ancient and modern. What could he say to such intellectuals, art critics, collectors and connoisseurs? He was conscious again of the huge gaps in his knowledge of general culture. He could quote pages of Shakespeare, Marlowe, Sheridan, Ibsen, Shaw – or at least those parts of the playwrights’ work he’d had to con in his career. He had read a lot of nineteenth-century poetry – poetry he loved – but he knew very little of what was perceived to be ‘avant-garde’. He bought newspapers and magazines and kept up with world events and European politics, to a degree, and he realized that, on first impression, he presented a highly plausible rendition of a worldly, informed, educated man – but he knew how flimsy the disguise was whenever he encountered people with real brains. You’re an actor, he rebuked himself, so act intelligent! There’s plenty of time to acquire knowledge, he thought, you’re not remotely a fool, there’s a lot of native brain-power there. It’s not your fault that you were badly educated, moving from school to school. Your adult life has been focussed on your theatrical career – auditions, rehearsals, small roles becoming more significant. Only in the last play he’d been in, The Amorous Ultimatum , could he have been legitimately considered a leading man – or second leading man, at any rate – his name on the poster in the same type-size as Mrs Cicely Brightwell, no less, and no better benchmark to show how far he’d come in only a few years. His father would have been proud of him.
In the museum he wandered through the grand galleries on the first floor, looking at the gloomy, varnished images of saints and madonnas, mythical gods and melancholy crucifixions, stepping close to read the names of the artists on the bottom of the frame and mentally checking them off. Caravaggio, Titian, Bonifazio, Tintoretto, Tiepolo. He knew these names, of course, but he could now say, ‘Do you know Bordone’s Venus and Adonis ? I was looking at it just today – yes, funnily enough – in the Hofmuseum. Splendid, very affecting.’ He began to relax a little. It was just an act, after all, and that was his métier , his talent, his calling.
He wandered on. Now all the painters were Dutch – Rembrandt, Franz Hals, Hobbema, Memling. And what was this? Attack by Robbers by Philip Wouverman. Dark and powerful, the swarthy brigands armed with silver cutlasses and spiky halberds. ‘Do you know Wouverman’s work? Very striking.’ Where were the Germans? Ah, here we are – Cranach, D’Pfenning, Albrecht Dürer . . . But names were beginning to jumble and distort in his head and he felt a sudden tiredness hit him. Too much art – museum-fatigue. Time for a cigarette and a Kapuziner. He had enough names in his head to sustain any fleeting social chit-chat – it wasn’t as if he was going to be interviewed for a job as a curator, for heaven’s sake.
He found a coffee stall on the Ring and leaned on its counter, smoking a Virginia and sipping his coffee. It really was a splendid boulevard, he thought – nothing remotely like it in London, the Mall was the only contender, but feeble in comparison – the great circular sweep of the roadways girdling the old town, the careful positioning of the huge buildings and palaces, their parks and gardens. Very beautiful. He looked at his wristwatch – he still had an hour or so to kill before he could reasonably make an entrance at the gallery. He wondered what Udo Hoff would be like. Bound to be very pretentious, he imagined, exactly the sort of man who could lure and impress a Hettie Bull.
He sauntered along the Ring towards the steepling tower of the Rathaus. He could hear, as he approached, an amplified voice shouting and he saw, as he drew near, a crowd of some hundreds gathered in the small park in front of the town hall. A wooden stage had been erected, some six feet high, and on it a man was giving a hectoring speech through a
In the museum he wandered through the grand galleries on the first floor, looking at the gloomy, varnished images of saints and madonnas, mythical gods and melancholy crucifixions, stepping close to read the names of the artists on the bottom of the frame and mentally checking them off. Caravaggio, Titian, Bonifazio, Tintoretto, Tiepolo. He knew these names, of course, but he could now say, ‘Do you know Bordone’s Venus and Adonis ? I was looking at it just today – yes, funnily enough – in the Hofmuseum. Splendid, very affecting.’ He began to relax a little. It was just an act, after all, and that was his métier , his talent, his calling.
He wandered on. Now all the painters were Dutch – Rembrandt, Franz Hals, Hobbema, Memling. And what was this? Attack by Robbers by Philip Wouverman. Dark and powerful, the swarthy brigands armed with silver cutlasses and spiky halberds. ‘Do you know Wouverman’s work? Very striking.’ Where were the Germans? Ah, here we are – Cranach, D’Pfenning, Albrecht Dürer . . . But names were beginning to jumble and distort in his head and he felt a sudden tiredness hit him. Too much art – museum-fatigue. Time for a cigarette and a Kapuziner. He had enough names in his head to sustain any fleeting social chit-chat – it wasn’t as if he was going to be interviewed for a job as a curator, for heaven’s sake.
He found a coffee stall on the Ring and leaned on its counter, smoking a Virginia and sipping his coffee. It really was a splendid boulevard, he thought – nothing remotely like it in London, the Mall was the only contender, but feeble in comparison – the great circular sweep of the roadways girdling the old town, the careful positioning of the huge buildings and palaces, their parks and gardens. Very beautiful. He looked at his wristwatch – he still had an hour or so to kill before he could reasonably make an entrance at the gallery. He wondered what Udo Hoff would be like. Bound to be very pretentious, he imagined, exactly the sort of man who could lure and impress a Hettie Bull.
He sauntered along the Ring towards the steepling tower of the Rathaus. He could hear, as he approached, an amplified voice shouting and he saw, as he drew near, a crowd of some hundreds gathered in the small park in front of the town hall. A wooden stage had been erected, some six feet high, and on it a man was giving a hectoring speech through a
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