The Sorrows of Satan Part 29

"I am afraid they do not like _me_!" he replied, deferentially.

"Then pray excuse me a moment!" she murmured, and left the room, to return immediately without her canine favorite. After this I noticed that her blue eyes often rested on Lucio's handsome countenance with a bewildered and perplexed expression, as if she saw something in his very beauty that she disliked or distrusted. Meanwhile I had recovered a little of my usual self-possession, and I addressed her in a tone which I meant to be kind, but which I knew was somewhat patronizing.

"I am very glad, Miss Clare, that you were not offended at the article you speak of. It was rather strong I admit,--but you know we cannot all be of the same opinion ..."

"Indeed no!" she said quietly and with a slight smile--"Such a state of things would make a very dull world! I a.s.sure you I was not and am not in the least offended--the critique was a smart piece of writing, and made not the slightest effect on me or on my book. You remember what Sh.e.l.ley wrote of critics? No? You will find the pa.s.sage in his preface to 'The Revolt of Islam,' and it runs thus,--'I have sought to write as I believe that Homer, Shakespeare, and Milton wrote, with an utter disregard of anonymous censure. I am certain that calumny and misrepresentation, though it may move me to compa.s.sion cannot disturb my peace. I shall understand the expressive silence of those sagacious enemies who dare not trust themselves to speak. I shall endeavour to extract from the midst of insult and contempt and maledictions, those admonitions which may tend to correct whatever imperfections such censurers may discern in my appeal to the Public. If certain Critics were as clear-sighted as they are malignant, how great would be the benefit to be derived from their virulent writings! As it is, I fear I shall be malicious enough to be amused with their paltry tricks and lame invectives. Should the public judge that my composition is worthless, I shall indeed bow before the tribunal from which Milton received his crown of immortality, and shall seek to gather, if I live, strength from that defeat, which may nerve me to some new enterprise of thought which may _not_ be worthless!'"

As she gave the quotation, her eyes darkened and deepened,--her face was lighted up as by some inward illumination,--and I discovered the rich sweetness of the voice which made the name of 'Mavis' suit her so well.

"You see I know my Sh.e.l.ley!" she said with a little laugh at her own emotion--"And those words are particularly familiar to me, because I have had them painted up on a panel in my study. Just to remind me, in case I should forget, what the really great geniuses of the world thought of criticism,--because their example is very encouraging and helpful to a humble little worker like myself. I am not a press-favourite--and I never get good reviews,--but--" and she laughed again--"I like my reviewers all the same! If you have finished your tea, will you come and see them?"

Come and see them! What did she mean? She seemed delighted at my visible surprise, and her cheeks dimpled with merriment.

"Come and see them!" she repeated--"They generally expect me at this hour!"

She led the way into the garden,--we followed,--I, in a bewildered confusion of mind, with all my ideas respecting 'uns.e.xed females' and repulsive blue-stockings upset by the unaffected behaviour and charming frankness of this 'celebrity' whose fame I envied, and whose personality I could not but admire. With all her intellectual gifts she was yet a lovable woman,--ah Mavis!--how lovable and dear I was destined in misery to know! Mavis, Mavis!--I whisper your sweet name in my solitude,--I see you in my dreams, and kneeling before you I call you Angel!--my angel at the gate of a lost Paradise, whose Sword of Genius turning every way, keeps me back from all approach to my forfeited Tree of Life!

XX

Scarcely had we stepped out on the lawn before an unpleasant incident occurred which might have ended dangerously. At his mistress's approach the big St Bernard dog rose from the sunny corner where he had been peacefully dozing, and prepared to greet her,--but as soon as he perceived us he stopped short with an ominous growl. Before Miss Clare could utter a warning word, he made a couple of huge bounds and sprang savagely at Lucio as though to tear him in pieces,--Lucio with admirable presence of mind caught him firmly by the throat and forced him backwards. Mavis turned deathly pale.

"Let me hold him! He will obey me!" she cried, placing her little hand on the great dog's neck--"Down, Emperor! Down! How dare you! Down sir!"

In a moment 'Emperor' dropped to the ground, and crouched abjectly at her feet, breathing heavily and trembling in every limb. She held him by the collar, and looked up at Lucio who was perfectly composed, though his eyes flashed dangerously.

"I am so very sorry!" she murmured,--"I forgot,--you told me dogs do not like you. But what a singularly marked antipathy, is it not? I cannot understand it. Emperor is generally so good-natured,--I must apologize for his bad conduct--it is quite unusual. I hope he has not hurt you?"

"Not at all!" returned Lucio affably but with a cold smile; "I hope I have not hurt _him_,--or distressed _you_!"

She made no reply, but led the St Bernard away and was absent for a few minutes. While she was gone, Lucio's brow clouded, and his face grew very stern.

"What do you think of her?" he asked me abruptly.

"I hardly know what to think," I answered abstractedly--"She is very different to what I imagined. Her dogs are rather unpleasant company!"

"They are honest animals!" he said morosely--"They are no doubt accustomed to candour in their mistress, and therefore object to personified lies."

"Speak for yourself!" I said irritably--"They object to you, chiefly."

"Am I not fully aware of that?" he retorted--"and do I not speak for myself? You do not suppose I would call you a personified lie, do you,--even if it were true! I would not be so uncivil. But I am a living lie, and knowing it I admit it, which gives me a certain claim to honesty above the ordinary run of men. This woman-wearer of laurels is a personified truth!--imagine it!--she has no occasion to pretend to be anything else than she is! No wonder she is famous!"

I said nothing, as just then the subject of our conversation returned, tranquil and smiling, and did her best, with the tact and grace of a perfect hostess, to make us forget her dog's ferocious conduct, by escorting us through all the prettiest turns and twisting paths of her garden, which was quite a bower of spring beauty. She talked to us both with equal ease, brightness and cleverness, though I observed that she studied Lucio with close interest, and watched his looks and movements with more curiosity than liking. Pa.s.sing under an arching grove of budding syringas, we presently came to an open court-yard paved with blue and white tiles, having in its centre a picturesque dove-cote built in the form of a Chinese paG.o.da. Here pausing, Mavis clapped her hands.

A cloud of doves, white, grey, brown, and opalescent answered the summons, circling round and round her head, and flying down in excited groups at her feet.

"Here are my reviewers!" she said laughing--"Are they not pretty creatures? The ones I know best are named after their respective journals,--there are plenty of anonymous ones of course, who flock in with the rest. Here, for instance, is the 'Sat.u.r.day Review'"--and she picked up a strutting bird with coral-tinted feet, who seemed to rather like the attention shown to him--"He fights with all his companions and drives them away from the food whenever he can. He is a quarrelsome creature!"--here she stroked the bird's head--"You never know how to please him,--he takes offence at the corn sometimes and will only eat peas, or _vice versa_. He quite deserves his name,--go away, old boy!"

and she flung the pigeon in the air and watched it soaring up and down--"He _is_ such a comical old grumbler! There is the 'Speaker'"--and she pointed to a fat fussy fantail--"He struts very well, and fancies he's important, you know, but he isn't. Over there is 'Public Opinion,'--that one half-asleep on the wall; next to him is the 'Spectator,'--you see he has two rings round his eyes like spectacles.

That brown creature with the fluffy wings all by himself on that flower-pot is the 'Nineteenth Century,'--the little bird with the green neck is the 'Westminster Gazette,' and the fat one sitting on the platform of the cote is the 'Pall-Mall.' He knows his name very well--see!" and she called merrily--"Pall Mall! Come boy!--come here!"

The bird obeyed at once, and flying down from the cote settled on her shoulder. "There are so many others,--it is difficult to distinguish them sometimes,"--she continued,--"Whenever I get a bad review I name a pigeon,--it amuses me. That draggle-tailed one with the muddy feet is the 'Sketch,'--he is not at all a well-bred bird I must tell you!--that smart-looking dove with the purple breast is the 'Graphic,' and that bland old grey thing is the 'I. L. N.' short for 'Ill.u.s.trated London News.' Those three white ones are respectively 'Daily Telegraph,'

'Morning Post,' and 'Standard.' Now see them all!" and taking a covered basket from a corner she began to scatter corn and peas and various grains in lavish quant.i.ties all over the court. For a moment we could scarcely see the sky, so thickly the birds flocked together, struggling, fighting, swooping downwards, and soaring upwards,--but the winged confusion soon gave place to something like order when they were all on the ground and busy, selecting their respective favourite foods from the different sorts provided for their choice.

"You are indeed a sweet-natured philosopher"--said Lucio smiling, "if you can symbolize your adverse reviewers by a flock of doves!"

She laughed merrily.

"Well, it is a remedy against all irritation,"--she returned; "I used to worry a good deal over my work, and wonder why it was that the press people were so unnecessarily hard upon me, when they showed so much leniency and encouragement to far worse writers,--but after a little serious consideration, finding that critical opinion carried no sort of conviction whatever to the public, I determined to trouble no more about it,--except in the way of doves!"

"In the way of doves, you feed your reviewers,"--I observed.

"Exactly! And I suppose I help to feed them even as women and men!" she said--"They get something from their editors for 'slas.h.i.+ng' my work,--and they probably make a little more out of selling their 'review copies.' So you see the dove-emblem holds good throughout. But you have not seen the 'Athenaeum,'--oh, you _must_ see him!"

With laughter still lurking in her blue eyes, she took us out of the pigeon-court, and led the way round to a sequestered and shady corner of the garden, where, in a large aviary-cage fitted up for its special convenience, sat a solemn white owl. The instant it perceived us, it became angry, and ruffling up its downy feathers, rolled its glistening yellow eyes vindictively and opened its beak. Two smaller owls sat in the background, pressed close together,--one grey, the other brown.

"Cross old boy!" said Mavis, addressing the spiteful-looking creature in the sweetest of accents--"Haven't you found any mice to kill to-day?

Oh, what wicked eyes!--what a snappy mouth!" Then turning to us, she went on--"Isn't he a lovely owl? Doesn't he look wise?--but as a matter of fact he's just as stupid as ever he can be. That is why I call him the 'Athenaeum'! He looks so profound, you'd fancy he knows everything, but he really thinks of nothing but killing mice all the time,--which limits his intelligence considerably!"

Lucio laughed heartily, and so did I,--she looked so mischievous and merry.

"But there are two other owls in the cage"--I said--"What are their names?"

She held up a little finger in playful warning.

"Ah, that would be telling secrets!" she said--"They're all the 'Athenaeum'--the holy Three,--a sort of literary Trinity. But why a trinity I do not venture to explain!--it is a riddle I must leave you to guess!"

She moved on, and we followed across a velvety gra.s.s-plot bordered with bright spring-flowers, such as crocuses, tulips, anemones, and hyacinths, and presently pausing she asked--"Would you care to see my work-room?"

I found myself agreeing to this proposition with an almost boyish enthusiasm. Lucio glanced at me with a slight half-cynical smile.

"Miss Clare, are you going to name a pigeon after Mr Tempest?" he inquired--"He played the part of an adverse critic, you know--but I doubt whether he will ever do so again!"

She looked round at me and smiled.

"Oh, I have been merciful to Mr Tempest,"--she replied; "He is among the anonymous birds whom I do not specially recognise!"

She stepped into the arched embrasure of an open window which fronted the view of the gra.s.s and flowers, and entering with her we found ourselves in a large room, octagonal in shape, where the first object that attracted and riveted the attention was a marble bust of the Pallas Athene whose grave impa.s.sive countenance and tranquil brows directly faced the sun. A desk strewn with papers occupied the left-hand side of the window-nook,--in a corner draped with olive-green velvet, the white presence of the Apollo Belvedere taught in his inscrutable yet radiant smile, the lesson of love and the triumphs of fame,--and numbers of books were about, not ranged in formal rows on shelves as if they were never read, but placed on low tables and wheeled stands, that they might be easily taken up and glanced at. The arrangement of the walls chiefly excited my interest and admiration, for these were divided into panels, and every panel had, inscribed upon it in letters of gold, some phrase from the philosophers, or some verse from the poets. The pa.s.sage from Sh.e.l.ley which Mavis had recently quoted to us, occupied, as she had said, one panel, and above it hung a beautiful bas-relief of the drowned poet copied from the monument at Via Reggio. Another and broader panel held a fine engraving of Shakespeare, and under the picture appeared the lines--

"To thine own self be true, And it must follow as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man."

Byron was represented,--also Keats; but it would have taken more than a day to examine the various suggestive quaintnesses and individual charms of this 'workshop' as its owner called it, though the hour was to come when I should know every corner of it by heart, and look upon it as a haunted outlaw of bygone ages looked upon 'sanctuary.' But now time gave us little pause,--and when we had sufficiently expressed our pleasure and grat.i.tude for the kindness with which we had been received, Lucio, glancing at his watch, suggested departure.

"We could stay on here for an indefinite period Miss Clare,"--he said with an unwonted softness in his dark eyes; "It is a place for peace and happy meditation,--a restful corner for a tired soul." He checked a slight sigh,--then went on--"But trains wait for no man, and we are returning to town to-night."

"Then I will not detain you any longer," said our young hostess, leading the way at once by a side-door, through a pa.s.sage filled with flowering plants, into the drawing-room where she had first entertained us--"I hope, Mr Tempest," she added, smiling at me,--"that now we have met, you will no longer desire to qualify as one of my pigeons! It is scarcely worth while!"

"Miss Clare," I said, now speaking with unaffected sincerity--"I a.s.sure you, on my honour, I am very sorry I wrote that article against you. If I had only known you as you are--"