He had turned the matter carefully over in a swiftly dividing mind and, after long reflection, knowing women in general and Emma in particular, sent her a message to say that the world-famous German poet, Goethe—he who was as great a thinker as a poet; he, the impassioned lover, the final arbiter of taste in the artistic glories of Greece and Rome; and himself an Olympian in face and form—had promised to spend the evening at the Embassy that he might meet the fairest of modern antiques, the living statue, Sir William’s protégée.
“And while I entreat you, my Emma, to rest if rest is vital to your looks and health, the disappointment will be irreparable if the only man in the world fit to sing your charms in immortal verse is so unhappy as not to see them. But do as you think best. What desire have I but that?”
She read the note thoughtfully, and sat up on the long settee in her bedroom where she had thrown herself down to mourn in a thin white wrapper. She rose and looked at her face in the long glass which had made so many charming and changing reflections of her various moods. Certainly it would be cruel to such a great man to allow him to come all the way from the North to Italy in search of beauty, and then to disappoint him of seeing the loveliest thing in Naples. Her Attitudes recurred to her mind. It would be interesting to note the effect on such a man. He would leave some record of it; he would write—yes, after all, her headache was not so very bad. And her sorrow did not live on warming and cherishing. It was a part of herself that could never, never change no matter how splendid or flattering her surroundings. And Greville—he should hear what one of the greatest men in the world thought of her. Why should she shut herself up and freeze the warm sunny world to which her smiles meant so much? There would not be thunder, the sun was coming out, and was shining a little in her heart also.
She wrote a line to Sir William.
“My head is verey, verey bad, but I am sensible I was hasty. I will come down this evening. I will obey your wish, my kind friend. Will you prepare the large chest rimmed with gold, in case you would wish me to perform for this gentleman? And if you will have your viola ready to accompany me I will sing if my head permits.”
Sir William smiled, a smile of mingled amusement and triumph. He took a leisure half hour to write to Greville and detail what he thought proper of the scene, adding that the time had come and Greville would now do well to write and give Emma his final orders as to their separation and her attitude towards himself. The triumph, the excitement, the soft languor of the Neapolitan summer, were all aiding his steadfast purpose.
As he wrote, Emma, in her luxurious room, was driving Teresa almost wild with her requisitions and restlessness. The thunder had cleared away but Vesuvius was terribly in eruption that night; wild forked flames burning to the zenith. Teresa could not think of the white robe or the flower for the hair. She dropped on her knees by the window to invoke her saints—“O San Antonio mio! O San Filippo!”—and Emma, half frantic with excitement, fell on her knees beside her, laughing, mocking: “O Santa Loola mia; O Santa Loola! Get up, Teresa! The gentlemen will be here. What does it matter? Don’t be a fool!” And Teresa, wide-eyed with horror, “Does the Eccellenza doubt the holy saints?”
“No, but you will do quite as well if you pray to my Santa Loola! She’s as good as any of them! Try!”
It was as if she were drunk; drunk with excitement that strange night. Teresa half shrank away, and Emma pulled her to her knees again, and then sprang up.
“My hair. It’s getting late. Do it in a great knot at the back like the marble goddess in the museum. Come, be quick! The mountain can’t hurt you here! I was only joking, Teresina mia. It’s all nonsense. Come quick, we must hurry!”