“Are you aware that this very face, in its many depictions, is elsewhere in the world invariably believed to be that of the Spanish monarch Philip the Fourth?”
The general gestured. “It does not surprise me at all. There have been many such misrepresentations throughout the centuries. No doubt it should be flattering to know that the world so envies us.”
I nodded at the “Botticelli” across the room. “Now, that superb canvas is elsewhere called ‘Birth of Venus’ and sometimes, jocularly, ‘Venus on the Half Shell.’ ” Popescu remained sober. “I believe it is the Uffizi which has an excellent example of it, which, naïfs or prevaricators, they call the original that came from the brush of the sublime Sandro.”
The general shrugged with all of his tense little body. “There you are, eh? And don’t ever think those wily Florentines naïve, my dear chap! Though it is true enough that Sebastian the Fourteenth more than once made an ass of Lorenzo, who between you and me was not all that Magnificent.... As everyone knows, the model for that picture was Queen Sebastiana the Third, done by Botticelli when he was her court painter and perhaps something more.” He gave me a significantly cocked eyebrow.
“Remarkable! A nude depiction of a reigning princess?”
General Popescu smiled in pride. “Our rulers have often been notable for their lack of shame.”
“They’ve all been called Sebastian or the female version?”
“No,” said Popescu. “There have been Maximilians, Ferdinands, and at least one Igor.”
“And surely amongst the princesses’ names were Isabella and Carlotta?”
“Indeed,” said the general. “I see you’ve done your homework.”
We went through two more rooms hung with the pictorial treasures of the Renaissance. McCoy had long since disappeared.
Finally Popescu said, “Forgive me, but I must take you to the prince. He does not care to wait for his meals!”
He led me to a doorway and stepped aside. I went through it and was met by a horse-faced lackey wearing a green tailcoat, buff knee-breeches, white stockings, and buckled shoes. He held a tall staff, which, as I stepped across the threshold, he lifted and thumped buttfirst upon the floor.
He cried, “Mr. Russel Wren!”
Good gravy, I was in the throne room! There, at the far end of a crimson runner, on a three-stepped stage, sat Prince Sebastian XXIII, or anyway it was to be presumed that the distant figure was he: I would have to walk an eighth of a mile to be certain, between two ranks of trumpeters who, hard on the final echo of the stentorian announcement of my name, raised their golden instruments to their lips and began to sound a deafening fanfare. When these musicians were at last done, my head remained, for almost the entire trip down the carpet, as a cymbal newly struck, and the prince was a growing but tremulous image, so agitated was my vision.
He wore a golden crown and red, ermine-trimmed robe.
As I reached the last ten feet of the red runner, it occurred to me that I must make the traditional gesture of obeisance that was probably expected of everyone, even an American democrat, who finds himself before a throne, but still shaky from the fanfare and utterly unprepared for this moment—wretched Rasmussen, to ship me over without adequate training!—I made a fool of myself: I forgot about bowing, which in fact I had not done since appearing, with powdered hair, in a grammar-school re-enactment of Cornwallis’s surrender at Yorktown, and instead plucked an imaginary skirt at either side of mid-thigh while dipping at one knee. In a word, I curtsied.
This performance was greeted with explosive laughter from the throne. “How do you do, Mr. Wren,” said the prince, still shaking with mirth. “Welcome to my country.”
“Thank you, sir.”
His plump face was the kind that one assumed had been almost beautiful as a boy, and he still had rosy cheeks and long-lashed dark eyes. With a hand to
The general gestured. “It does not surprise me at all. There have been many such misrepresentations throughout the centuries. No doubt it should be flattering to know that the world so envies us.”
I nodded at the “Botticelli” across the room. “Now, that superb canvas is elsewhere called ‘Birth of Venus’ and sometimes, jocularly, ‘Venus on the Half Shell.’ ” Popescu remained sober. “I believe it is the Uffizi which has an excellent example of it, which, naïfs or prevaricators, they call the original that came from the brush of the sublime Sandro.”
The general shrugged with all of his tense little body. “There you are, eh? And don’t ever think those wily Florentines naïve, my dear chap! Though it is true enough that Sebastian the Fourteenth more than once made an ass of Lorenzo, who between you and me was not all that Magnificent.... As everyone knows, the model for that picture was Queen Sebastiana the Third, done by Botticelli when he was her court painter and perhaps something more.” He gave me a significantly cocked eyebrow.
“Remarkable! A nude depiction of a reigning princess?”
General Popescu smiled in pride. “Our rulers have often been notable for their lack of shame.”
“They’ve all been called Sebastian or the female version?”
“No,” said Popescu. “There have been Maximilians, Ferdinands, and at least one Igor.”
“And surely amongst the princesses’ names were Isabella and Carlotta?”
“Indeed,” said the general. “I see you’ve done your homework.”
We went through two more rooms hung with the pictorial treasures of the Renaissance. McCoy had long since disappeared.
Finally Popescu said, “Forgive me, but I must take you to the prince. He does not care to wait for his meals!”
He led me to a doorway and stepped aside. I went through it and was met by a horse-faced lackey wearing a green tailcoat, buff knee-breeches, white stockings, and buckled shoes. He held a tall staff, which, as I stepped across the threshold, he lifted and thumped buttfirst upon the floor.
He cried, “Mr. Russel Wren!”
Good gravy, I was in the throne room! There, at the far end of a crimson runner, on a three-stepped stage, sat Prince Sebastian XXIII, or anyway it was to be presumed that the distant figure was he: I would have to walk an eighth of a mile to be certain, between two ranks of trumpeters who, hard on the final echo of the stentorian announcement of my name, raised their golden instruments to their lips and began to sound a deafening fanfare. When these musicians were at last done, my head remained, for almost the entire trip down the carpet, as a cymbal newly struck, and the prince was a growing but tremulous image, so agitated was my vision.
He wore a golden crown and red, ermine-trimmed robe.
As I reached the last ten feet of the red runner, it occurred to me that I must make the traditional gesture of obeisance that was probably expected of everyone, even an American democrat, who finds himself before a throne, but still shaky from the fanfare and utterly unprepared for this moment—wretched Rasmussen, to ship me over without adequate training!—I made a fool of myself: I forgot about bowing, which in fact I had not done since appearing, with powdered hair, in a grammar-school re-enactment of Cornwallis’s surrender at Yorktown, and instead plucked an imaginary skirt at either side of mid-thigh while dipping at one knee. In a word, I curtsied.
This performance was greeted with explosive laughter from the throne. “How do you do, Mr. Wren,” said the prince, still shaking with mirth. “Welcome to my country.”
“Thank you, sir.”
His plump face was the kind that one assumed had been almost beautiful as a boy, and he still had rosy cheeks and long-lashed dark eyes. With a hand to
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