The Romantic Adventures of Mr. Darby and of Sarah His Wife by Martin Armstrong

Author:Martin Armstrong
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2007-08-29T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter XXI

The Revolution Fails

‘Naturally, I don’t deny,’ said Mr. Darby, in the course of a short preliminary conversation with Mr. Roden, the representative of the National Gallery, who had just been shown into the smoking-room, ‘I don’t deny that the Italians and the Dutch are all very well in their way, but I think you will agree that, when we compare them with the best of our British artists, they lose something of their … ah … supremacy.’

Mr. Darby’s spectacles gleamed challengingly at Mr. Roden. He had already announced to him the conditions upon which he offered his gift.

Mr. Roden, in the circumstances, thought it best to parry. ‘I can see, Mr. Darby,’ he said politely, ‘that you are an enthusiast.’

‘And you too, I hope, are an enthusiast, Mr. Roden.’

‘Oh, certainly I am.’

‘For the British School?’

‘Well,’ said Mr. Roden, looking down from his attenuated, slightly stooping six feet at the compact little gentleman who hardly reached to his shoulder, ‘Well, my own particular preference is for the Florentines.’

‘The Florentines? You prefer a foreign school to our own?’

Mr. Roden could hear from Mr. Darby’s tone that he was pained and shocked. ‘I have a great admiration for the British School,’ he said, ‘and I should certainly class Constable and Turner among the world’s great artists, but I think we must regretfully admit that we cannot compete with the great Florentines.’

‘I don’t admit it,’ said Mr. Darby with some feeling, ‘not for a moment. As Englishmen I feel we have no right to admit it.’

‘Are you speaking now as a patriot, Mr. Darby, or as a critic?’

‘I trust,’ replied Mr. Darby solemnly, and Mr. Roden felt that if the little man had been wearing a hat he would, as he spoke the words, have raised it, ‘I trust I always speak as a patriot.’

Mr. Roden bowed. ‘Your feelings do you great credit, sir. And now, might I … er …?’

‘By all means,’ said Mr. Darby, much mollified. ‘Let us go at once to the Gallery.’

Important and talkative he ushered Mr. Roden across the hall and down the corridor to the doors of the Gallery. ‘Here we are! ‘he said, flinging them open and immediately following Mr. Roden into the room.

They stood for a moment while Mr. Roden underwent the revelation. Mr. Darby did not interrupt him: he was waiting for an exclamation of amazement. But no exclamation came. Tall, pale, and apathetic, Mr. Roden surveyed the gallery: he appeared to be as little moved as if he were surveying a railway station. Really, these officials!

‘There is a catalogue, if you would care to … ah … consult it,’ Mr. Darby remarked at last, indicating a table near the doors.

‘Thank you. Perhaps later!’

‘In any case,’ explained Mr. Darby, ‘all the pictures are labelled, so you’ll have no difficulty.’

Together they approached No. ι. Portrait of a Young Lady by Romney. ‘I picked it up,’ said Mr. Darby, ‘in Greenwich. It was my first … ah … acquisition. Observe, Mr. Roden, the natural elegance of the pose.

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