The Venice Sketchbook(22)

There was no canal below this window. Only a narrow street. A house with window boxes of geraniums, and behind the houses the rising roof of a church. No glimpse of the Grand Canal. And I couldn’t climb out of this window anyway.

“I suppose this is adequate, Miss Browning,” Miss Frobisher said. “At least it’s clean. And safe. Nobody could climb in through that window.”

“And we couldn’t climb out—if there was a fire,” I pointed out.

“That is true.” She broke off when there was a tap at the door. A young girl, looking no older than our own charges, dressed in the more simple habit of a postulant, came in carrying a tray on which there was a large bottle of water, two glasses, oranges and a plate of sweet rolls.

“I think this place might be acceptable after all, don’t you, Miss Browning?” Miss Frobisher poured us both a glass of water.

I turned away from the window. I shouldn’t have come, I thought. At that moment a bell began to toll nearby, its sound resonating through the still air. Pigeons took off in alarm, flapping from nearby rooftops, and at once I was taken back.

“A city of bells and birds,” I whispered to myself.





CHAPTER 9


Juliet, Venice, July 1938

The convent proved to be more pleasant than I had first thought. Luncheon was served in a long, cool dining room with whitewashed walls and rustic wooden tables and benches. It was a hearty meal of spaghetti with a tomato sauce, grated parmesan cheese and more bread and fruit. The girls tucked in with relish, and I must say that I enjoyed the meal, too. We ate alone, apparently the only guests in the convent at the moment. The nuns, it seemed, had their own dining room, or dined at a different time. We were shown a common room with armchairs and sofas that opened on to a small garden with a fountain spraying. Aunt Hortensia would have approved, I thought. Another garden in Venice.

I carried my briefcase down to the garden and sat in the shade while the girls and Miss Frobisher went up to take a nap. First I took out a new sketchbook, not as luxurious as the one my father had given me ten years ago, but then nothing was luxurious any more. Life had been a struggle for most people, and I realized that I was luckier than most—at least I hadn’t had to line up for bread and soup like those poor people with no work.

I opened the sketchbook and wrote a tentative date in it. Then I stared at the blank page. Would I have time to do much sketching? Would I want to? Would I have forgotten how? For the past few years, my only art had been demonstrations for pupils—perspective, colour wheels, how to draw trees and faces. Frankly, I had lost the urge to do my own painting after I’d had to leave art school unexpectedly; besides, there had been no extra money to spend on frivolities like paints and canvases. I tucked the book back into the case and instead took out the map of Venice. I had kept Aunt Hortensia’s map on my return to England in the summer of 1928, fully intending to return and paint during college holidays. It had been unfolded, pored over and folded up again many times since, and I felt that I knew my way around in my sleep. But I had not been to this part of the city before. It was not an area that tourists usually frequented, so close to the railway station and the docks. With a finger I traced out a sensible route to the Rialto Bridge. From there I could take the girls to St Mark’s easily enough. There were water buses close by, but we had been told to be careful with money—no extravagances, and keep plenty for emergencies. We would take the water bus at least once up the Grand Canal—that was a necessity—and probably over to the island of Murano, where this time I would buy myself a necklace.

Miss Frobisher was dismayed to find, when she awoke, that no tea would be served at four o’clock. “I simply can’t exist without my cup of tea, Miss Browning,” she said. “Is there no tearoom nearby?”

“The only tearoom I know is in St Mark’s Square, called Florian, very ritzy and ornate, and I’m sure it’s quite expensive. Normal people don’t drink tea here. Only coffee.”

“Coffee in the afternoon? Whatever next?” Miss Frobisher shook her head.

I remembered that the pensione where I had stayed with my aunt had indeed served tea in the afternoon, but then it catered to English guests, which this convent clearly didn’t.

“I suspect the girls would like an ice cream instead,” I suggested. “They are really awfully good here.”

“That might do the trick,” Miss Frobisher agreed.

The girls emerged, one by one, bleary eyed and not wanting to do much.

“We’ve only such a short time here that we need to do something today,” I said. “How about going for an ice cream? I know a perfect gelateria near the Rialto Bridge.”

That cheered everyone up. I led them, following the map, through the twists and turns of backstreets until we came out to a familiar broader area where the market was held. And when we started up the shallow steps of the Rialto Bridge and the expanse of the Grand Canal stretched in both directions, there were gasps of amazement from the girls.

“Oh, look down there. See the gondolas? And all those lovely buildings. It’s like something from a film, miss. Or a fairy tale.”

I found myself smiling as if I had personally created the scene for their pleasure.

“You wait until you see St Mark’s Square tomorrow. And the Doge’s Palace. But you’ve all brought your sketchbooks, haven’t you? We’ll buy our ice creams, and then we’ll find a place to sit and sketch for a while. You can do the bridge, or the market stalls, or even an interesting rooftop or door knocker. There is never a shortage of things to draw in Venice.”