The woman in white was in the square again today. Usually she's next to a major crosswalk, but there was a street musician there this evening, so she was in the Pit, a rounded area surrounded terrace-like by stairs up to sidewalk level. It worked well, because people were more comfortable setting their shopping bags down and lingering to watch her for a while.

The woman in white stands about eight feet tall. She's on a platform; her actual frame is small and slight. She's dressed in a gauzy white wedding dress with tears and tatters and a train and lots of lace. She wears white gloves, and holds a white vase filled with white daisies. Her face is painted white and is framed by smooth black hair capped by a white veil. And most of the time, she doesn't move.

She stands, frozen, with one arm outstretched, the other holding the vase. You can approach her and read the calligraphed sonnet sitting in front of a tin jug on a lacy doily. Just at her feet is a sign reading Thank you / Danke schoen. And if you put money in the jug, she will come to life, silently hand you a flower, and fluidly tilt her arms into a new pose.

Her face is ageless. The white makeup smooths away any small distinguishing marks, and leaves an even, regular, peaceful face. Her eyes are dark against the face paint, and they never waver. She would look like a doll, except for those eyes. She looks, not glazed over but intently, off over the shoulders of the crowd. The intensity is kind, not harsh, though... I wouldn't mind if she looked at me.

They that have power to hurt and will do none
That do not do the thing they most do show

I like watching people as they first catch sight of her. They're intrigued or confused or pleased. They usually stop and let themselves be drawn into the quiet for a few moments.

I think that occasionally she disturbs people. Some try to make her react to them, like tourists in front of the guards at Buckingham Palace.

It doesn't work.

Who, moving others, are themselves as stone

Two girls and a guy were talking, behind me. "What's she doing? Why are all those people up there?" I told them there was a sonnet up front that they were all reading. "So she never moves?" No, I said... give her some money and she'll shift. They were enchanted by the idea. "Okay, I'm going to go make her move."

I was irritated and amused at the same time by the idea. Make her move? That seemed to me like making the sun rise. The woman in white has decided whether she'll move... you might equally say she made the girl give her money.

Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;

Someone gave her money again, and she changed poses again, her gaze ending up focussed past me. A heavily-built fellow standing just in front of me waved his hand in her line of sight. She didn't react in the slightest. He waved more vigorously, stood on his toes, shifted side to side. Her expression never wavered. He finally gave up. I wondered what he felt would have gained by getting her to react on his terms instead of on her own.

They rightly do inherit heaven's graces
And husband nature's riches from expense;

There was one older gentleman who put some money in the jar and was given a flower. He said, "thank you" quietly but emphatically to her (she responded, as she does, with a giving gesture of the hand) and gave the flower to a woman nearby. I realized it was his wife; the two of them had the same smile, and the same way of standing with their arms folded across their bodies. He then looked back to the woman in white, transfixed by her. After a time, he and his wife left, looking behind themselves at her. They had the same way of turning to look.

They are the lords and owners of their faces
Others, but stewards of their excellence.

A college-aged guy stood directly in front of her, with a male friend. They were talking together for a bit, but then he went still and watched her. It was like watching a spell take effect, or Cupid's arrow. His face was all unguarded as he was drawn in. It was as if her stillness reached out to encompass him; he didn't seem aware of anything but her.

Then he remembered himself, cracked a smile and said something (cover up! cover up!) to his friend. They moved on.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself, it only live and die

I suddenly realized that there were only a few flowers left, which meant she must be leaving soon. All of a sudden I felt like it was Christmas night and I wasn't supposed to let the illusion break. Maybe I knew no-one was coming down the chimney, but that didn't mean I should just stay awake and watch the mundane proceedings that *would* come next.

But I stayed.

But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:

Would you?   Do you want to?

You don't have to. And you can't go back again afterwards.

. . . . .

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.

After she was gone a young man struck up a conversation with me about her (he and I were both sitting staring at where she had been, not wanting to let go of the mood). He was from DC, and was all enthused about what he'd just seen, wanted to know when she might be there again, how long she'd been around. "We have all kinds of street performers, but we never have art like that." "Yes, well... she's unique."

Something about transience makes things all the more beautiful, in a romantic way. The butterfly is all the more precious for its brief life... it won't be here long, so we must appreciate it now. Somehow, she captured that. She'll be there much longer than any of the pedestrians who stop to watch; she can't be made to move; she seems eternal. And yet she is already an echo of something gone by... from a time of lace that has since yellowed. When people drank their water from tin jugs. She's a ghost. While she's there, she was always there. And yet, the snowflake always melts.