or vacuity; good looks were the most misleading thing in the world. Expression rarely accompanied good looks, good features. He was off on a pet hobby, he waxed eloquent. Beautiful women--he spoke of good features chiefly--were almost invariably wicked, or else empty. Of "Society Beauties" he was particularly contemptuous. "Regular features, fine eyes, perfect skin, but no expression--no soul within. The deer-like eyes, the calm, proud loveliness people rave about is mere vacancy. Pfui!"
His habit of staring into the mirror came back to me, and I ventured a question. He hesitated a moment, then got up and led me to the glass, where, without a word, he began to gaze at his own reflection, making the familiar grimaces, smiling, screwing up his eyes, stretching his lips, raising his eyebrows, pulling his moustache about until, at last, I burst into laughter I could control no longer.
He turned in astonishment. He examined my own face closely for some time. "You are too young still," he said. "You have no lines. In my face, you see, lies all my past, layer below layer, skin behind skin, my face of middle age, of early manhood, of youth, of childhood. It carries me right back."
He began showing me again, pointing to his reflection as he did so. "That's middle age ... that's youth.... Ach! and there's the boy's face, look!
I did not dare to look, for explosions of laughter were in my throat, and I should have hurt his feelings dreadfully. I understood what he meant, however.
"With the face of each period," he explained, "rise the memories, feelings and emotions of that particular period, its point of view, its fears, ambitions--hopes. I live again momentarily in it. I am a young man again, a boy, a child. I am, at any rate, no longer myself--as I now am." The way he spoke these four words was very grave and sad. "Now," he went on with a sigh, "you understand the charm of the mirror. It means escape
from self. This is the ultimate teaching of all religion--
