this last year upon my return from Rome.’ Meyrick began to explain the composition.
Max inspected the other, smaller canvases that Meyrick had prepared for them to see. Here was Echo fleeing from Narcissus and the Bacchae in thrall to Dionysus, tumbling after their erotic enchanter. The dancing god sported long ginger curls, his golden cup raised in ecstasy. Max half closed his eyes to absorb the energy of the gesture and the naked glory of the figure; he recognised the self-portrait of the artist by the intense stillness of the features. The first follower clung to his arm, and now Max smiled, quite certain that he was gazing at the very lips that had tasted his own body the night before. Here she was, the long blonde hair dishevelled and unfurled, the warm country cheeks, the vast magnificent nipples, and the abstracted glance of the professional prostitute. Meyrick’s model is surely also his mistress. Ah, and here she is again, as Titania, or could it be Queen Mab? I see Queen Mab hath been with thee tonight! Well, sir, she has also been with me. Max ogled the naked Fairy Queen, imagined his lips on her breasts, and then bent to study the picture, obscurely embarrassed by the opulence of the woman he shared with the painter.
‘My Shakespearian studies are taken mostly from the tragedies.’ Meyrick was anxious to present himself as a serious painter. ‘ Othello , Macbeth and Lear . Here is Lear with Cordelia murdered, cradled in his arms. But ah, sir, I see that you have uncovered my Titania.’
Max raised the painting from the dusty floor to the easel.
‘Goodness,’ cried Lewes, snatching up the offered magnifying glass. ‘Polly! Come and look. Never in my life have I seen so many fairies.’
‘There’s a good-natured competition among the painters here,’ explained Meyrick, ‘to see how many fairies we can squeeze on to one canvas. Would you believe that there are one hundred and sixty-five fairies in these Athenian woods? All busy about their queen! I won the Fairy Prize for this painting,’ he added with a smug flourish, handing the glass to the Sibyl, who rose unsteadily and approached the picture.
The visitors sniffed the flamboyant varnished surface, peering at one tiny, grotesque figure after another. The little people belonged to several different species. Some marched in ranks, wearing uniforms with tiny golden buttons, others, bizarrely clothed in savage grass skirts and adorned with garlands of minuscule flowers, whirled in circles, holding hands. Two little elves with pointed ears approached bearing a parade of exotic fruits on silver platters: pineapples, apricots, oranges, dates and pears, the flesh of each delicacy painted with exquisite care. A couple galloped past on miniature donkeys and a wizen-faced crone in a cap of bells danced all alone in a corner. The surface of the painting quivered with activity and movement. Three tiny ladies peered at their faces in even tinier mirrors, others melted disturbingly into half-human, half-animal forms. A little row of blue-skinned goblins played on cithers, lutes and a large tuba. A gaggle of junior fairies, one picking his minute nose, clutched their slates, attentive to their elfin master, whose ferocious bobble eyes bulged out of all proportion to his face and reddening ears. One creature with hooves and hairy legs dived into the ground beside the giant fingers of his sleeping queen.
‘My word, Meyrick,’ cried Max, genuinely impressed, ‘only an overdose of laudanum could have produced these delicate and scaly beasts! How did you dream them all up?’
‘Oh, there are fashions in fairy painting,’ said Meyrick, unabashed.
‘I have seen your Titania before, however,’ said the Sibyl. ‘She is there in your Roman canvas, grappling with the soldiers, and here beside Dionysus, clinging to her chosen god. If I am not mistaken she is also Echo and Pandora.’
‘You are very perceptive, Mrs. Lewes.’ Meyrick bowed his assent. Max
Max inspected the other, smaller canvases that Meyrick had prepared for them to see. Here was Echo fleeing from Narcissus and the Bacchae in thrall to Dionysus, tumbling after their erotic enchanter. The dancing god sported long ginger curls, his golden cup raised in ecstasy. Max half closed his eyes to absorb the energy of the gesture and the naked glory of the figure; he recognised the self-portrait of the artist by the intense stillness of the features. The first follower clung to his arm, and now Max smiled, quite certain that he was gazing at the very lips that had tasted his own body the night before. Here she was, the long blonde hair dishevelled and unfurled, the warm country cheeks, the vast magnificent nipples, and the abstracted glance of the professional prostitute. Meyrick’s model is surely also his mistress. Ah, and here she is again, as Titania, or could it be Queen Mab? I see Queen Mab hath been with thee tonight! Well, sir, she has also been with me. Max ogled the naked Fairy Queen, imagined his lips on her breasts, and then bent to study the picture, obscurely embarrassed by the opulence of the woman he shared with the painter.
‘My Shakespearian studies are taken mostly from the tragedies.’ Meyrick was anxious to present himself as a serious painter. ‘ Othello , Macbeth and Lear . Here is Lear with Cordelia murdered, cradled in his arms. But ah, sir, I see that you have uncovered my Titania.’
Max raised the painting from the dusty floor to the easel.
‘Goodness,’ cried Lewes, snatching up the offered magnifying glass. ‘Polly! Come and look. Never in my life have I seen so many fairies.’
‘There’s a good-natured competition among the painters here,’ explained Meyrick, ‘to see how many fairies we can squeeze on to one canvas. Would you believe that there are one hundred and sixty-five fairies in these Athenian woods? All busy about their queen! I won the Fairy Prize for this painting,’ he added with a smug flourish, handing the glass to the Sibyl, who rose unsteadily and approached the picture.
The visitors sniffed the flamboyant varnished surface, peering at one tiny, grotesque figure after another. The little people belonged to several different species. Some marched in ranks, wearing uniforms with tiny golden buttons, others, bizarrely clothed in savage grass skirts and adorned with garlands of minuscule flowers, whirled in circles, holding hands. Two little elves with pointed ears approached bearing a parade of exotic fruits on silver platters: pineapples, apricots, oranges, dates and pears, the flesh of each delicacy painted with exquisite care. A couple galloped past on miniature donkeys and a wizen-faced crone in a cap of bells danced all alone in a corner. The surface of the painting quivered with activity and movement. Three tiny ladies peered at their faces in even tinier mirrors, others melted disturbingly into half-human, half-animal forms. A little row of blue-skinned goblins played on cithers, lutes and a large tuba. A gaggle of junior fairies, one picking his minute nose, clutched their slates, attentive to their elfin master, whose ferocious bobble eyes bulged out of all proportion to his face and reddening ears. One creature with hooves and hairy legs dived into the ground beside the giant fingers of his sleeping queen.
‘My word, Meyrick,’ cried Max, genuinely impressed, ‘only an overdose of laudanum could have produced these delicate and scaly beasts! How did you dream them all up?’
‘Oh, there are fashions in fairy painting,’ said Meyrick, unabashed.
‘I have seen your Titania before, however,’ said the Sibyl. ‘She is there in your Roman canvas, grappling with the soldiers, and here beside Dionysus, clinging to her chosen god. If I am not mistaken she is also Echo and Pandora.’
‘You are very perceptive, Mrs. Lewes.’ Meyrick bowed his assent. Max
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