The True Darcy Spirit. Elizabeth Aston

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       Chapter Four

      Cassandra was exasperated. Belle had been introduced, thanks to Mrs. Croscombe, to several agreeable and handsome young men; why did her volatile fancy have to alight on Mr. Lisser? And while she might tell her stepfather that such an artist would be a welcome addition to the dinner table at many a lofty home, it didn’t mean that he would in any way be considered a suitable lover for a Miss Isabel Darcy, with a fortune of some thirty thousand pounds or more.

      Belle was a flirt, a determined and accomplished flirt, and now her attention was fixed on Mr. Lisser, there was nothing Cassandra could do to prevent her cousin from playing off her tricks. And it seemed that Henry Lisser was not displeased by the pleasure Belle took in his company. When he was at work, his attention was focussed entirely upon his subject. He was grave and uncommunicative, saying little to his subjects, and those few words merely a request to move this way or that, or to place a hand or reposition an arm. He gave instructions to his assistant, as necessary, and sometimes spoke to Cassandra, as to a pupil, but in a low, indifferent voice.

      To her admiration, he banished Belle from his presence while he painted, in a kind enough way, but with sufficient authority that she accepted his rejection with no more than a toss of her head. The children, of course, could not hold their poses for very long, so he had filled in their small shapes and then dismissed them, bidding them to run along and play with their cousin Miss Belle. They skipped off, and he was left to do some more work on the patient Partingtons.

      Cassandra was fascinated to see how he worked, it was so very different from her own style of painting. He took numerous sketches, charcoal or graphite, and had always a sketchbook in his hand, drawing the house from numerous angles: “You must see the whole in your mind, even while you only paint one view.”

      Cassandra was full of admiration and questions. He asked to see her notebooks, making few direct comments, but suggesting a shading here, another grouping of a composition there, and gave her some valuable advice as to portraiture, although, as he said, his own genius did not lie in that direction. Oh, yes, he could paint figures in a landscape, but head and shoulders or full-length portraits were not for him.

      “You should travel, Miss Darcy, it would be of great benefit to you to go to Italy, to study the works of the masters and also to see for yourself the landscapes of that country.”

      “Italy! Why, Mr. Lisser, Bath would be an adventure for me, and as for London, I long to go there, but”—with a sigh—“it is not at present possible.”

      Mr. Lisser remembered what Herr Winter had said about his talented pupil, and said no more about her painting or travel. Instead he wanted to talk about Belle.

      “She is your cousin, I believe?”

      “The relationship is not such a close one. We share great-grandparents through her father and my mother, and there is also a connection through my father, who was the younger son of a younger son. Belle’s father is the eldest son of an eldest son. Do you have brothers and sisters, Mr. Lisser?”

      “I have a younger brother, and two sisters.”

      “Are they artistic?”

      “My brother is destined for the military. One of my sisters is a good musician, the other has no artistic bent that we are aware of.”

      “And they live in Germany?”

      “Yes.”

      “Yet you chose to come to London to work.”

      “There are reasons…” His face took on a reserved look. Then he smiled, a smile that transformed his features. “London is a good place for those who wish to make their way as a painter, and I have to earn my bread like this. In the future perhaps—”

      “You will prefer different subjects, a different style?”

      “I hope so. But meanwhile I can benefit from the English love of landscape, especially when a painting portrays their own handsome property set in the midst of it. I have noticed that these kinds of paintings and family portraits are what hang on the walls of most houses that I visit.”

      Cassandra thought of the dozens of portraits that hung in the public rooms at Rosings and also in corridors and passages where they were never noticed. And on the top floor, a picture gallery ran the length of the central part of the house, where the finest portraits hung, from stiff Tudor faces, all very much alike, through the long, big-eyed, livelier Stuarts, a riot of lace and silk and satin, for the de Bourghs had always held to the royalist cause, to the wide-skirted and gold-laced men and women of the last century.

      Belle came dancing into the room, a vision in a figured muslin, with a wide sash about her slim waist, and a fetching hat in her hand. Now, as he rose to his feet, Mr. Lisser had no eyes or thoughts for anyone but Belle; she was a minx, to lead him on like that. Cassandra stood up, too.

      “I am going to show Mr. Lisser the gallery of family portraits,” she said.

      “Oh, let me do that, you are wanted in your mama’s room, she asked me to look for you.”

      Belle went off with Mr. Lisser, and Cassandra dutifully went to her mother’s chamber, where her mother was surprised to see her; no, she hadn’t summoned her, she had merely remarked to Belle that she might find her cousin downstairs with Mr. Lisser.

      “And I wish, my love, that you will not spend so much time with Mr. Lisser. СКАЧАТЬ