those white masks, or plaster casts, in which we try to preserve the traits of the departed?"
"And I would like," whispered Maximilian, "to have such a cast of our friend. She will be very beautiful, even in death."
"I advise you not to have it," replied the doctor. "Such masks lead astray our memories of the loved ones. We feel as if there was in them something of their lives still kept, while that which is really retained is actually death itself. Features which are regular and beautiful then become hard and frozen, satirical, or repulsive,[1] by which they terrify us more than they please. But casts become complete caricatures when they are from faces whose charm was of a spiritual, refined nature, and whose features were less regular than interesting, for as soon as the graces of life are extinguished in them the actual departures from the ideal lines of beauty are no longer balanced by mental charms. One thing also is common to all these casts—it is a certain enigmatic expression which, the more we study them, the more it runs shivering like frost through the soul: they all look like people who intend to take a long journey."
"And whither?" asked Maximilian, as the doctor took his arm and led him forth.
- ↑ Fatales. Absolutely adverse or destructive.
