—"You want a photograph of yourself, Cyrillia?"
—"Oh! no, Missié, I am too ugly and too old. But I have a daughter. She is beautiful—yon bel bois,—like a beautiful tree, as we say here. I would like so much to have her picture taken."
A photographic instrument belonging to a clumsy amateur suggested this request to Cyrillia. I could not attempt such work successfully; but I gave her a note to a photographer of much skill; and a few days later the portrait was sent to the house. Cyrillia's daughter was certainly a comely girl,—tall and almost gold-colored, with pleasing features; and the photograph looked very nice, though less nice than the original. Half the beauty of these people is a beauty of tint,—a tint so exquisite sometimes that I have even heard white creoles declare no white complexion compares with it: the greater part of the charm remaining is grace,—the grace of movement; and neither of these can be rendered by photography. I had the portrait framed for Cyrillia, to hang up beside her little pictures.
When it came, she was not in; I put it in her room, and waited to see the effect. On returning, she entered there; and I did not see her for so long a time that I stole to the door of the chamber to observe her. She was standing before the portrait,—looking at it, talking to it as if it were alive. "Yche moin, yche moin!... Oui! ou toutt bel!—yche moin bel." (My child, my child!... Yes, thou art all beautiful: my child is beautiful.) All at once she turned—perhaps she noticed my shadow, or felt my presence in some way: her eyes were wet;—she started, flushed, then laughed.
—"Ah! Missié, you watch me;—ou guette moin.... But she is my child. Why should I not love her?... She looks so beautiful there."
—"She is beautiful, Cyrillia;—I love to see you love her."
She gazed at the picture a little longer in silence;—then turned to me again, and asked earnestly:—
—"Pouki yo ja ka fai pòtrai palé—anh?... pisse yo ka tiré y toutt samm ou: c'est ou-menm!... Yo douè fai y palé 'tou."
(Why do they not make a portrait talk,—tell me? For they draw it just all like you!—it is yourself: they ought to make it talk.)
—"Perhaps they will be able to do something like that one of these days, Cyrillia."