eves. . .

T 1 ic second pen-portrait is of Jenny JJnd, perhaps,the world’s most gifted soprano.

“ No longer young, and certainly not beautiful. When she went to the piano and summoned her husband to accompany her I was afraid of the jjliastly ordeal of a past and faded voice. A few .chords —-then as if from an immense, still distance there sounded a tiny, high, exquisitively delicate trill. Nearer it came, until at last the whole room rang triumphantly as with the song of a nightingale. And there stood this elderly woman, illuminated, her blue eyes sparkling, and to those lips that liad seemed pinched and sullen there had come so magnetic a smile that oho could not but rejoice and triumph with her! Happiness, sunshine, spring, the joy of living . . . all were in that voice!

“ Tlie song ended. There was frantic applause. Jenny Lind raised her hand. “ Please don’t applaud,” said she, “ 1 have always disliked applause and fuss and it was to avoid them that I left the stage so soon. God gave me my voice. Why applaud me for possessing it? After all, people don’t clap when a beautiful woman comes into a room.’ ”