: Forever Young :
As I think back upon my years, I realize how lucky and fortunate I was. Growing up in the hot, bare climate of India, losing both parents whom I had never known. It is a strange thing to say, as I saw them fleetingly. Those who had never actually known their parents had never seen them at all. I do know that my mother was a great beauty, I never took my eyes off her once she came into the room. She was blonde and petite, her waist small, her bosoms and hips generous. I laugh to remember the days where I spent time in the bathroom, stuffing the front of my blouse with dried grasses, hoping to form some sort of breast. All the servants laughed at me from behind their hands, but I did not know. Foolish as I was, I thought they were whispering how she looks like her mother and she is no young girl. She is the mistress in this light. I walked with my nonexistent chest thrust out, head held high and nose up in the air, as vain as a peacock. I used to love going into my mother's room, in which were beautifully carved chests full of even more beautiful jewelry. I wonder now why she kept such a room, as she was hardly in it at all, except for the evenings where she would be affectionate with young men who were not my father. One I remember was the beardless, boy-like officer who confirmed the death with my father and the disease cholera. Ah yes, my father.
He was a wealthy British lord, who married my mother for her beauty. To make up for his long absences, he would lavish her with jewelry, fine clothing, perfumes from all over the world, and servant upon servants. I used to watch curiously when a new servant arrived, my mother would clap her hands with delight, and walk round and round, inspecting as if the servant was not a person, but in fact, a present.
But my luck did not begin to blossom until after the death of my vain mother and wealthy father. I was all alone in the world, and I did not care in the slightest. I remember vaguely regretting slightly the fact that now with my mother buried, I could not look at her again. I was a sickly, vain little thing, small and skinny. I was immediately shipped to an English gentleman's house. I suppose I expected better treatment, but the clergyman had about seven children of his own and they were snot-nosed and despicable. But one boy I remember prominently. I thought him beautiful, but too shy to tell him so. Even if I were the shyest creature on the face of the earth, I still would not have been pleasant. I did not know what affection was, and when I felt it I thought it was a twinge of annoyance, so I expressed it. Basil, his name was, the name of the sweetly-smelling plant. He was taller than I, and clever, quick from years of running after his siblings. Alas, it was indeed a twinge of annoyance, annoyance that he could not be mine, as everything was in India. I soon learned that I could not own people, as my mother had. I suspected that she had a strange power that I did not possess, like her quality of beauty.
Through the short period of time I had spent in the dirty, messy, hostile environment of the clergyman's home, I had begun to be called "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary" by the other children. It did not bother me, for I disliked them and their rambunctious, non-tiring ways, and they disliked my icy company and strange lack of urge to jump and laugh and tease and play, something which they all had. Basil, of all people, had begun the nickname. On one still day, I had wandered out on my own, into their little patch of property, and had sat down and begun to form some sort of miniature garden. It consisted of little hills of soil, with stones all round them to make a lane. I stuck bluebells and lilies-of-the-valleys in them, to make flower beds. Presently Basil had come along, watching me do this, and stirring that strange feeling I thought was annoyance in my stomach.
"Why not put rocks all round the middle, there? It could be a rockery," he suggested, leaning to point. I was frustrated once again, for such a beautiful voice belonged to such a beautiful boy, and I could have neither the voice nor the boy. Silly I was, and pushed him away.
"Go away!" I had shouted. "I hate little boys!" Now the minds of boys work in a queer manner. For a moment, Basil's face showed anger, but then it changed almost immediately to mischievousness.
"Mistress Mary, quite contrary how does your garden grow? With silver bells as cockle shells, and marigolds all in a row." He did have such a lovely singing voice. But soon the loud, whiny voices of his sisters and brothers drowned out his own sweet, melodic one and the song he had made up especially for me (which I believed at the time, being pleased) turned into a rude sort of chant. And from then on until the day I departed for Misselthwaite Manor, I was known as "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary." By the end of my visit, I lost interest in Basil, and in my disdaining eyes, he was no more than a selfish, prudent, insolent boy. I remember back so many years ago, what it was like, to believe that I would be, in fact, forever young.