Read Online How Do I Love Thee? by Nancy Moser - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nancy Moser
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I do not get macaroons on holidays.”
I knew I deserved their censure. I spoiled Flush greatly, and knew it stemmed from guilt for taking him away from the green fields he would have had at Mary’s home at Three Mile Cross, and virtually locking him away with me in my dark city room. And so I indulged him shamelessly. Or with a modicum of shame. I had made Flush into quite a dainty fellow. Papa scolded me and often said, “No dog in the world could be of his own accord and instinct so like a woman.”
“He looks like you,” Cousin said.
“I beg your pardon?”
John made a downward motion along either side of his face. “The dog’s long ears framing his face, and your long curls framing yours.”
“And you both have sad, soulful eyes,” Mary said.
Before I could take true offence, or acquiesce to the truth in their statements, Flush anticipated his cream cheese by hurling his front paws onto the bedside table from whence I worked. The pages I had been writing upon, along with a perfume bottle, crashed to the floor. The perfume seeped over the pages, causing the ink to run.
“Bad dog!” Crow yelled, scrambling for a towel.
Flush retreated under the sofa and looked so absolutely mournful that I nearly didn’t mind the damage to my work, caring only for the damage to his sensitive nature.
John carefully handed me the pages, along with a handkerchief. “You dab them. I don’t want to be responsible for making them worse and destroying the work of the ages.”
A heady floral fragrance wafted over me and I looked upon the words elongated by the liquid. They looked as if they were crying. . . .
“Perhaps Flush is a good editor,” I said, letting the pages dry by the air. “Perhaps this work is best lost, best never read.”
Crow mopped the last of the floor. “You should not let him off so easily. This is not the first item damaged, the first glass broken. He is not a puppy anymore. He should know better.”
I did not argue but placed the plate of cream cheese under the sofa and shielded his sup from prying eyes by sitting above him and spreading my skirts. I would lure him into my company after he had been properly fed and calmed.
Cousin John and Mary returned to their seats in front of the dormant fireplace. John crossed his legs. “Now. To the question which has brought me here this afternoon. What’s this about Charles Dilke wanting you to write for him?”
So they had heard. News traveled fast in London. “He wishes for me to be a reviewer for The Athenaeum .”
“Review other people’s work?”
Oh dear. I knew it sounded presumptuous. Me, who was fairly new to the literary world, comment on other writers’ work?
Mary answered for me, for she knew of the arrangement. “Our Ba suggested a series of sketches on the Greek poets of the early Christian centuries.”
I added the next to solidify my qualifications. “I have read them all, you know. And am reading them again to bring them fresh to mind.”
“I do not doubt your scholarship, Ba.”
I was not so certain. “ I doubt it. I am half afraid it’s conceited of me to let myself be lifted up to this . . . this bad eminence of criticism. After all, who am I?”
“I did not mean to make you doubt yourself,” Cousin said. “As far as your credentials, you are as well-read as any and more analytical than most. If this is what the editor wants, why not you?”
I knew he was being kind, but also sensed a sincerity that helped me accept his compliment.
“So . . . ?” he asked. “You have accepted?”
“I have already turned in one offering. I will say going from being languid and without purpose to writing to the clock and being busy upon busy is quite a change.”
Mary’s toes skimmed the carpet. She was as petite as I and no more ample in girth. Cousin John often teased that we were two tiny dolls, Mary the middle-aged mother and me the daughter. That my curls were dark and Mary’s light brown did not dissuade him from
I knew I deserved their censure. I spoiled Flush greatly, and knew it stemmed from guilt for taking him away from the green fields he would have had at Mary’s home at Three Mile Cross, and virtually locking him away with me in my dark city room. And so I indulged him shamelessly. Or with a modicum of shame. I had made Flush into quite a dainty fellow. Papa scolded me and often said, “No dog in the world could be of his own accord and instinct so like a woman.”
“He looks like you,” Cousin said.
“I beg your pardon?”
John made a downward motion along either side of his face. “The dog’s long ears framing his face, and your long curls framing yours.”
“And you both have sad, soulful eyes,” Mary said.
Before I could take true offence, or acquiesce to the truth in their statements, Flush anticipated his cream cheese by hurling his front paws onto the bedside table from whence I worked. The pages I had been writing upon, along with a perfume bottle, crashed to the floor. The perfume seeped over the pages, causing the ink to run.
“Bad dog!” Crow yelled, scrambling for a towel.
Flush retreated under the sofa and looked so absolutely mournful that I nearly didn’t mind the damage to my work, caring only for the damage to his sensitive nature.
John carefully handed me the pages, along with a handkerchief. “You dab them. I don’t want to be responsible for making them worse and destroying the work of the ages.”
A heady floral fragrance wafted over me and I looked upon the words elongated by the liquid. They looked as if they were crying. . . .
“Perhaps Flush is a good editor,” I said, letting the pages dry by the air. “Perhaps this work is best lost, best never read.”
Crow mopped the last of the floor. “You should not let him off so easily. This is not the first item damaged, the first glass broken. He is not a puppy anymore. He should know better.”
I did not argue but placed the plate of cream cheese under the sofa and shielded his sup from prying eyes by sitting above him and spreading my skirts. I would lure him into my company after he had been properly fed and calmed.
Cousin John and Mary returned to their seats in front of the dormant fireplace. John crossed his legs. “Now. To the question which has brought me here this afternoon. What’s this about Charles Dilke wanting you to write for him?”
So they had heard. News traveled fast in London. “He wishes for me to be a reviewer for The Athenaeum .”
“Review other people’s work?”
Oh dear. I knew it sounded presumptuous. Me, who was fairly new to the literary world, comment on other writers’ work?
Mary answered for me, for she knew of the arrangement. “Our Ba suggested a series of sketches on the Greek poets of the early Christian centuries.”
I added the next to solidify my qualifications. “I have read them all, you know. And am reading them again to bring them fresh to mind.”
“I do not doubt your scholarship, Ba.”
I was not so certain. “ I doubt it. I am half afraid it’s conceited of me to let myself be lifted up to this . . . this bad eminence of criticism. After all, who am I?”
“I did not mean to make you doubt yourself,” Cousin said. “As far as your credentials, you are as well-read as any and more analytical than most. If this is what the editor wants, why not you?”
I knew he was being kind, but also sensed a sincerity that helped me accept his compliment.
“So . . . ?” he asked. “You have accepted?”
“I have already turned in one offering. I will say going from being languid and without purpose to writing to the clock and being busy upon busy is quite a change.”
Mary’s toes skimmed the carpet. She was as petite as I and no more ample in girth. Cousin John often teased that we were two tiny dolls, Mary the middle-aged mother and me the daughter. That my curls were dark and Mary’s light brown did not dissuade him from
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