“Whatever life you lead you must put your soul in it–to make any sort of success in it; and from the moment you do that it ceases to be romance, I assure you: it becomes grim reality! And you can’t always please yourself; you must sometimes please other people. That, I admit, you’re very ready to do; but there’s another thing that’s still more important–you must often displease others. You must always be ready for that–you must never shrink from it. That doesn’t suit you at all–you’re too fond of admiration, you like to be thought well of. You think we can escape disagreeable duties by taking romantic views–that’s your great illusion, my dear. But we can’t. You must be prepared on many occasions in life to please no one at all–not even yourself.” – Henry James, ‘The Portrait of a Lady’
This is merely a holding space for an evening memory sometime in the not-too-distant future, a memory not yet made but happily on the hopeful horizon. As such, it is difficult to tell you what ‘Portrait of a Lady’ means to me, because I don’t yet know. I’ve worn it at home to get a feel for it, and to indulge in its dark beauty, but I’ve been holding back on fully experiencing it by melding it to a particular experience. What I have now is a slightly ephemeral experience, an amalgamation of a couple of try-outs in Copley Place back when one could test colognes, before the world hid safely behind masks.
It actually took quite a while before I decided to try it on me. The name didn’t quite appeal to my preferences. I’m all for ladies with an attitude, and portraits of ladies for that matter, but Henry James? Not my favorite. Give me Edith Wharton over James any and every day. However, in researching some quotes from the book, I am finding a new appreciation for his words. The same thing happened the first time I tried ‘Portrait’ as a fragrance. It wasn’t quite my thing, not in those early days, and not in my earlier years.
“One can’t judge till one’s forty; before that we’re too eager, too hard, too cruel, and in addition much too ignorant.” – Henry James, ‘The Portrait of a Lady’
Returning to it on a trip to Boston about two years ago, I released my issues with the name, embracing ‘Portrait of a Lady’ and trying it on as I made my way home one night. As I lifted one sprayed wrist to my nose and walked through the Copley Place Mall, I felt its mysterious pull, the incense-like smoke that so beautifully curled around the central notes of rose. For Christmas and Valentine’s Day I hinted at my desire for it, but when other lovely gifts arrived in its stead, I took it upon myself to treat my own desires. Like the complicated people Henry James grappled with, I didn’t want to depend on others, and maybe I needed a reminder that I could depend on myself. Whichever it was or wasn’t, I procured my own bottle and in the darkness of this past winter I held onto it, wondering if there would ever be a time when I would wear it out in public.
“The years have touched her only to enrich her; the flower of her youth had not faded; it only hung more quietly on its stem.” – Henry James, ‘The Portrait of a Lady’
More time, stolen away. More lost visits with friends and family. More lost everything. At certain ages, you feel how quickly it all goes. You sense the fleeting nature of our quick lives. By the time I had that precious bottle of beautiful fragrance in my possession, we weren’t even allowed to travel to Boston without a 14-day quarantine, and we were being cautious by not going out in Albany. Then I realized something I’d forgotten in my desire to be out spreading my sillage: I didn’t wear a fragrance so that others would admire me – I wore a fragrance because I loved it – loved the way it scented my space, loved the beauty of how it lingered in the air, loved the minor memories as they were culled and created. And so, on a recent April evening, after the day had given us a bright blue sky and a warming sun, after I had just begun working on the garden, I took my evening shower and sprayed a bit of ‘Portrait of a Lady’ and read over these passages from the novel. There was hope in the air – Andy had mentioned opening the pool, and I’d stopped by to see my parents and prepare for a delayed Easter dinner – and if that was the memory this scent would evoke, it would be enough.
“When you have lived as long as I, you will see that every human being has his shell, and that you must take the shell into account. By the shell I mean the whole envelope of circumstances. There is no such thing as an isolated man or woman; we are each of us made up of a cluster of appurtenances. What do you call one’s self? Where does it begin? Where does it end? It overflows into everything that belongs to us – and then flows back again… One’s self – for other people – is one’s expression of one’s self; and one’s house, one’s clothes, the books one reads, the company one keeps – these things are all expressive.” – Henry James, ‘The Portrait of a Lady’
