Read Online Waltz With a Stranger by Pamela Sherwood - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pamela Sherwood
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how eager you’ve been to see the exhibition at the Royal Academy. Would you and your sister—and your mother, for that matter—like to go today? One of my closest friends has a painting on display this year.”
“That sounds wonderful!” Amy turned to her sister. “You’re coming, aren’t you, Relia? I know you enjoy looking at art as much as I do!”
The queen and not the little mouse , Aurelia reminded herself. Disappointed hopes or not, she was not creeping back into the shadows; her days of hiding were over. She smiled at her twin as she rose from the piano. “Of course I’m coming. Let’s go find Mother.”
Seven
Painters and poets alike have always had license to dare anything!
—Ovid, Ars Poetica
While flattered by the earl’s invitation, Laura chose to stay behind and rest, so it was a party of three that arrived at Burlington House and made their way inside to the gallery.
Walking at her sister’s side, Aurelia gazed about her in awe at the sheer number and diversity of the paintings covering the walls. Nearly as impressive was the fashionable crowd that wandered at a stately snail’s pace through the exhibition: ladies in lace-trimmed afternoon gowns and feather-and-flower bedecked hats and gentlemen scarcely less fine in morning dress and silk toppers—and all of them prepared to voice decided opinions on whatever they saw, whether on the walls or the other people in attendance.
“How vulgar,” a dowager pronounced, peering through her lorgnette at one painting. A few feet away, a gentleman with a loud, rather pompous voice dismissed another effort as “too conventional, even insipid,” while his female companion—dowdy and unobtrusive as a peahen—murmured timid agreement. Nearby, two girls close to Aurelia’s age ignored the paintings but murmured less than flattering remarks about the frocks worn by some of the other ladies there.
Aurelia glanced down self-consciously at her spring-green afternoon dress, then caught sight of Amy doing the same to her own rose-pink ensemble. Their eyes met and they looked away at once, struggling not to laugh. As Trevenan led them through the throng, they encountered some acquaintances of his or Amy’s and stopped to exchange brief pleasantries. Aurelia accustomed herself to being introduced anew to Society, though she was again agreeably surprised by the cordiality with which she was received.
The press of people made reading the placards difficult, but Aurelia endeavored to do so anyway. Few of the names were recognizable, though she was charmed to see two new paintings by Waterhouse: a dramatic rendering of Ulysses and the Sirens and a quieter portrait of an auburn-haired girl in classical dress, daydreaming before an altar decked with flowers. Aurelia admired both but preferred the more contemplative mood of the latter.
“ Flora ,” she read from the accompanying placard.
“So serene,” Amy said on a sigh. “And the model is lovely. I wonder who she is. It must be fascinating to pose for an artist.”
“Maybe, but think of having to sit still all that time,” Aurelia pointed out. “Or stand—or hold some other uncomfortable position for hours.”
“Or pose in a full bathtub, like the model for Millais’s Ophelia ,” Trevenan added. “I understand he was so intent on his work that he never noticed when the water became too cold for her and she took a severe chill. She sent him the doctor’s bill later.”
“I hope he paid it. It seems the very least he could have done, under the circumstances!” Aurelia declared roundly.
Amy nodded agreement. “I hope not all artists are as oblivious as Mr. Millais. Still, his model should have said something. I certainly wouldn’t have just lain there freezing to death!”
“It does take the idea of suffering for one’s art to an extreme,” Trevenan agreed. He offered his arm to Amy. “Shall we continue?”
By now they had traveled more than halfway around the room and the crowd
“That sounds wonderful!” Amy turned to her sister. “You’re coming, aren’t you, Relia? I know you enjoy looking at art as much as I do!”
The queen and not the little mouse , Aurelia reminded herself. Disappointed hopes or not, she was not creeping back into the shadows; her days of hiding were over. She smiled at her twin as she rose from the piano. “Of course I’m coming. Let’s go find Mother.”
Seven
Painters and poets alike have always had license to dare anything!
—Ovid, Ars Poetica
While flattered by the earl’s invitation, Laura chose to stay behind and rest, so it was a party of three that arrived at Burlington House and made their way inside to the gallery.
Walking at her sister’s side, Aurelia gazed about her in awe at the sheer number and diversity of the paintings covering the walls. Nearly as impressive was the fashionable crowd that wandered at a stately snail’s pace through the exhibition: ladies in lace-trimmed afternoon gowns and feather-and-flower bedecked hats and gentlemen scarcely less fine in morning dress and silk toppers—and all of them prepared to voice decided opinions on whatever they saw, whether on the walls or the other people in attendance.
“How vulgar,” a dowager pronounced, peering through her lorgnette at one painting. A few feet away, a gentleman with a loud, rather pompous voice dismissed another effort as “too conventional, even insipid,” while his female companion—dowdy and unobtrusive as a peahen—murmured timid agreement. Nearby, two girls close to Aurelia’s age ignored the paintings but murmured less than flattering remarks about the frocks worn by some of the other ladies there.
Aurelia glanced down self-consciously at her spring-green afternoon dress, then caught sight of Amy doing the same to her own rose-pink ensemble. Their eyes met and they looked away at once, struggling not to laugh. As Trevenan led them through the throng, they encountered some acquaintances of his or Amy’s and stopped to exchange brief pleasantries. Aurelia accustomed herself to being introduced anew to Society, though she was again agreeably surprised by the cordiality with which she was received.
The press of people made reading the placards difficult, but Aurelia endeavored to do so anyway. Few of the names were recognizable, though she was charmed to see two new paintings by Waterhouse: a dramatic rendering of Ulysses and the Sirens and a quieter portrait of an auburn-haired girl in classical dress, daydreaming before an altar decked with flowers. Aurelia admired both but preferred the more contemplative mood of the latter.
“ Flora ,” she read from the accompanying placard.
“So serene,” Amy said on a sigh. “And the model is lovely. I wonder who she is. It must be fascinating to pose for an artist.”
“Maybe, but think of having to sit still all that time,” Aurelia pointed out. “Or stand—or hold some other uncomfortable position for hours.”
“Or pose in a full bathtub, like the model for Millais’s Ophelia ,” Trevenan added. “I understand he was so intent on his work that he never noticed when the water became too cold for her and she took a severe chill. She sent him the doctor’s bill later.”
“I hope he paid it. It seems the very least he could have done, under the circumstances!” Aurelia declared roundly.
Amy nodded agreement. “I hope not all artists are as oblivious as Mr. Millais. Still, his model should have said something. I certainly wouldn’t have just lain there freezing to death!”
“It does take the idea of suffering for one’s art to an extreme,” Trevenan agreed. He offered his arm to Amy. “Shall we continue?”
By now they had traveled more than halfway around the room and the crowd
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