Read Online Sophie and the Sibyl by Patricia Duncker - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Duncker
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stared at the discerning Sibyl, suddenly feeling exposed and accused, as if the all-seeing Sibyl had watched him, oiled with lust, sucking Titania’s breasts.
She smiled slightly, raising her deeply lined face and glowing eyes towards the painter.
‘I suffer from toothache, sir, and my hearing is not what it was, but my powers of observation are undimmed. And here is a lady who has not always been an artist’s model. Your stern realism, Mr. Meyrick, betrays her earlier professions. She was either in service, or has worked on the land. Look at her hands. Those are the hands of a woman who works. They are beautiful, but they are also calloused and hard to the touch.’
The Sibyl sank back once more on to the white shroud, while all three men examined Titania’s roughened hands.
‘The Fairy Queen did not, I think, scour her own doorstep,’ continued the Sibyl from her throne, ‘but I love the busyness of this painting. It exudes the energy and bustle of a street scene in Fairyland, the more so because their ruler, even in her gigantic sleep, appears to dream their presence. This work is a miracle of varying scales, like Piranesi’s vaulted staircases, ascending into darkness.’
Lewes spun round and gazed at her with affectionate concern. ‘Shall I take you home at once, Polly? That toothache has not eased at all. You already look exhausted.’
The Sibyl raised her gloved hand to his. ‘I fear we are obliged to discuss the question of the portrait on another occasion, Mr. Meyrick.’
Max offered his arm to support her, while Lewes rearranged her shawl. She looked up at him gratefully, but remained silent.
‘Anyone who hates faults, hates mankind.’ This assertion was delivered in sweet, firm tones. Nobody dared to dissent.
The Sibyl sat in the light by their window, reading aloud to Lewes when Max entered their sitting room. She completed her sentence and looked up, every gesture slow, patient, careful. Max found it impossible to imagine her hurried or alarmed. He bowed and lowered his eyes to avoid the terrifying smile. Lewes sat by the fire with his feet perched on a low stool, balancing a currant bun on a toasting fork. The tea tray stood ready on the table by the lamp. He bounded over to shake Max’s hand, wielding the steaming bun like a Devil’s prod.
‘Come in, Max, come in. I hope we can dispense with all the formalities. You find us revisiting Lucian. Rather upon your account, I gather. Polly is gathering her forces to complete the Finale of her Great Work and then we shall celebrate.
‘For now the matchless deed’s achieved,
Determined, dared and done!
‘Well, almost done.’
Max clasped the Sibyl’s mittened paw, with, he hoped, suitably submissive reverence. And then settled down to listen to more of the odious Lucian, whose sinister Fragment now clearly rested in her lap. The Gothic script facing the Latin original announced the existence of a German translation. Max feared the worst. The Sibyl’s voice, low and persuasive, resumed the narrative, left floating through history by the provincial governor of Mysia and Lydia, marooned far from Rome, battling with corrupt officials, insurgent slaves and disturbing news from the frontiers. He spent his days in court and the evenings coaxing his resentful wife to sample the local spices. But he found himself confronting a new religion, which threatened to undermine the state. For the altars were deserted; no one purchased sacrificial doves or votive silver offerings for the Temple of Jupiter. The gods ceased to speak, the augurs fell silent, the entrails lay bloody upon the altar slab of prophecy, uninterpreted, meaningless and blank. Something new had arisen from the gutter, something irrational and inhuman, a heresy slithering out from beneath the wreckage of Jerusalem and the slaughter of the Jews. The thing proved as tenacious as an Asiatic infection, spreading slowly, like lichen on damp stones.
‘I was asked to
She smiled slightly, raising her deeply lined face and glowing eyes towards the painter.
‘I suffer from toothache, sir, and my hearing is not what it was, but my powers of observation are undimmed. And here is a lady who has not always been an artist’s model. Your stern realism, Mr. Meyrick, betrays her earlier professions. She was either in service, or has worked on the land. Look at her hands. Those are the hands of a woman who works. They are beautiful, but they are also calloused and hard to the touch.’
The Sibyl sank back once more on to the white shroud, while all three men examined Titania’s roughened hands.
‘The Fairy Queen did not, I think, scour her own doorstep,’ continued the Sibyl from her throne, ‘but I love the busyness of this painting. It exudes the energy and bustle of a street scene in Fairyland, the more so because their ruler, even in her gigantic sleep, appears to dream their presence. This work is a miracle of varying scales, like Piranesi’s vaulted staircases, ascending into darkness.’
Lewes spun round and gazed at her with affectionate concern. ‘Shall I take you home at once, Polly? That toothache has not eased at all. You already look exhausted.’
The Sibyl raised her gloved hand to his. ‘I fear we are obliged to discuss the question of the portrait on another occasion, Mr. Meyrick.’
Max offered his arm to support her, while Lewes rearranged her shawl. She looked up at him gratefully, but remained silent.
‘Anyone who hates faults, hates mankind.’ This assertion was delivered in sweet, firm tones. Nobody dared to dissent.
The Sibyl sat in the light by their window, reading aloud to Lewes when Max entered their sitting room. She completed her sentence and looked up, every gesture slow, patient, careful. Max found it impossible to imagine her hurried or alarmed. He bowed and lowered his eyes to avoid the terrifying smile. Lewes sat by the fire with his feet perched on a low stool, balancing a currant bun on a toasting fork. The tea tray stood ready on the table by the lamp. He bounded over to shake Max’s hand, wielding the steaming bun like a Devil’s prod.
‘Come in, Max, come in. I hope we can dispense with all the formalities. You find us revisiting Lucian. Rather upon your account, I gather. Polly is gathering her forces to complete the Finale of her Great Work and then we shall celebrate.
‘For now the matchless deed’s achieved,
Determined, dared and done!
‘Well, almost done.’
Max clasped the Sibyl’s mittened paw, with, he hoped, suitably submissive reverence. And then settled down to listen to more of the odious Lucian, whose sinister Fragment now clearly rested in her lap. The Gothic script facing the Latin original announced the existence of a German translation. Max feared the worst. The Sibyl’s voice, low and persuasive, resumed the narrative, left floating through history by the provincial governor of Mysia and Lydia, marooned far from Rome, battling with corrupt officials, insurgent slaves and disturbing news from the frontiers. He spent his days in court and the evenings coaxing his resentful wife to sample the local spices. But he found himself confronting a new religion, which threatened to undermine the state. For the altars were deserted; no one purchased sacrificial doves or votive silver offerings for the Temple of Jupiter. The gods ceased to speak, the augurs fell silent, the entrails lay bloody upon the altar slab of prophecy, uninterpreted, meaningless and blank. Something new had arisen from the gutter, something irrational and inhuman, a heresy slithering out from beneath the wreckage of Jerusalem and the slaughter of the Jews. The thing proved as tenacious as an Asiatic infection, spreading slowly, like lichen on damp stones.
‘I was asked to
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