The Venice Sketchbook(46)

And so now I am sitting on my bed writing this with a smile on my face. Less than one week in Venice, and I have already been invited to the villa of a countess.

Today I learned to draw a face, a church and an orange, and I went to dinner with a priest and a countess. Not bad for a first day at the accademia. Just wait until I write to Mummy! Even Aunt Hortensia will be impressed.





CHAPTER 17


Juliet, Venice, July 9, 1939

Sunday. In England a day of rest. No shops open. Church bells ringing in the morning (but not at an ungodly hour like here, and in an orderly fashion, not complete cacophony). On a fine day maybe a picnic, a cricket match on the village green. But here it is a day of loud celebration. Bells ring all over the city at different times, summoning the faithful to Mass. And almost everyone is a worshipper, it seems. Signora Martinelli went to eight o’clock Mass this morning. She asked me politely if I’d like to go and if I’d mind if breakfast was late. I said I wouldn’t mind at all about breakfast, but I declined her kind invitation to join her.

“There is an English church, you know. St George’s. It is next to your accademia. Not at all far. I believe they have a service later in the morning, as I understand that Anglicans are not early risers, and of course for them they do not have to fast before communion as they are not receiving the blessed sacrament anyway.” Another sniff.

I thanked her and tried to seem pleased at this information, getting the feeling that anyone who did not go to some kind of church was probably damned to hell. Actually, I found myself keen to visit a Catholic church and suggested to my landlady that I might want to attend at San Marco. She nodded approval. “So beautiful,” she said. “Maybe you will learn to accept the true faith after all.”

We ate breakfast together—no fresh rolls today as the bakeries were closed, but cold cuts and peaches, sitting by the open window and listening to a distant bell. Then I walked to the basilica. I had only seen it as a visiting tourist before. Now it was full of people. A choir processed in, their singing echoing to the domes above. Light shone in through windows in the dome, illuminating first one alcove, then another. Gold sparkled everywhere. Gems flashed on the high altar. The sweet smell of incense wafted through the air. Used as I was to the simplicity of the English country church, I found this overwhelming, as if I was witnessing a spectacle, not a place to pray. I tried to follow the order of the Mass in a book that was half in Italian and half in Latin but was hopelessly lost. A bell rang. They knelt. Another bell. They stood. I was always half a beat late for everything and with no idea what was happening. Suddenly I felt alone. All of these people sitting with their families—a long line of children next to proud parents, the smallest one wriggling and being taken on to a father’s knee. And I had nobody.

I came out feeling uncomfortable and unsatisfied. Maybe next week I would try St George’s after all.

I had mentioned to the signora that I was invited to a soirée on the Lido—by a countess, no less. She was quite impressed and suggested that we have lunch together since I would be out for the evening meal I had paid for. So I returned from church, passing families heading for the vaporetto stops, carrying picnic supplies and towels. I thought a swim might be a good idea, but I had already accepted my landlady’s luncheon invitation. I could tell Signora Martinelli had made an effort. There was a lace cloth on the dining table, not at the kitchen table where we usually ate. She served antipasto of melon with prosciutto, then a pasta dish sprinkled with cheese and finally a small pork chop, grilled with courgettes. I was now aware that the meat was probably a big sacrifice for her and glad that my rent would mean an occasional meat meal. She even opened a bottle of red wine.

I asked her about her family. Her husband had been dead for many years, but she had a son who now lived in Milan. He came to visit occasionally. His wife was not too simpatico. And they had no children. “Can you imagine? No children. Not one grandchild.”

“My mother doesn’t have any grandchildren yet,” I said, “but I expect my sister, Winnie, will produce one soon. She hasn’t been married long.”

“And you? Why do you not marry? You are an attractive woman. There was never a man you wanted?”

“I live in a village and take care of my mother. I teach in a girls’ school. There is really no opportunity to meet men.”

“Maybe you will meet a good Italian man while you are here,” she said.

I smiled. “That would be nice, but I have to return to my mother, I’m afraid.”

We finished the meal with more fruit, and I helped her wash up. My head was feeling a little woozy, as I was not used to drinking in the middle of the day. Not used to drinking at all, actually. I went to my room and fell into a deep sleep, awaking to someone singing in the street below. I looked out and saw a man sitting on a front step, playing the accordion and singing. People had clustered around him, clapping to the music and singing along. A little girl got up and danced, twirling so that her long dark braids flew out behind her. Such a joyous scene, and again I was conscious of being the outsider, the observer.

At seven I dressed, this time in my evening gown and my fringed wrap for the journey across on the vaporetto. Signora Martinelli handed me the key without being asked, as if an evening with a countess was beyond doubt.

“Find out when the last vaporetto returns,” she said. “They do not run as frequently on Sundays.”