The Venice Sketchbook(3)

And the houses go right into the water. I thought they’d be on platforms, safely out of reach of the tides, but no—they disappear into the canals themselves, with water lapping at the downstairs windows and the lower bricks, which are all stained with seaweed. Sometimes half a door is underwater. How do they not just get washed away and crumble apart? Aunt Hortensia doesn’t know either.

Anyway, it appears you can’t get anywhere by walking in a straight line. Some streets end at canals with no way across. To go right, one must first go left. But Aunt H. led us unerringly to St Mark’s Square. Gosh. I think for the first time in my eighteen years, my breath was taken away. I had never seen anything so magnificent as that great open space with the colonnade around it, the huge church at one end, crowned with a series of domes and statues so it looks more like a palace from an oriental fantasy. To the right of the square, the bell tower rises impossibly tall and straight, in contrast to the ornate and curvy basilica. There are outdoor café s, and a small orchestra was playing under the colonnade, but Aunt H. declared we had too much to see to waste time with pastries.

She strode out, crossing the entire length of the square to the basilica, where she hired a guide to show us around every inch of the interior. We even went down to the crypt, which I found horribly creepy with its tombs. After this, we went for a tour of the Doge’s Palace. It was full of magnificent rooms and walls hung with famous paintings.

“If you wish to be an artist, you can do no better than making careful observations here,” Aunt H. said, pointing to a painting by Tintoretto that took up an entire wall. Golly, I thought. How long would it take to paint something like that, even if one had the skill? All those paintings were so large, so magnificent, I couldn’t envision myself ever attempting such things. I was more entranced with the Bridge of Sighs—so called because prisoners crossed it on their way to the prison beyond and it was the last glimpse they would have of the outside world. So sad and romantic! I must definitely return to sketch it! I thought.

I was actually rather glad when Aunt H. said we should return to the pensione for luncheon and then a rest. It seems that everything closes at midday in Venice—shops, museums. The whole city shuts down and sleeps. I couldn’t sleep, of course. I lay on my bed listening to the sounds beyond my shutters: the slap of oars, the putter of motorboats, the cooing of pigeons and the high-pitched squeaks of the swallows. And I felt ridiculously content, as if everything made sense for the first time in my life. No more Miss Masters’s Academy for Young Ladies. The whole world awaited me.

At dinner that night, the menu said Fritto Misto, and in English, Mixed Fried Fish . What actually came on our plates were little unidentifiable bits and pieces of tentacles, whiskery shrimp and various shellfish.

“Gracious me,” Aunt Hortensia said. “I think they have scraped the bottom of the lagoon for these. They don’t even look edible.”

Mine actually tasted quite good, although the tentacles were a little alarming to chew. We finished dinner with fruit, cheeses and coffee. Outside I could hear the city livening up. A gondolier sang as he passed beneath our window. Further away a jazz band was playing. Laughter echoed from the narrow street across the canal.

“Can we go out and explore?” I asked.

Aunt Hortensia looked as if I had asked to take my clothes off and dance naked in St Mark’s Square.

“A lady does not go out unescorted after dinner,” she said.

And that was that. We went to the sitting room, and Aunt Hortensia conversed with two English ladies. I excused myself, went up to my room and checked my art supplies. My lovely pristine sketchbook, a gift from Daddy. A small box of watercolours, a pen and a portable inkwell, charcoals and pencils. Everything a budding artist would need. I sighed with contentment. Tomorrow I would start sketching, and in September I would be a student at the Slade School of Fine Art in London.

I dipped my pen into the ink and wrote, Juliet Browning. Begun May 1928 .





CHAPTER 2


Juliet, Venice, May 1928

It turns out that Aunt Hortensia was right to have been suspicious of the mixed fried fish. The next morning she reported that she had vomited in the night and felt too weak to get up. Would I please ask for a boiled egg and tea to be sent up to her, and she would stay in bed all day. I delivered her message. The proprietress was most solicitous and insisted on chamomile tea—much better for the stomach. I ate breakfast alone in the garden while the pigeons perched hopefully on unused seats. Then I went back to my aunt.

“You don’t mind if I go out by myself, do you?” I asked. “I’d like to do some sketching.”

She frowned. “I don’t really think that would be suitable. What would your father say if I let you wander around Venice alone? What if you get lost? What if you stray to an undesirable part of the city?”

“I know the way to St Mark’s Square now,” I said. “I shall just go in that direction and sit and sketch. And it is broad daylight. And there are other tourists.”

She considered again before saying, “Very well. I suppose I can’t insist that you stay cooped up with me all day. But make sure you wear your hat, and don’t sit out in the sun too much.”

I tried not to show my elation as I stuffed my art supplies into my bag, put on my hat but not my gloves—who could possibly draw with gloves on?—and set off. I sat first in the square in front of Santo Stefano Church and sketched the fountain, then the children running barefoot around it. Then I moved on, pausing to sketch an interesting balcony with geraniums spilling over it, a column and even a door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. So many wonderful things. If I wasn’t careful, I’d fill my whole sketchbook with Venice and have no space for Florence or Rome. I came to St Mark’s Square and tried to sketch the basilica with all of its crazy domes and statues, looking like something out of One Thousand and One Nights . I gave up in frustration. I needed more lessons in perspective, obviously. Then the campanile. That was so tall that it went off the top of the page. Another failure. I had more success with the famous clock. And with the people who sat outside the café s, taking their morning coffee. Perhaps I was destined to be a portrait painter!