Temporary Kings by Anthony Powell Page A

withstood the temptation so far.’
    ‘What
I was leading up to is Glober having something of Trapnel about him – a Trapnel
who brought off being a Complete Man. Of course if Glober can’t write, the
comparison ceases to be valid, unless you accept as alternative Glober’s
experience as entrepreneur in the arts. That might to some extent represent
Trapnel’s literary sensibility.’
    Gwinnett
seemed unprepared for a comparison of that kind.
    ‘I
just can’t imagine Trapnel without his writing,’ he said.
    ‘Certainly
in his own eyes that would be a contradiction in terms. But all the beautiful
girls, all the publishing and movie triumphs of one sort or another, all the
publicity – yet the implied failure too. Experience of the other side of
fortune. Losses, as well as gains, in money. Sadness in love, implicit in the
changes of wives. In business, changes of interests. Nothing fails like
success. Surely all that’s part of being complete in Trapnel’s eyes? Why
shouldn’t Glober be Trapnel’s Complete Man at sixty?’
    Gwinnett
thought for a moment, but did not answer. The concept, even if it possessed a
shred of interest, did not please him. He smiled a little grimly. There was no
point in pressing the analogy. In any case, we had now reached the campo, along
one side of which stood the palace to be visited; a Renaissance structure of
moderate size, its exterior, as Gwinnett had explained on the way, severely
restored in the eighteenth century. In the Venetian manner, the more splendid
approach was by water, but it had been found more convenient to admit members
of the Conference through the pillared entrance opening on to the square.
    We
passed between massively sententious caryatids towards a staircase carpeted in
crimson. Dr Brightman drew level.
    ‘This
Palazzo is not even mentioned in most guide-books,’ she said. ‘I’ve ascertained
the whereabouts of the Tiepolo, and will lead you to it. Follow me, after we’ve
made our bow.
    At
the top of the stairs, supported by a retinue of the Conference’s Executive
Committee, and civic officials, Jacky Bragadin was receiving the guests. The
municipality had helped to promote the Conference, in conjunction with the
Biennale Exhibition, which fell that year, as well as the Film Festival. A
small nervous man, in his fifties, Jacky Bragadin’s mixed blood had not wholly
divested him of that Venetian physiognomy, noticeable as much in the
contemporary city as in the canvases of its painters; somewhat as if most
Venetians wore Commedia dell’Arte masks fashioned in the Orient, only a guess
made at what Europeans look like. Into such features Jacky Bragadin had fused
those of his American ancestry. He did not appear greatly at ease, fidgeting a
good deal, a scarcely discernible American accent overlaying effects of English
schooldays. The more consequential members of the Conference, after shaking
hands, paused to have a word, or chat with the entourage, standing about on a
landing ornamented with baroque busts of Roman emperors. The rest moved forward
into a frescoed gallery beyond.
    ‘Come
along,’ said Dr Brightman. ‘The ceiling is in an ante-room further on, not at
all an obvious place. These Luca Giordanos will keep most of them quiet for the
time being. We shall have a minute or two to inspect the Tiepolo in peace.’
    Gwinnett,
preferring to go over the Palazzo at his own speed, strolled away to examine
the Roman emperors on their plinths. He may also have had an interest in Luca
Giordano. I followed Dr Brightman through the doors leading into the gallery of
frescoes. We passed on through further rooms, Dr Brightman expressing hurried
comments.
    ‘These
tapestries must be Florentine – look,
The Drunkenness of
Lot
. The daughter on the left greatly resembles a
pupil of mine, but we must not tarry, or the mob will be upon us again.’
    She
also disallowed for inspection a rococo ball-room, white