Queen Lucia

She simply contemplated herself and her own vigorous accomplishment. When she played the piano, as she frequently did, reserving an hour for practice every day, she cared not in the smallest degree for what anybody who passed down the road outside her house might be thinking of the roulades that poured from her open window. She was simply Emmeline Lucas, absorbed in glorious Bach or dainty Scarlatti or noble Beethoven. The latter, perhaps, was her favourite composer, and many were the evenings when with lights quenched and only the soft effulgence of the moon pouring in through the uncurtained windows, she sat with her profile, cameo-like, or like perhaps to the head on a postage stamp, against the dark oak walls of her music-room, and entranced herself and her listeners, if there were people to dinner, with the exquisite pathos of the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata. Devotedly as she worshipped the master, whose picture hung above her Steinway Grand, she could never bring herself to believe that the two succeeding movements were on the same sublime level as the first, and besides, they went very much faster. But she had seriously thought, as she came down in the train to-day and planned her fresh activities at home, of trying to master them so that she could get through their intricacies with tolerable accuracy. Until then she would assuredly stop at the end of the first movement in these moonlit séances and say that the other two were more like morning and afternoon. Then with a sigh she would softly shut the piano-lid, and perhaps wiping a little genuine moisture from her eyes, would turn on the electric light and, taking up a book from the table, in which a paper-knife marked the extent of her penetration, say, Georgie, you must really promise me to read this life of Antonio Caporelli the moment I have finished it. I never understood the rise of the Venetian school before. As I read I can smell the salt tide creeping up over the lagoon and see the campanile of dear Torcello. And Georgie would put down the tambour on which he was working his copy of an Italian cope, and sigh too. You are too wonderful, he would say. How do you find time for everything? She rejoined with the apotheme that made the rounds of Rise Home next day. My dear, it is just busy people that have time for everything. It might be thought that even such activities as have here been indicated would be enough to occupy anyone so busily that she would positively not have time for more, but such was far from being the case with Mrs. Lucas. Just as the painter Rubens amused himself with being the ambassador to the court of St. James, a sufficient career in itself for most busy men, so Mrs. Lucas amused herself in the intervals of her pursuit of art for art's sake with being not only an ambassador but a monarch. Rise Home might, perhaps according to the crude materialism of maps, be included in the kingdom of Great Britain, but in a more real and inward sense it formed a complete kingdom of its own, and its queen was undoubtedly Mrs. Lucas, who ruled it with a secure autocracy pleasant to contemplate at a time when thrones were toppling and imperial crowns whirling like dead leaves down the autumn winds. The ruler of Rise Home, happier than he of Russia, had no need to fear the finger of Bolshevism writing on the wall, for there was not in the whole of that vat which seethed so pleasantly with culture one bubble of revolutionary ferment. Here there was neither poverty nor discontent nor muttered menace of any upheaval. Mrs. Lucas, busy and serene, worked harder than any of her subjects and exercised an autocratic control over a nominal democracy. Something of the consciousness of her sovereignty was in her mind as she turned the last hot corner of the road and came in sight of the village street that constituted her kingdom. Indeed, it belonged to her as treasure trove belongs to the crown, for it was she who had been the first to begin the transformation of this remote Elizabethan village into the palace of culture that was now reared on the spot where ten years ago an agricultural population had led bovine and unilluminated lives in their cottages of grey stone or brick and timber. Before that, while her husband was amassing a fortune comfortable in amount and respectable in origin at the bar, she had merely held up a small dim lamp of culture in Onslow Gardens. But both her ambition and his had been to bask and be busy in artistic realms of their own when the materialistic needs were provided for by sound investments. And so, when there were the requisite thousands of pounds in secure securities, she had easily persuaded him to buy three of these cottages that stood together in a low two-storied block. Then, by judicious removal of partition walls, she had, with the aid of a sympathetic architect, smooted them into a most comfortable dwelling, subsequently building onto them a new wing that ran at right angles at the back, which was, if anything, a shade more inexorably Elizabethan than the stem onto which it was grafted, for here was situated the famous smoking parlour with rushes on the floor and a dresser ranged with pewter tankards and leaded lattice windows of glass so antique that it was practically impossible to see out of them. It had a huge open fireplace framed in oak beams, with a seat on each side of the iron-backed hearth within the chimney, and a genuine spit hung over the middle of the fire. Here, though in the rest of the house she had for the sake of convenience allowed the installation of electric light, there was no such concession made, and sconces on the walls held dim iron lamps, so that only those of the most acute vision were able to read. Even then reading was difficult, for the bookstand on the table contained nothing but a few crabbed black-letter volumes, dating from not later than the early seventeenth century, and you had to be in a frantically Elizabethan frame of mind to be at ease there. But Mrs. Lucas often spent some of her rare leisure moments in the smoking parlour, playing on the virginal that stood in the window, or kippering herself in the fumes of the wood fire, as with streaming eyes she deciphered an Elsevier Horace, rather late for inclusion under the rule, but an undoubted bargain. The house stood at the end of the village that was nearest the station, and thus, when the panorama of her kingdom opened before her, she had but a few steps further to go. A yew hedge, bought in Tyre from a neighbouring farm and transplanted with solid lumps of earth and indignant snails around its roots, separated the small oblong of garden from the road, and cast monstrous shadows of the shapes into which it was cut, across the little lawns inside. Here, as was only right and proper, there was not a flower to be found save such as were mentioned in the plays of Shakespeare. Indeed it was called Shakespeare's Garden, and the bed that ran below the windows of the dining-room was Ophelia's Border, for it consisted solely of those flowers which that distraught maiden distributed to her friends when she should have been in a lunatic asylum. Mrs. Lucas often reflected how lucky it was that such institutions were unknown in Elizabeth's day, or that, if known, Shakespeare artistically ignored their existence. Pansies, naturally, formed the chief decoration, though there were some very flourishing plants of rue. Mrs. Lucas always wore a little bunch of them when in flower, to inspire her thoughts, and found them wonderfully efficacious. Round the sundial, which was set in the middle of one of the squares of grass, between which a path of broken paving-stone led to the front door, was a circular border, now in July sadly vacant, for it harboured only the spring flowers enumerated by Perdita. But the first day every year when Perdita's Border put forth its earliest blossom was a delicious anniversary, and the news of it spread like wildfire through Mrs. Lucas's kingdom, and her subjects were very joyful, and came to salute the violet or daffodil or whatever it was. The three cottages, dexterously transformed into the hearst, presented a charmingly irregular and picturesque front. Two were of the grey stone of the district, and the middle one, to the door of which led the paved path, of brick and timber. Latticed windows with stone mullions gave little light to the room within, and certain new windows had been added. These could be detected by the observant eye, for they had a markedly older appearance than the rest. The front door, similarly, seemed as if it must have been made years before the house, the fact being that the one which Mrs. Lucas had found there was too dilapidated to be of the slightest service in keeping out wind or wet or undesired callers. She had therefore caused to be constructed an even older one, made from the oak planks of a dismantled barn, and had it studied with large eyes.