Valerie

“Not so, not so, my dear Valerie. I may have done you justice, but certainly not more. There is nothing like having the living subject to write from. It is the same as painting or drawing, it only can be true when drawn from nature; in fact, what is writing but painting with the pen?”

As she concluded her sentence, the page, Lionel, came in with a letter on a waiter, and hearing her observation, as he handed the letter, he impudently observed:

“Here’s somebody been painting your name on the outside of this paper; and as there’s 7 pence to pay, I think it’s rather dear for such a smudge.”

“You must not judge from outside appearance, Lionel,” replied Lady R—: “the contents may be worth pounds. It is not prepossessing, I grant, in its superscription, but may, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wear a precious jewel in its head. That was a vulgar error of former days, Lionel, which Shakespeare has taken advantage of.”

“Yes, that chap painted with a pen at a fine rate,” replied the boy, as Lady R— opened the letter and read it.

“You may go, Lionel,” said she, putting the letter down.

“I just wanted to know, now that you’ve opened your toad, if you have found the jewel, or whether it’s a vulgar error?”

“It’s a vulgar letter, at all events, Lionel,” replied her ladyship, “and concerns you; it is from the shoemaker at Brighton, who requests me to pay him eighteen shillings for a pair of boots ordered by you, and not paid for.”

“Well, my lady, I do owe for the boots, true enough; but it’s impossible for me always to recollect my own affairs, I am so busy with looking after yours.”

“Well, but now you are reminded of them, Lionel, you had better give me the money, and I will send it to him.”

At this moment Lady R— stooped from her chair to pick up her handkerchief. There were some sovereigns lying on the desk, and the lad, winking his eye at me, took one up, and, as Lady R— rose up, held it out to her in silence.

“That’s right, Lionel,” said Lady R—; “I like honesty.”

“Yes, madame,” replied the impudent rogue, very demurely; “like most people who tell their own stories, I was born of honest, but poor parents.”

“I believe your parents were honest; and now, Lionel, to reward you, I shall pay for your boots, and you may keep your sovereign.”

“Thank your ladyship,” replied the lad. “I forgot to say that the cook is outside for orders.”

Lady R— rose, and went out of the room; and Mr Lionel, laughing at me, put the sovereign down with the others.

“Now, I call that real honesty. You saw me borrow it, and now you see me pay it.”

“Yes; but suppose her ladyship had not given you the sovereign, how would it have been then?” said I.

“I should have paid her very honestly,” replied he. “If I wished to cheat her, or rob her, I might do so all day long. She leaves her money about everywhere, and never knows what she has; besides, if I wanted to steal, I should not do so with those bright eyes of yours looking at me all the time.”

“You are a very saucy boy,” replied I, more amused than angry.

“It’s all from reading, and it’s not my fault, for her ladyship makes me read, and I never yet read any book about old times in which the pages were not saucy; but I’ve no time to talk just now—my spoons are not clean yet,” so saying he quitted the room.

I did not know whether I ought to inform her ladyship of this freak of her page’s; but, as the money was returned, I thought I had better say nothing for the present. I soon found out that the lad was correct in asserting that she was careless of her money, and that, if he chose, he might pilfer without chance of discovery; and, moreover, that he really was a good and honest lad, only full of mischief and very impudent; owing, however, to Lady R—’s treatment of him, for she rather encouraged his impudence than otherwise. He was certainly a very clever, witty boy, and a very quick servant; so quick, indeed, at his work, that it almost appeared as if he never had anything to do, and he had plenty of time for reading, which he was very fond of.

Lady R— returned, and resumed her writing.

“You sing, do you not? I think Mrs Bathurst told me you were very harmonious. Now, Valerie, do me a favour: I want to hear a voice carolling some melodious ditty. I shall describe it so much better, if I really heard you sing. I do like reality; of course, you must sing without music, for my country girl cannot be crossing the mead with a piano in one hand, and a pail of water in the other.”

“I should think not,” replied I, laughing; “but am not I too near?”

“Yes, rather; I should prefer it on the stairs, or on the first floor landing, but I could not be so rude as to send you out of the room.”

“But I will go without sending,” replied I; and I did so, and having arrived at my station, I sang a little French refrain, which I thought would answer her ladyship’s purpose. On my return her ladyship was writing furiously, and did not appear to notice my entrance. I took my seat quietly, and in about ten minutes she again threw down the pen, exclaiming:

“I never wrote so effective a chapter! Valerie, you are more precious to me than fine gold; and as Shylock said of his ring, ‘I would not change thee for a wilderness of monkeys.’ I make the quotation as expressive of your value. It was so kind-hearted of you to comply with my wish. You don’t know an author’s feelings. You have no idea how our self-love is flattered by success, and that we value a good passage in our works more than anything else in existence. Now, you have so kindly administered to my ruling passion twice in one morning, that I love you exceedingly. I daresay you think me very odd, and people say that I am so; I may ask you to do many odd things for me, but I shall never ask you to do what a lady may not do, or what would be incorrect for you to do, or for me to propose; that you may depend upon, Valerie: and now I close my manuscript for the present, being well satisfied with the day’s work.”

Lady R— rang the bell, and on Lionel making his appearance, she desired him to take away her writing materials, put her money into her purse—if he knew where the purse was—and then asked him what were her engagements for the evening.

“I know we have an engagement,” replied the boy; “I can’t recollect it, but I shall find it in the drawing-room.”

He went out, and in a minute returned.

“I have found it, my lady,” said he. “Here’s the ticket; Mrs Allwood, at home, nine o’clock.”

“Mrs Allwood, my dear Valerie, is a literary lady, and her parties are very agreeable.”

The page looked at me from behind Lady R—’s chair, and shook his head in dissent.

“Shall we go?” continued Lady R—.

“If you please, madame,” replied I.

“Well, then, we will take a drive before dinner, and the evening after dinner shall be dedicated to the feast of reason and the flow of soul. Dear me, how I have inked my fingers, I must go upstairs and wash them.”

As soon as Lady R— left the room, Master Lionel began.

“Feast of reason and flow of soul; I don’t like such entertainment. Give me a good supper and plenty of champagne.”

“Why, what matter can it make to you?” said I, laughing.

“It matters a good deal. I object to literary parties,” replied he. “In the first place, for one respectable carriage driving up to the door, there are twenty cabs and jarveys, so that the company isn’t so good; and then at parties, when there is a good supper, I get my share of it in the kitchen. You don’t think we are idle down below. I have been to Mrs Allwood’s twice, and there’s no supper, nothing but feast of reason, which remains upstairs, and they’re welcome to my share of it. As for the drink, it’s negus and cherry-water; nothing else, and if the flow of soul is not better than such stuff, they may have my share of that also. No music, no dancing, nothing but buzz, buzz, buzz. Won’t you feel it stupid!”

“Why, one would think you had been upstairs instead of down, Lionel.”

“Of course I am. They press all who have liveries into the service, and I hand the cakes about rather than kick for hours at the legs of the kitchen-table. I hear all that’s said just as well as the company, and I’ve often thought I could have given a better answer than I’ve heard some of your great literaries. When I hand the cakes to-night, take them I point out to you: they’ll be the best.”

“Why, how can you tell?”

“Because I try them all before I come in the room.”

“You ought to be ashamed to acknowledge it.”

“All comes of reading, miss,” replied he. “I read that in former times great people, kings and princes and so on, always had their victuals tasted first, lest there should be poison in them: so I taste upon that principle, and I have been half-poisoned sometimes at these cheap parties, but I’m getting cunning, and when I meet a suspicious-looking piece of pastry, I leave it for the company; but I can’t wait to talk any longer, miss, I must give coachman his orders.”

“I never asked you to talk, Mr Lionel,” said I.

“No, you didn’t, but still I know you like to hear me: you can’t deny that. Now to use my lady’s style, I am to tell the coachman to put a girdle round the park in forty minutes;” so saying, the lad vanished, as he usually did, in a second.

The lad was certainly right when he said that I did like to hear him talk, for he amused me so much, that I forgave his impudence and familiarity. Shortly afterwards, we went out in the carriage, and having driven two or three times round the park, returned home to dinner. At ten o’clock, we went to Mrs Allwood’s party. I was introduced to a great many great literary stars, whom I had never before heard of; but the person who attracted the most attention was a Russian Count, who had had his ears and nose cut off by the Turks. It certainly did not add to his beauty, however it might have to his interest. However, Lionel was right. It was a very stupid party to me: all talking at once and constantly on the move to find fresh listeners; it was all buzz, buzz, buzz, and I was glad when the carriage was announced. Such were the events of the first day which I passed under the roof of Lady R—.