"To what article do you allude, Miss Clare?" I stammered confusedly--"I
do not write for any magazine."
"No?" and she laughed gaily--"But you did on this occasion! You 'slated'
me very smartly!--I quite enjoyed it. I found out that you were the
author of the philippic,--not through the editor of the journal--oh no,
poor man! he is very discreet; but through quite another person who must
be nameless. It is very difficult to prevent me from finding out
whatever I wish to know, especially in literary matters! Why, you look
quite unhappy!" and her blue eyes danced with fun as she handed me my
cup of tea--"You really don't suppose I was hurt by your critique, do
you? Dear me, no! Nothing of that kind ever affronts me,--I am far too
busy to waste any thought on reviews or reviewers. Only your article was
so exceptionally funny!"
"Funny?" I echoed stupidly, trying to smile, but failing in the effort.
"Yes, funny!" she repeated--"It was so very angry that it became
amusing. My poor 'Differences'! I am really sorry it put you into such a
temper,--temper does exhaust one's energies so!"
She laughed again and sat down in her former place near me, regarding me
with a frankly open and half humorous gaze which I found I could not
meet with any sort of composure. To say I felt foolish, would
inadequately express my sense of utter bafflement. This woman with her
young unclouded face, sweet voice and evidently happy nature, was not at
all the creature I had imagined her to be,--and I struggled to say
something,--anything,--that would furnish a reasonable and coherent
answer. I caught Lucio's glance,--one of satirical amusement,--and my
thoughts grew more entangled than ever. A distraction however occurred
in the behaviour of the dog Tricksy, who suddenly took up a position
immediately opposite Lucio, and lifting his nose in air began to howl
with a desolate loudness astonishing in so small an animal. His mistress
was surprised.
"Tricksy, what _is_ the matter?" she exclaimed, catching him up in her
arms where he hid his face shivering and moaning;--then she looked
steadily at Lucio--"I never knew him do such a thing before"--she
said--"Perhaps you do not like dogs, Prince Rimânez?"
"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 assure 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
Shelley wrote of critics? No? You will find the passage 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 compassion 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 Shelley!" 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 'unsexed 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!