some plain truths. He did me this honour because I had not sufficiently
appreciated his attentions.

He assured me that I was neither clever nor gifted, but that I was
merely skilful at not letting myself be caught out, and had a certain
quickness of repartee. He was quite right.

What time and energy I have spent in trying to keep up this reputation
of being a clever woman, when I was really not born one!

My vanity demanded that I should not be run after for my appearance
only; so I surrounded myself with clever men and let them call me
intellectual. It was Hans Andersen's old tale of "The King's New
Clothes" over again.

We spoke of political economy, of statesmanship, of art and literature,
finance and religion. I knew nothing about all these things, but, thanks
to an animated air of attention, I steered safely between the rocks and
won a reputation for cleverness.

* * * * *

In English novels, with their insipid sweetness that always reminds me
of the smell of frost-bitten potatoes, the heroine sometimes permits
herself the luxury of being blind, lame, or disfigured by smallpox. The
hero adores her just the same. How false to life! My existence would
have been very different if ten years ago I had lost my long eyelashes,
if my fingers had become deformed, or my nose shown signs of redness....

A red nose! It is the worst catastrophe that can befall a beautiful