Soap Info

Next Soap (4) | Previous Soap (2)

Gallo has done, has departed from the truth.
Michael Angelo did not like San Gallo; neither did he like
Bramantewho was his senior by thirty yearsbut this makes his
appreciation of the elder's work all the more generous.
Tinkered away at it, indeed!
May 21st.
I spent all the morning at work by the open window.
I have a small house in Lingfield Terrace, on the north side of
the Regent's Park, so that my drawingroom, on the first floor,
has a southern aspect. It has been warm and sunny for the past
few days, and the elms and planetrees across the road are
beginning to riot in their green bravery, as if intoxicated with
the golden wine of spring. My French window is flung wide open,
and on the balcony a triangular bit of sunlight creeps round as
the morning advances. My worktable is drawn up to the window.
I am busy over the first section of my History of Renaissance
Morals, for which I think my notes are completed. I have a
delicious sense of isolation from the world. Away over those
treetops is a faint purpurine pall, and below it lies London,
with its strife and its misery, its wickedness and its vanity.
Twenty minutes would take me into the heart of it. And if I
chose I could be as struggling, as wretched, as much imbued with
wickedness and vanity as anybody. I could gamble on the stock
exchange, or play the muddy game of politics, or hawk my precious
title for sale among the young women of London society. My Aunt
Jessica once told me that London was at my feet. I am quite
content that it should stay there. I have much the same nervous
dread of it as I have of an angry sea breaking in surf on the
shingle. If I ventured out in it I should be tossed hither and
thither and broken on the rocks, and I should perish. I prefer
to stand aloof and watch. If I had a little more of daring in my
nature I might achieve something. I am afraid I am but a waster
in the world's factory; but kind Fate, instead of pitching me on
the rubbishheap, has preserved me, perhaps has set me under a
glass case, in her own museum, as a curiosity. Well, I am happy
in my shelter.
I was interrupted in my writing by the entrance of my cook and
housekeeper, Antoinette. She was sorry to disturb me, but did
Monsieur like sorrel? She was preparing some _veau a l'oseille_
for lunch, and Stenson (my man) had informed her that it was

Next Soap (4) | Previous Soap (2)

Soap Index