Beauty, Narcissism, and the Platonic Disdain for the Body – Part II

Go here to read Part I.

‘Be careful, Caroline. Do not be like Narcissus. His desire for himself killed him, Caroline. He waned away looking at his own reflection, while he could have been happy with Echo – or with any of his other suitors, as the case was. ’

Narcissus! How dare my father compare me to him! Narcissus! Narcissus was a bisexual, an animal driven by his bodily appetites. A typical man, really. I am supposed to be like him? How little my father truly understands me! But that is not surprising. He, too, is a man. One-eyed. A Cyclops.

What he does not understand is that my self-love is purely Platonic. I do not wane in front of the mirror wishing I could make love to the shape within. That is where Narcissus got it wrong. He did not realize that the image itself is the epitome of loveliness. Admiring it, not possessing it, is the highest goal. To possess it, to touch it, to transform it into the physical, would mean to ruin its purity. Plato was right: knowing the idea of a thing is greater than knowing a particular manifestation of the idea. The former is completely pure, the latter always corrupt.

It is the same with my shape in the mirror. It is the mirror that takes my physical body and purifies it, changes it, transports it from the world of particulars to the glorious world of ideas. It is that purity, that perfection, which I admire. I do not wane in desire for my physical body.

Indeed I do not. And I will never again desire a physical body – mine or anyone else’s. I once made that mistake, but never again. Yes, it is my secret. Nobody knows, but I once committed fornication. The man is dead now, though not by my hand, and he has taken our secret to the grave. I am very glad about that. If the fact became known, it would ruin all the little advantages I have thanks to my social standing.

In a way I am glad I committed the sin. It taught me a lesson. All my hopes, all my fantasies, were disappointed when I took off my garments and united my body to that of a man. I never imagined that intimacy would be so physical, so smelly, so animalistic. It is in the moment of sexual intimacy that two humans, otherwise so divine, descend to the level of mere beasts – shuffling and panting and following their instincts.

Well, I am done with it. Done with the sweat and smell and slime. Done with physical bodies, particularly male ones. They look so ugly, so misshapen. And they are so awkward, bumping and pulling and hurting you.

On that night I resolved that I would never get married. I would never again submit to such animal behaviour. The ancients were right in saying that we are partly beasts, partly gods. Why, then, if I have a choice, should I not choose the divine over the beastly? The ability to admire the shape within the mirror is the divine part; grasping and panting for another body is the beastly part.

I have made my choice. I shall be a goddess not a beast.

We have arrived at the door to the ballroom. My father puts his right hand on the door handle, stops and turns to look at me.

‘Caroline,’ he says in a stern whisper. ‘In this room are many suitors. You have played games long enough, flirting for the sake of flirtation rather than for serious commitment. Do accept one of your suitors soon, Caroline, or I shall have to think of other measures to make you conducive!’

Whatever he means by that.

‘And do,’ he adds, lifting his left index finger so close to my face that I can smell the brandy on it, ‘please do, by all means, act properly towards the Prince. He is here tonight, you realize that, do you not?’

‘Prince Dwarf-chin is here? I did not know that.’

I did know it, but feigning disinterest enhances my female superiority.

‘Prince Dw –  Prince what did you call him?’

I love this expression on my father’s face. I love his look of surprise when I deride something he considers of great value.

‘Prince Dwarf-chin,’ I repeat, acting as if this were a reasonable name. ‘You know how I am with names, Father. I must have inherited the male weakness of always forgetting them. So I make up names myself, and I do recall that the Prince has a rather pointy chin, somewhat reminiscent of a dwarf, in my opinion.’

Oh how I love when my father tries hard to keep his anger under control! I like to provoke him, to tease him, to play with him. Cyclopes are fun to poke.

‘Caroline!’ my father fumes under his breath. ‘This Prince Dwarf-chin, as you call him, might very well be the future king of England! And if he – well, it is quite a preposterous thought – but if he chose my daughter for a wife, I should be the happiest man in the whole Kingdom. For that to happen, however, it is absolutely imperative that you behave properly towards him. That is, with decency and appropriate charm. With your present arrogance, you will die an old maid!’

‘Yes, Father,’ I say obligingly, for I know the right time to stop the poking.

‘Let us go in, then. Our guests are waiting.’ And, saying that, he pushes open the door.

‘Miss Whitrow, it is a pleasure to see you again,’ Prince Dwarf-chin bows stiffly in front of me.

‘Prince,’ I say and incline my head in acknowledgment of his inferior presence.

‘If you are not otherwise engaged, Miss Whitrow, would you do me the great honour of dancing with me?’ he asks with a degree of diffidence not quite befitting a great Prince.

I hesitate long enough to make him doubt whether I welcome or resent his invitation, before I answer, ‘Yes, thank you,’ and give him the satisfaction of an elegant curtsy.

A few minutes later, the next song begins: the melancholically romantic Nous Sommes Seul by Giacomo Puccini, though performed on instruments alone. I suppose that the pairs of dancers are meant to replace the two singers in the song who address each other like two lovers. How conducive to Dwarf-chin’s obvious partiality towards me! Did he know they were going to play this song? Did he perhaps even arrange it? It almost seems like he did.

Prince Dwarf-chin gently takes my hand, lifts it in the air and leads me to the dance floor. We turn and face each other. I smile at him, look at him as if in longing. Cyclops! He, too, is a Cyclops, ignorant that I am merely toying with him.

Oh yes, how ignorant! He has indeed mistaken my look, for after the dance he leads me away from the crowd to a deserted corner of the ballroom, and with every nervous step of his, my suspicion grows that he actually means to propose to me.

He stops. Blinking manifold times, scratching his dwarf-chin for no apparent reason, and shuffling his feet, he clears his throat and begins, ‘Miss Whitrow, I, er – ’

‘My dear Prince,’ I cut in and take his arm in a light, unconcerned motion. ‘Let us go out on the balcony. See! The door is right here. We shall be completely unobserved there, and besides, it is a very clear night. The stars are all out, and a clear, nightly sky always excites in me such an amorous mood.’ And I let a light flush come over my feminine face ‘the way a crimson awning, over marble, tings it in pastel colour,’ as Ovid says.