"It is magnificent," I murmured, gently touching its decorated bezel. The scene depicted was one of a group of Greek soldiers pulling the Trojan horse. "But shouldn't scholars have access to pieces like this?"
"I'm happy to allow them to visit my private collection."
"I think that having them in museums ensures that we shall have another generation of scholars. People are inspired by seeing them. I know I am. How is one to develop a significant interest in an ancient civilization without viewing artifacts?"
"That's what books are for. And I do not say that museums should have nothing-just that I should have my pick of the lot. They'd have nothing without my kind, after all."
"Of course you should have something, but perhaps the most significant finds should belong to the museum."
"Your enthusiasm is invigorating, my child."
"Please do not think me impertinent."
"Not at all. Tell me, did Lord Ashton ever locate that bust of Apollo?"
"I'm not sure that I'm familiar with it."
"Fantastic thing, to judge from his description. Said it was attributed to Praxiteles, one of the finest masters of Greek sculpture. You know of Praxiteles?"
"It is impossible to have even a moderate interest in Greek art without becoming immediately familiar with him."
"It would be quite a coup to have anything by such a master in any collection. Lord Ashton was searching for that Apollo everywhere when I last saw him in Paris. Must have been well over a year ago now. Well, if he found it, you've got quite an excellent piece; and if you ever want to sell it, please let me know immediately."
Mr. Palmer leaned toward me. "Tell me you're not interested in those crusty old pots, too."
"I think they're lovely."
"You are too sweet," he murmured. "You simply must come to the theater with me."
6 MAY 1887
BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON
Regret to say that today marked only the second visit to my desk in the Reading Room. Impossible to accomplish anything during the Season, even after adopting a firm policy of accepting only every fifth invitation. Did read the Duke of Buckinghamshire Sheffield's "Essay on Poetry," so all is not lost: "Read Homer once, and you can read no more; / For all books else appear so mean, so poor, / Verse will seem prose; but still persist to read, / And Homer will be all the books you need." Brilliant thought.
Saw Lady Emily Bromley on Rotten Row this morning. She is a fine horsewoman-anyone who rides so well must enjoy the hunt.
8
"You're more fond of him than i would have expected!" Ivy exclaimed.
"He's loads of fun, Ivy. It's refreshing," I said, refilling our teacups.
"I admit that I liked his idea of going to the theater, but he was terribly blunt about Philip, didn't you think?"
"He meant no harm. He's the first person I've met in years who simply wants to see me enjoy myself. Imagine that!"
"We all want that, Emily. You know that I agree with you completely when it comes to society and its rules, but I'm afraid that Mr. Palmer flouts them rather too much."
"He's high-spirited and says what he thinks. I see nothing wrong with that."
"You don't extend the same courtesy to Mr. Hargreaves when he speaks his mind."
"That is unfair, Ivy. The situations are completely different. Mr. Palmer is trying to expand my horizons, not constrict them."
"Robert says he's a decent man."
"He is amusing and doesn't expect me to play the part of grieving widow."
"I can understand that he has a certain appeal."
"How generous you are," I said, smiling. "He's taking me for a drive in the Bois de Boulogne this afternoon."
"Perhaps I should join you as a chaperone," Ivy teased.
"Widows don't need chaperones, my dear. What a pity it's Meg's afternoon off. She'd be pleased to see me with the son of an English peer.
"She's frightfully biased against the French." A sharp knock on the door announced Margaret Seward's arrival; she entered, her arms filled with books.
"I'm sorry I'm so late," she said, depositing the books on a table. "You will forgive me when you see what I've brought."
"It's lovely to see you, Miss Seward," Ivy said.
"You must call me Margaret, as I have no intention of calling you Mrs. Brandon."
"I'd be delighted," Ivy said, and joined me at the table to examine the newly arrived books.
"Greek grammar, history, and philosophy," Margaret announced, holding up individual volumes. "My own notes on lectures I've attended and, should your interests take you even further, an introductory Latin grammar. Greek is magnificent, of course, but you should not overlook Latin."
"This is wonderful, Margaret. Thank you," I said.
"I'm sure you have much of this in your library at home, but I have a terrible habit of making notes in my books and thought you might appreciate the marginalia."
"This makes me wish I hadn't agreed to go out with Mr. Palmer. I'd much rather stay here and read."
"Then stay," Margaret said, slouching into a comfortable chair. "I'd be happy to tell him you're unavailable."
"No, I couldn't," I sighed.
"Is this Andrew Palmer?" Margaret asked. I nodded; she wrinkled her nose and turned to Ivy. "Do you like him?"
"He's from a very good family."
"He doesn't seem particularly interesting."
"Mr. Palmer is the rare sort of man who does not expect a lady to be completely at the mercy of society. I like him very much."
"I will bow to your superior judgment, Emily," Margaret said, grinning. "I suppose there are many stupider men."
"I must be off," Ivy said, glancing at her watch. "If we are to leave Paris tomorrow morning, I must oversee my packing. I'm so sorry not to have the chance to visit with you, Margaret, but I know that you and Emily want to discuss Homer, and that is a subject on which I would have very little to say."
"You should read him, Ivy," Margaret said.
"He's marvelous," I added.
"I shall leave him to the two of you with little regret."
"She is a sweet, simple thing, isn't she?" Margaret observed after Ivy's departure.
"The dearest person I've ever met."
"Well-on to the task at hand. I think you should start by reading this series of lectures given by Matthew Arnold, the first professor at Oxford to lecture in English instead of Latin." She handed a monograph to me as she spoke. "He discusses the merits and shortcomings of various translations of Homer. How long are you going to be in Paris?"
"I have no fixed plan."
"I'm leaving for London at the end of the week to attend a series of lectures at University College. You should consider coming with me."
"I do not want to return to London yet."
"As you wish. If only I knew someone in Paris who could begin to teach you Greek."
"There is no urgency. For the moment I am content with Homer in translation, despite its deficiencies. The poetry captivates me absolutely."
"Understandable."
"I am so grateful for your guidance. We have a little time before Mr. Palmer will call for me, and I fully intend to keep you occupied for every moment I can."
"'The beauteous warrior now arrays for fight, / In gilded arms magnificently bright,'" Margaret quoted. "Let us begin."
Because our time was so limited, she suggested that we read aloud from Pope's translation of the Iliad. Although of the two of us she alone possessed any academic knowledge of Homer's great work, I surprised us both by being able to read it with a remarkably dramatic flair. Margaret was delighted and urged me to stand on a chair, book in hand. I quickly warmed to my subject and found myself speaking in as noble a voice as I could muster: