1816: the Grandest Tour

Prologue 1

1816: The Grandest Tour

A Novel

Prologue:

In which our Heroes are Discovered in Classical Attitudes

On the morning before he was to leave for Europe, George Hamilton felt tired and ridiculous.

"If I may, sirs –" said the painter, "do have a care of the garments' edges. I fear they're beginning to wilt."

Though his head felt like a blacksmith's anvil after a week's steady employment, George forced himself to politely nod. He pulled up the dangling hem of his Roman toga, then glanced at his friends to make sure they'd heard the request.

"Hugh. Hugh!"

"Mmmph – couldn't possibly, thank ynnng..." To George's left, his nearest friend had his eyes fully open but was fast asleep. George prodded him in the ribs. Hugh's chin dropped, and jerked up again.

"Never-mmm seen her before in my life," he mumbled, then snapped awake. "Oh! George, what the devil you poking me for?"

"Could you – get Robert awake? He's about to drop his Apulian vase."

Hugh reached out his hand to the rather portly young gentleman to his left, who was sound asleep in a chair and snoring (eyes shut). Steadying the Greek urn in Robert's lap, Hugh aimed a short kick at his ankle, which woke him up with a loud snort.

"Whosit kick me?" said Robert, indignant.

The painter kept his face discreetly behind the canvas, pretending not to notice any of this.

"I did, you snoring lump." said Hugh. "Do you want your Grand Tour picture sent to your parents with you as some slop-house Silenus?

To Robert's left, Tobias, the fourth gentleman in the group portrait, stifled a chuckle. Hugh's allusion to the wine-guzzling goat-men of Ancient Greece had flown straight over Robert's head, but not his. Of the young men assembled that morning, he was the only one who had had any sleep.

"Very good, sirs," said the painter, "generations will profit from you patience. Mr. Hamilton, if you could turn your scroll a touch outward – thank you."

George absentmindedly shifted his prop on the table: a mock ancient manuscript open to the portentous title 'PLVTARCHVS' for the Greek historian Plutarch, his favorite Classical author. For this mad group portrait, his mother Lady Hamilton's commission, they all four carried 'attributes' meant to symbolize their interests ahead of their European tour. Along with George's scroll, Hugh held up a laurel wreath, which he stared at to signify glory and ambition. Tobias, to show his fondness for the sciences, held a mathematician's compass. Robert had thought the whole idea rubbish so they'd simply stuck an amphora on his lap. In the end this was quite appropriate, as such vessels held wine.

George wouldn't have minded the attributes in a normal portrait, in modern clothes. But since this was his rather 'artistic' mother's commission, she had insisted they appear in 'full Roman dress,' barefoot, with only the majestic yet awkward patrician toga between their skins and the everlasting gaze of posterity. Since the Eternal City was their ultimate destination on the tour, Lady Hamilton had thought her idea a stroke of genius. There were to be four copies made of this portrait, destined to hang in each of their family homes. Thus George reflected, with a sigh, that virtually every member of their circle would soon be able to judge his mother's bold choice for themselves.

A twinge of pain in his left shin stung George back to the present. But just as soon as he rubbed his bruise the cold shower of last night's memories flooded back. Where did you get that bruise? his conscience asked him pointedly. He wasn't quite sure.