The Remedy: A Novel of London & Venice by Michelle Lovric

Author:Michelle Lovric [Lovric, Michelle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-06-201359-0
Publisher: REGAN
Published: 2005-07-27T20:00:00+00:00

• 5 •

A Consolatory Draught

Take Waters of black Cherries 2 ounces; of Mint, Damask Roses, Orange flowers Coelestis, each 1 dram; strong Cinnamon, and compound Peony Waters, each 2 drams; Confection of Alkermes, Gascoin powder, each 1 scruple; Oil of Cloves 1 drop; Syrup of Gilly flowers 3 drams, mix.

It notably succours the Spirits when sunk, and failing; and does eminent Service in Weakness, Faintings and Palpitation of the Heart.

Valentine Greatrakes, sipping fragolino from an earthen bowl, has not quite perished from embarrassment, though he thinks it a near thing.

He has by degrees risen from his knees, introduced, and even explained himself to the girl, who turns out to be the artist herself and to be quite expert and but lightly accented in his own tongue, no doubt as a result of long hours in the company of the many celebrated Englishmen she has painted.

Her soft voice is no less grateful on the ear, he must admit, than that of Mimosina Dolcezza and he is surprised that the accent is so similar, for Cecilia Cornaro is a Golden Book daughter, albeit a wayward one. He supposes that an actress of humble origins must learn to imitate the timber of an aristocratic voice as a matter of course. It is a trick he regrets that he has never managed himself, of course, no matter how he distends his sentences with flourishing words. Only a foreigner like Mimosina Dolcezza would be deceived about his true social station, and he believes that Cecilia Cornaro has already seen through him and detected the truth.

She is much too kind to say so, of course, treating him with a graceful courtesy, somewhat underscored by what appears to be an irrepressible and playful spirit of irony.

Cecilia Cornaro, twinkling and smiling, is very sorry, but she cannot help him as he needs to be helped. She is not currently painting the portrait of any beautiful young woman just returned from London. She would like to help him more, she says, and he believes her. There is unmitigated sincerity in her humorous brown gaze. Moreover, she is alight with a happy curiosity.

“No one has come to me with such a story before!” she says enthusiastically, as if he has brought her a marvelous gift—and he has told her but the bare bones of it, leaving out the theatrical and free-trading connections, out of sheer shyness and confusion. She scents better gleaning. She cannot wait to strip off the pith of it and discover the fruit. Her very hair is electric with the excitement, and her curls appear, to his tired eyes, to have grown alarmingly in profusion while he has recounted his tale. She walks to and fro across the room, too excited to sit still. Her movements keep the medicinal aromas of her paints in constant circulation through the air. In a moment, in this most alien situation, Valentine feels completely at home. Cecilia Cornaro’s studio, with its bottles and pestles of vivid powdered tint, reminds him of Dizzom’s lair at the depository on Bankside.

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