Guards.” He took from the table what turned out to be, when unfolded, a rather handsome ankle-length robe of thick soft stuff, a kind of velour without excessive sheen, in a blue I now would call not quite as dark as navy. I put on this garment with considerable relief, and was next provided with a pair of sandals of soft black calfskin, soled with crepe rubber.
When I was dressed, the little general, who wore the thinnest of mustaches and whose hair was brilliantined and parted in the middle, opened the door through which he had come, bowed, and swept me onward with an expansive gesture. I found myself in a marble-floored corridor, the walls of which were lined with magnificent tapestries.
McCoy was waiting there, wearing a robe like mine. He said sardonically, “I see you weren’t carrying a grenade up your keister.”
I addressed the general. “These tapestries are splendid.”
“Indeed they are,” he told me. “When Leo the Tenth heard about them he demanded that Raphael make similar designs for the Vatican.”
“Do you mean—”
“To be sure,” said Popescu. “And for those the master was paid ten thousand ducats. These he did for the rewards of piety and the gratitude of Sebastian the Fifteenth.”
“The history of this country goes back that far?”
“Good gracious,” said Popescu, running a finger along one side of his mustache. “This country was venerable by the time of the Renaissance. There were Sebastianers who went on the First Crusade with Walter the Penniless, though to be sure few survived the journey through Bulgaria. They were wont to plunder the lands they passed through, you see, and sometimes the people who lived there took countermeasures. Sebastian the Third himself went to the Fourth Crusade: his Byzantine souvenirs can be found amidst the palace collections.”
As I dimly remembered, the Fourth was the farcical crusade: en route to smite the infidels, the Western Europeans stopped off to assault their fellow Christians at Byzantium and sack that great city. But it would scarcely be politic to make this point at that moment. Instead I indicated the nearest tapestry, on which was depicted a kneeling haloed individual about to have his brains bashed out by the boulder held high over the head of the person behind him.
“Who’s that poor devil?”
“Saint Stephen, being stoned,” said the general. “You know those old martyrs!”
McCoy was either blasé from having seen the tapestries too often or, more likely, had no taste for the fine arts. He was biting his lip and staring longingly down the corridor towards what one would assume was the expected source of his next drink: he had not had one for a good twenty minutes.
We went through a doorway into a large chamber, the walls of which were lined with dark-red silk against which were hung ornately framed oils, all of which were immediately recognizable.
I asked Popescu, “Isn’t that a copy of ‘Aristotle Contemplating the Bust of Homer’?” The original of which was of course one of the Metropolitan’s most publicized possessions.
“In fact,” said the little general, wiggling his mustache-lined upper lip, “ this is the original, done by Rembrandt for his patron Prince Sebastian the Nineteenth. If you have seen another elsewhere in the world, it is surely derivative of this.”
“Rembrandt was here?”
“Ah, my friend,” sighed Popescu, “he was but one of the many painters to the court of Saint Sebastian.”
I stared at the other walls, recognizing Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus” and then one of the finest of the many portraits of Philip IV done by the great master whom he kept at the Spanish court.
“Velásquez was one of them?”
“Certainly,” said the general, indicating the polished brass plate on the picture frame.
I peered in close-up and read, “Portrait of Sebastian XV, by Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velásquez, 1599-1660.”
“This is remarkable,” I disingenuously noted.
When I was dressed, the little general, who wore the thinnest of mustaches and whose hair was brilliantined and parted in the middle, opened the door through which he had come, bowed, and swept me onward with an expansive gesture. I found myself in a marble-floored corridor, the walls of which were lined with magnificent tapestries.
McCoy was waiting there, wearing a robe like mine. He said sardonically, “I see you weren’t carrying a grenade up your keister.”
I addressed the general. “These tapestries are splendid.”
“Indeed they are,” he told me. “When Leo the Tenth heard about them he demanded that Raphael make similar designs for the Vatican.”
“Do you mean—”
“To be sure,” said Popescu. “And for those the master was paid ten thousand ducats. These he did for the rewards of piety and the gratitude of Sebastian the Fifteenth.”
“The history of this country goes back that far?”
“Good gracious,” said Popescu, running a finger along one side of his mustache. “This country was venerable by the time of the Renaissance. There were Sebastianers who went on the First Crusade with Walter the Penniless, though to be sure few survived the journey through Bulgaria. They were wont to plunder the lands they passed through, you see, and sometimes the people who lived there took countermeasures. Sebastian the Third himself went to the Fourth Crusade: his Byzantine souvenirs can be found amidst the palace collections.”
As I dimly remembered, the Fourth was the farcical crusade: en route to smite the infidels, the Western Europeans stopped off to assault their fellow Christians at Byzantium and sack that great city. But it would scarcely be politic to make this point at that moment. Instead I indicated the nearest tapestry, on which was depicted a kneeling haloed individual about to have his brains bashed out by the boulder held high over the head of the person behind him.
“Who’s that poor devil?”
“Saint Stephen, being stoned,” said the general. “You know those old martyrs!”
McCoy was either blasé from having seen the tapestries too often or, more likely, had no taste for the fine arts. He was biting his lip and staring longingly down the corridor towards what one would assume was the expected source of his next drink: he had not had one for a good twenty minutes.
We went through a doorway into a large chamber, the walls of which were lined with dark-red silk against which were hung ornately framed oils, all of which were immediately recognizable.
I asked Popescu, “Isn’t that a copy of ‘Aristotle Contemplating the Bust of Homer’?” The original of which was of course one of the Metropolitan’s most publicized possessions.
“In fact,” said the little general, wiggling his mustache-lined upper lip, “ this is the original, done by Rembrandt for his patron Prince Sebastian the Nineteenth. If you have seen another elsewhere in the world, it is surely derivative of this.”
“Rembrandt was here?”
“Ah, my friend,” sighed Popescu, “he was but one of the many painters to the court of Saint Sebastian.”
I stared at the other walls, recognizing Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus” and then one of the finest of the many portraits of Philip IV done by the great master whom he kept at the Spanish court.
“Velásquez was one of them?”
“Certainly,” said the general, indicating the polished brass plate on the picture frame.
I peered in close-up and read, “Portrait of Sebastian XV, by Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velásquez, 1599-1660.”
“This is remarkable,” I disingenuously noted.
Similar Books
