28 SEPTEMBER 2002, Page 72

Camera Picta Mantegna Frescoes in Mantua

Within that room in Mantua The teeming walls, the gold, the red, The painted curtain drawn aside Ask who now lives and who is dead?

The weighty, proud Gonzaga men, The surging blood, the singing life, Draw out from me my living breath, Consume me in their subtle strife.

I, in this little room, am lost, Existence stolen, fled in air.

The painted truth a leather shoe Treading a solid marble stair.

Reality a brooding glance Which meets my eye with ducal scorn, The whisperings, the threats, commands, The girl who turns away forlorn.

Urgent, alert, preoccupied, They crowd the world. And time and space Melt in the confidence and power In each life-lit Gonzaga face. Rosemary Trollope