ABSTRACT
The brown childish orbs, brilliant and troubled in some unfathomable way, looked at me wonderingly. The next moment I had put a small hand over the mirror and covered those painful interrogation-points, leaving visible only the un-formed round chin and the patch of red lips of the little girl. I realized then for the first time that this face, which people as a rule considered something unusual and unlike its environment, was mine. If I try to draw the portrait of the soul that belonged to the little face, I would describe it as two liquid, reddish brown eyes full of tragic anxiety and painful wonder at the funny species she belonged to, or asking such wordless questions as these: Who are they? Who am I? This white-faced woman whom I call Granny and who is indispensable to me at night when I go to bed–she is a stranger; so are the others, so am I. What is a face? And what are eyes and these funny sensibilities? Does everybody feel the same? I have this internal smile which, translated into grown-up language, means humor. It makes me strangely aloof at times, and arouses a tiresome childish contempt, of which, only later, I learn the value and proper use. There is this internal catch too which squeezes one’s throat and brings the water into one’s eyes 26which people call tears. There is no reason why I should have these yet, for life is almost stagnant in its outside repose and quiet; nothing but a beautifully familiar setting and the familiar faces with their familiar looks.
