Read Online B007TB5SP0 EBOK by Ronald Firbank - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ronald Firbank
Ads: Link
stairs just off Chesham Place.
‘If I were to die here,’ she had often said, ‘they would never be able to twist the coffin outside my door; they would have to cremate me in my room.’ For such a cottage, the sitting-rooms, nevertheless, were astonishingly large. The drawing-room, for instance, was a complete surprise, notwithstanding its dimensions being ocularly curtailed by a somewhat trying brocade of drooping lilac orchids on a yellow ground.
But to-day, to make as much space as possible to receive her guests, all the household heirlooms – a faded photograph of the Pope, a bust of
poor dear Leslie
, some most Asiatic cushions, and a quantity of whimsies, had been carried away to the top of the house. Never before had she seen the room so bare, or so austere.
As her maid exclaimed: ‘It was like a church.’ If an entire Ode of Sappho’s had been discovered instead of a single line she could have done no more.
In the centre of the room, a number of fragile gilt chairs had been waiting patiently all day to be placed, heedless, happily, of the lamentations of Thérèse, who, while rolling her eyes, kept exclaiming: ‘Such wild herds of chairs; such herds of wild chairs!’
In her arrangements Mrs Henedge had disobeyed the Professor in everything.
Professor Inglepin had looked in during the week to ask that severity might be the key. ‘No flowers,’ he had begged, ‘or, at most, placed beside the fragment (which I shall bring), a handful, perhaps, of—’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Henedge had replied, ‘you can rely uponme.’ And now the air was laden with the odour of white and dark mauve stocks.
A buffet, too, had arisen altar-like in her own particular sanctum, an apology to those whom she was unable to dine; nor, for intriguing curiosities, had she scoured a pagan cookery-book in vain …
Glancing over the dinner list whilst she dressed, it seemed to her that the names of her guests, in neat rotation, resembled the cast of a play. ‘A comedy, with possible dynamics!’ she murmured as she went downstairs.
With a tiara well over her nose, and dressed in oyster satin and pearls, she wished that Sappho could have seen her then … On entering the drawing-room she found her beautiful Mrs Shamefoot as well as her radiant Lady Castleyard (pronounced Castleyud), had already arrived, and were entertaining lazily her Monsignor Parr.
‘Cima’s Madonnas are dull, dull, dull,’ Mrs Shamefoot was saying, looking over the Monsignor’s shoulder at her own reflection in the glass.
Mrs Shamefoot, widely known as ‘Birdie’, and labelled as politics, almost compels a tear. Overshadowed by a clever husband, and by an exceedingly brilliant mother-in-law, all that was expected of her was to hold long branches of mimosa and eucalyptus leaves as though in a dream at meetings, and to be picturesque, and restful and mute. As might have been foreseen, she had developed into one of those decorative, self-entranced persons so valued by hostesses at dinner as an ideal full stop. Sufficiently self-centred, she could be relied upon to break up a line, or to divide, with grace, any awkward divergencies of thought. Her momentary caprice was to erect with Lady Castleyard, to whom she was devoted, a window in some cathedral to their memory, that should be a miracle of violet glass, after a design of Lanzini Niccolo.
It was therefore only natural that Lady Castleyard (whose hobby was watching sunlight through stained glass) should take the liveliest interest in the scheme – and through the mediation of Mrs Henedge was hoping to kindle a window somewhere very soon.
A pretty woman, with magnificently bold shoulders, and a tiny head, she was, as a rule, quite fearlessly made up. It was courageous of her, her hostess thought, to flaunt such carnationed cheeks. Only in Reynolds or in a Romney did one expect to see
such a dab
.
‘Tell me! Tell me!’ she exclaimed airily, taking hold of Mrs Henedge. ‘I feel I must hear the
‘If I were to die here,’ she had often said, ‘they would never be able to twist the coffin outside my door; they would have to cremate me in my room.’ For such a cottage, the sitting-rooms, nevertheless, were astonishingly large. The drawing-room, for instance, was a complete surprise, notwithstanding its dimensions being ocularly curtailed by a somewhat trying brocade of drooping lilac orchids on a yellow ground.
But to-day, to make as much space as possible to receive her guests, all the household heirlooms – a faded photograph of the Pope, a bust of
poor dear Leslie
, some most Asiatic cushions, and a quantity of whimsies, had been carried away to the top of the house. Never before had she seen the room so bare, or so austere.
As her maid exclaimed: ‘It was like a church.’ If an entire Ode of Sappho’s had been discovered instead of a single line she could have done no more.
In the centre of the room, a number of fragile gilt chairs had been waiting patiently all day to be placed, heedless, happily, of the lamentations of Thérèse, who, while rolling her eyes, kept exclaiming: ‘Such wild herds of chairs; such herds of wild chairs!’
In her arrangements Mrs Henedge had disobeyed the Professor in everything.
Professor Inglepin had looked in during the week to ask that severity might be the key. ‘No flowers,’ he had begged, ‘or, at most, placed beside the fragment (which I shall bring), a handful, perhaps, of—’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Henedge had replied, ‘you can rely uponme.’ And now the air was laden with the odour of white and dark mauve stocks.
A buffet, too, had arisen altar-like in her own particular sanctum, an apology to those whom she was unable to dine; nor, for intriguing curiosities, had she scoured a pagan cookery-book in vain …
Glancing over the dinner list whilst she dressed, it seemed to her that the names of her guests, in neat rotation, resembled the cast of a play. ‘A comedy, with possible dynamics!’ she murmured as she went downstairs.
With a tiara well over her nose, and dressed in oyster satin and pearls, she wished that Sappho could have seen her then … On entering the drawing-room she found her beautiful Mrs Shamefoot as well as her radiant Lady Castleyard (pronounced Castleyud), had already arrived, and were entertaining lazily her Monsignor Parr.
‘Cima’s Madonnas are dull, dull, dull,’ Mrs Shamefoot was saying, looking over the Monsignor’s shoulder at her own reflection in the glass.
Mrs Shamefoot, widely known as ‘Birdie’, and labelled as politics, almost compels a tear. Overshadowed by a clever husband, and by an exceedingly brilliant mother-in-law, all that was expected of her was to hold long branches of mimosa and eucalyptus leaves as though in a dream at meetings, and to be picturesque, and restful and mute. As might have been foreseen, she had developed into one of those decorative, self-entranced persons so valued by hostesses at dinner as an ideal full stop. Sufficiently self-centred, she could be relied upon to break up a line, or to divide, with grace, any awkward divergencies of thought. Her momentary caprice was to erect with Lady Castleyard, to whom she was devoted, a window in some cathedral to their memory, that should be a miracle of violet glass, after a design of Lanzini Niccolo.
It was therefore only natural that Lady Castleyard (whose hobby was watching sunlight through stained glass) should take the liveliest interest in the scheme – and through the mediation of Mrs Henedge was hoping to kindle a window somewhere very soon.
A pretty woman, with magnificently bold shoulders, and a tiny head, she was, as a rule, quite fearlessly made up. It was courageous of her, her hostess thought, to flaunt such carnationed cheeks. Only in Reynolds or in a Romney did one expect to see
such a dab
.
‘Tell me! Tell me!’ she exclaimed airily, taking hold of Mrs Henedge. ‘I feel I must hear the
Similar Books
