Page 29 - Joseph Wright - Virgils Tomb and the grand tour of Naples

took us to an historic establishment near Les Halles with a French revolutionary title and décor.There one had to
submit to 32 courses of hors d’oeuvres for which the establishment was renowned. If you mastered this assault
course you, or your lady, was awarded a garter or jarretière, which, to intense amusement, was affixed on the lady’s
(in this case my mother’s) thigh as high as was decently possible. On yet another occasion my father, knowing my
love of trains, and having brought me Märklin model railways from the age of five, took me to the gastronomic
Relais du Gare de l’Est. In those far off days it sported Michelin stars and had an immense wine cellar. I was delighted
when the sommelier was instructed to bring me both the shorter and the complete wine list as my father knew and
had promoted my interest.The condensed shorter version was hard bound and about 24 pages long. However, the
complete list appeared, folio sized, morocco bound, wheeled in on a trolley. It contained, I seem to recall, almost
one thousand wines and vintages.

As I have said my father could withstand close family life for about 15 days at a stretch after which he absconded
to Paris, Italy or Germany and in later years occasionally to the USA by transatlantic liner. My childhood was
golden, and as my mother simply doted on my father (there is no better word) and in consequence on me, I was
supremely spoiled. At no time did my father later ever enforce ‘culture’ or his profession upon me. Quite the
contrary – he never wanted me to be an art dealer and just as his father before him wished for a ‘reputable’
profession he hoped that I would one day be a banker or a diplomat. To that end I was sent to excellent private
preparatory schools and then to Harrow. In effect with the Jakob Goldschmidt auction at Sotheby’s of 1958 my
father realised well before the rest of us that the auction houses were to be the main players. He had sold a number
of paintings to Goldschmidt down the years and, indeed, had been a close friend, and in earlier times expected
that noblesse oblige and that a client would consult and offer the paintings back to his dealer. It was, alas, a sign of
what has followed, and he was greatly disheartened.

But stepping back in time – the imbroglio regarding my coming into this world at some point needed rectifying and
so it was that sometime around 8 years old I had to see endlessly an old Jewish family lawyer called Koplowitz in
West Hampstead. He was a figure straight out of Daumier. He incessantly smoked Churchill sized cigars and his
rooms were a thick haze of evil smelling smoke as thick as the then current peasouper London smogs which, I believe,
put me off smoking for life. It was decided that I would have to be ‘adopted’ by my real genetic father and so, in best
Dickensian fashion I was hauled off to appear in front of the‘beaks’ or magistrates in Marylebone Magistrates Court.
This was a daunting experience for a young child as the magistrate forbiddingly sat in a high pulpit like rostrum but
he was kind and asked me if I had anything to say.Wailing I replied “Yes Sir. I want to see my father”!’ Perplexed but
understanding he ruled that I was to see Walter Tarrash every Saturday evening and this, at least in holiday time, I
did until he died in 1959 both enjoying his company and listening to Michael Flanders and Donald Swann (ATransport
of Delight and The Gnu) and Mozart symphonies and concertos on scratchy 78rpm recordings and, in summer, playing
‘war games’ at Scratchwood and Stanmore where he had served with the ack-ack in WWII.

Our house was regularly visited by the intelligentsia and my mother, a supreme cook who had demonstrated that one
could even eat on the wartime ration passably and ingeniously, entertained glamorously while the cellar in those days

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