Mrs. Viveash did not press the matter. Casimir, she thought, must have been thinking of her when he wrote this little poem about Poets and Women, crossed genius, torments, the sweating of masterpieces. She sighed. “Those leopards are rather nice,” she said, and looked at the catalogue again. “‘An animal is a symbol and its form is significant. In the long process of adaptation, evolution has refined and simplified and shaped, till every part of the animal expresses one desire, a single idea. Man, who has become what he is, not by specialization, but by generalization, symbolizes with his body no one thing. He is a symbol of everything from the most hideous and ferocious bestiality to godhead.’”
“Dear me,” said Mr. Mercaptan.
A canvas of mountains and enormous clouds like nascent sculptures presented itself.
“‘Aerial Alps’” Mrs. Viveash began to read.
“‘Aerial Alps of amber and of snow,
Junonian flesh, and bosomy alabaster
Carved by the wind’s uncertain hands....’”
Mr. Mercaptan stopped his ears. “Please, please,” he begged.
“Number seventeen,” said Mrs. Viveash, “is called ‘Woman on a Cosmic background,’” A female figure stood leaning against a pillar on a hilltop, and beyond was a blue night with stars. “Underneath is written: ‘For one at least, she is more than the starry universe.’” Mrs. Viveash remembered that Lypiatt had once said very much that sort of thing to her. “So many of Casimir’s things remind me,” she said, “of those Italian vermouth advertisements. You know—Cinzano, Bonomelli and all these. I wish they didn’t. This woman in white with her head in the Great Bear....” She shook her head. “Poor Casimir.”
Mr. Mercaptan roared and squealed with laughter. “Bonomelli,” he said; “that’s precisely it. What a critic, Myra! I take off my hat.” They moved on. “And what’s this grand transformation scene?” he asked.