Tending To Contentment

• Salma Zarook, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2012

1782, July 26th

Milky pearls. Sparkling red rubies. Deep blue sapphire.

My fingers brush the ornaments of my overflowing dressing chamber as I sigh in overwhelming cupidity. Trinkets adorn every surface and the scent of expensive perfume chokes the air. Here in Versailles, plush curtains sweep the window panes and the walls are adorned with gold.

I turn to the mirror and see a picture of perfection. With my soft blue eyes, pale blonde hair and porcelain skin; I am the source of envy throughout France. I try to find comfort in the thought but fail miserably as the sense of discontentment yet again fills my being. I caress the gems of a necklace and let it fall as a sigh of frustration escapes me.

There is a knock on the doors to my dressing room. ‘Enter’, I say as I attempt to recompose my face into one of neutrality.

‘Your Majesty’, the royal stylist greets me accompanied by a servant girl. Makeup tools and hair accessories are placed on the table and a magnificent gown is salvaged from my teeming closet. I am poked and prodded as I am fitted into the lavish silk gown adorned with gold. Normally, the sight of such a dress would excite me but today I am sickened at the sight. The lace scratches against my skin and the embroidery drags the dress down with its weight. Powder is dusted across my face, throttling me. My hair is styled and decorated with heavy accessories and I have difficulty holding my head high. My feet are squashed into a pair of ridiculously uncomfortable shoes.

The servant girl bustles around the room, clearing the space. She wears a ragged servant’s garb that sways with her movements, loose and free. Her hair is messily pushed back in a simple braid and her face is clear of makeup. In her eyes I see humble mornings of tending to chickens. I see a family dining together in a snug cottage. I see playful afternoons running though a valley.
Dirty fingernails, tattered clothes, simple furnishings; I never knew such things could be so appealing. The girl’s eyes meet mine in the mirror and we both hastily look away.
It is absurd but I envy her. I envy her carefree way of walking. I envy the loose strands of hair that fall around her face. I envy the fact that she could live a life of content simplicity, free of the tormenting opinions of others.

Finally, I am dressed and ready for yet another day of tedious aristocratic tradition. As I rise, my corset digs further into my back, restricting my breath- the prosperity of aristocracy restricting my everything.

The servant girl stands back, allowing me to exit the room first. To her utter shock, I smile and gesture for her to go ahead of me. She gapes – the Queen of France does not normally wait on others. She shuffles before me and I follow her, in awe of the moment of realisation.

I did not have to endure the endless disapproving looks, the tell-tale rumors or the judgmental eyes.
Not when I could seek refuge in the jewels of a peasants life.