Temporary Kings Read Online Free PDF Page A

with
his neighbour beyond, leaving Gwinnett and myself back on each other’s hands.
Before I could think of anything new to say, he put an unexpected question.
This was towards the end of the meal, the first sign of loosening up.
    ‘How does the
Veronese at Dogdene compare with the ones on the wall here?’
    That was a surprise.
    ‘You mean the one
Lord Sleaford’s just sold? I’ve never been to Dogdene, so I haven’t ever seen
it in anything but reproduction. I only know the house itself from the
Constable in the National Gallery.’
    The Sleaford Veronese
had recently realized at auction what was then regarded as a very large sum.
The picture had always been a great preoccupation of Chips Lovell, who used
often to grumble about his Sleaford relations never recognizing their luck in
ownership of a work by so great a master. Lovell, who agreed with Smethyck (now
head of a gallery), and with General Conyers, that the picture ought to be
cleaned, was also in the habit of complaining that the public did not have
sufficient opportunity to inspect its beauties. In those days admission to
Dogdene was about three days a week throughout the summer. After the war, in common
with many other mansions of its kind, the house was thrown open, at a charge,
all the year round. Even so, the Veronese had to be sold to pay for the basic
upkeep of the place. In spite of the publicity given at the time of the sale, I
was impressed that Gwinnett had heard of it.
    ‘I’ve been told it’s
not Veronese at his best –
Iphigenia
, isn’t it?’
    That had been Lovell’s
view in moods of denigration or humility. Gwinnett seemed more interested in
the subject of the picture than whether or not Veronese had been on form.
    ‘That’s an intriguing
story it depicts. The girl offering herself for sacrifice. The calm dignity
with which she faces death. Tiepolo painted an Iphigenia too, more than once,
though I’ve only seen the one at the Villa Valmarana. There’s at least one
other that looks even finer in reproduction. It’s the inferential side of the
myth that fascinates me.’
    Gwinnett sounded
oddly excited. His manner had altogether altered. The thought of Iphigenia must
have strangely moved him. Then he abruptly changed the subject. For some reason
speaking of the Veronese had released something within himself, made it
possible to introduce another, quite different motif, one, as it turned out,
that had been on his mind ever since we met. This matter, once given
expression, a little explained earlier lack of ease. At least it suggested that
Gwinnett, when broaching topics that meant a lot to him, was not so much vain
or unaccommodating, as nervous, paralysed, unsure of himself. That was the next
impression, equally untrustworthy as a judgment.
    ‘You knew the English
writer X. Trapnel, Mr Jenkins?’
    ‘Certainly.’
    ‘Pretty well, I
believe?’
    ‘Yes, I was quite an
authority on Trapnel at one moment.’
    Gwinnett sighed.
    ‘I’d give anything to
have known Trapnel.’
    ‘There were ups and
downs in being a friend.’
    ‘You thought him a
good writer?’
    ‘A very good writer.’
    ‘I did too. That’s
why I’d have loved to meet him. I could have done that when I was a student. I
was over in London. I get mad at myself when I think of that. He was still
alive. I hadn’t read his books then. I wouldn’t have known where to go and see
him anyway.’
    ‘All you had to do
was to have a drink at one of his pubs.’
    ‘I couldn’t just
speak to him. He wouldn’t have liked that.’
    ‘If somebody had told
you one or two of his haunts – The Hero of Acre or The Mortimer – you could
hardly have avoided hearing Trapnel holding forth on books and writers. Then
you might have stood him a drink. The job would have been done.’
    ‘Trapnel’s the
subject of my dissertation – his life and works.’
    ‘So Trapnel’s going
to have a