“I take it very kind, madam, that you visit me this evening,” says she with gentle dignity. “But Sir William has no doubt made my excuses and told you that my physicians forbid any fatigue. Therefore I am compelled to ask my friends to be charitable and favour me with their company when they will be so good.”
“Oh, madam, what could I think it but an honour to visit your Grace,” says the sweet statue, carefully tutored in her forms of address by the best tutor of the polite world, and then relapses into a graceful silence with bows and smiles to such of the company as she knows; Lady Diana especially warm in her greeting, for there was never an artist heart could hold away from its spiritual kin in Emma.
“And did he tell you that I entreated as a special favour that I might hear what I am told is one of the finest voices of our day?” the Duchess continues.
“Indeed, madam, yes. He told me your Grace would find San Carlo too fatiguing.”
“And those famous poses of which I understand the great Goethe has written in terms of such delight?”
“All is at your service, madam. I have come dressed in the antique taste for the purpose. I only beg one favour; that if you find them ennuyante you will stop me.”
“I promise!” says the Duchess, with a smile which disarms her words.
There was more talk, and refreshments were served, however, before she would put the statue in motion. Mrs. Hart was not to feel she was bidden merely as a raree-show for fashionable folks. Indeed, Lady Diana exhibited first her portfolio of new drawings done for the decoration of one of Mr. Horace Walpole’s rooms at his gimcrack castle of Strawberry Hill, and one of the gentlemen, the Duke de San Maître, favoured them with a song, “Napoli bella” and so forth, which Emma applauded with more smiling warmth than any of the party, the Duchess watching her well pleased.
It was her turn next—the poses which gained her the nickname of The Gallery of Statues from the said Mr. Horace Walpole. I will not, I must not particularize, though on such beauty one would linger if possible, but as she melted from one loveliness to another, the Duchess’s eyes followed and could not be satisfied. She laughed with the laughing comedy, held her breath while the ruined Cassandra, pointing to the violating Sun, seemed to hurl forth the dreadful prophecies that none regarded, smiled for pure pleasure at the nymph with a tambourine, and so forth through every act of the lovely show—so lovely that even the girl’s enemies could not withhold their reluctant praises.
When it was over, she clapped her hands.