damp.
The maid was clearing his plate.
Seeing her, he stood up immediately. “Ah!” he cried, full of high spirits again. “Be-a-tri-che!” The ridiculously extravagant name he’d given her last summer at Witley when they were reading Dante.
“Please.” She nodded at the girl, a stranger who spoke Italian and might understand the reference.
The maid curtsied. “I hope Madame sleep well.”
“Thank you, my dear. I did.”
Johnnie stepped toward her and took her hand. He drew it up to his lips and covered it with his own as if it were something precious. He kissed her on each cheek and enfolded her in his large frame. She felt small against his tall body. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the maid look away as if discomfited at the sight of the young husband kissing his old wife; or a son kissing his mother like this. The girl bent her head over the teapot, refilling it with hot water from the cart.
“You? Did you sleep well?” she asked him.
“A little bit. I didn’t fall asleep until four a.m.”
“You should rest this afternoon.”
“If I nap, I won’t be able to sleep tonight. I’m perfectly all right. Not tired in the least. Come,” he said. His voice was too loud. “Have your breakfast to give you strength, and then let’s be off. We’ve got lots to do. Let’s go to the Piazza first.”
After she’d eaten, she took up her parasol and they made their way along the Calle del Ridotto to San Marco.
As they came out onto the great Piazza, the pigeons flew up from the ground in a cloud, frantically beating their wings, then swooped down again, scattering the tourists and picking at the crumbs they’d thrown for them.
On the other side of the Piazza was the marble-clad Basilica with its campanile and domes and spires, gold and blue, and its mosaics of many colors, the four horses, and at its pinnacle, the statue of Saint Mark. Next to it was the Doge’s Palace, Ruskin’s “perfect” building, with its double tiers of columns and arches. And standing over it all, atop his great pillar, the lion.
Johnnie strode eagerly toward the palace. She had always thought the architecture of the place lacking, its friezes trivial, its Gothic windows too small for the building’s scale. Johnnie went into the courtyard and leapt up the Scala dei Giganti to the main floor. She climbed after him, stopping every few feet to catch her breath. “Johnnie!”
“Sorry. I’m too eager,” he said, and stepped back to give her his arm.
When they got to the top, Johnnie rushed through the rooms, exclaiming at everything in raptures, Veronese’s gorgeous
Apotheosis of Venice
, a miracle of color and composition, Venice personified on her throne in the sky, encircled by clouds, her celebrants gathered around her. Most of the other Veroneses and Tintorettos and Palmas left her indifferent.
Johnnie stopped, remembered she was there, and waited for her to catch up.
They crossed the Bridge of Sighs and peered down into the prison cells, too small surely to hold a human being. Then, back down to the Piazza again and into the Basilica. It was so dark inside you could hardly see the mosaics, the marble and wood sculptures and alabaster columns, the Madonna from Constantinople hung with jewels. The church’s pavement, embedded with stars, was dull withgrime. They ascended the campanile and gazed out over the sunlit city to the sea and the distant mountains.
Back down in the Piazza, “Look!” Johnnie cried. Across the Piazza was a wooden platform and atop it sat a man on a stool at an easel, painting. A group of people had surrounded the platform, looking up at the strange edifice, trying to see what he was doing, but he was ignoring them.
“That must be Mr. Bunney,” Johnnie said. “Mr. Bunney!” He hurried over to the platform while she hung back in embarrassment.
He stood under the platform calling up to the man, then beckoned vigorously to her to come. Bunney lowered a ladder and descended from his
The maid was clearing his plate.
Seeing her, he stood up immediately. “Ah!” he cried, full of high spirits again. “Be-a-tri-che!” The ridiculously extravagant name he’d given her last summer at Witley when they were reading Dante.
“Please.” She nodded at the girl, a stranger who spoke Italian and might understand the reference.
The maid curtsied. “I hope Madame sleep well.”
“Thank you, my dear. I did.”
Johnnie stepped toward her and took her hand. He drew it up to his lips and covered it with his own as if it were something precious. He kissed her on each cheek and enfolded her in his large frame. She felt small against his tall body. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the maid look away as if discomfited at the sight of the young husband kissing his old wife; or a son kissing his mother like this. The girl bent her head over the teapot, refilling it with hot water from the cart.
“You? Did you sleep well?” she asked him.
“A little bit. I didn’t fall asleep until four a.m.”
“You should rest this afternoon.”
“If I nap, I won’t be able to sleep tonight. I’m perfectly all right. Not tired in the least. Come,” he said. His voice was too loud. “Have your breakfast to give you strength, and then let’s be off. We’ve got lots to do. Let’s go to the Piazza first.”
After she’d eaten, she took up her parasol and they made their way along the Calle del Ridotto to San Marco.
As they came out onto the great Piazza, the pigeons flew up from the ground in a cloud, frantically beating their wings, then swooped down again, scattering the tourists and picking at the crumbs they’d thrown for them.
On the other side of the Piazza was the marble-clad Basilica with its campanile and domes and spires, gold and blue, and its mosaics of many colors, the four horses, and at its pinnacle, the statue of Saint Mark. Next to it was the Doge’s Palace, Ruskin’s “perfect” building, with its double tiers of columns and arches. And standing over it all, atop his great pillar, the lion.
Johnnie strode eagerly toward the palace. She had always thought the architecture of the place lacking, its friezes trivial, its Gothic windows too small for the building’s scale. Johnnie went into the courtyard and leapt up the Scala dei Giganti to the main floor. She climbed after him, stopping every few feet to catch her breath. “Johnnie!”
“Sorry. I’m too eager,” he said, and stepped back to give her his arm.
When they got to the top, Johnnie rushed through the rooms, exclaiming at everything in raptures, Veronese’s gorgeous
Apotheosis of Venice
, a miracle of color and composition, Venice personified on her throne in the sky, encircled by clouds, her celebrants gathered around her. Most of the other Veroneses and Tintorettos and Palmas left her indifferent.
Johnnie stopped, remembered she was there, and waited for her to catch up.
They crossed the Bridge of Sighs and peered down into the prison cells, too small surely to hold a human being. Then, back down to the Piazza again and into the Basilica. It was so dark inside you could hardly see the mosaics, the marble and wood sculptures and alabaster columns, the Madonna from Constantinople hung with jewels. The church’s pavement, embedded with stars, was dull withgrime. They ascended the campanile and gazed out over the sunlit city to the sea and the distant mountains.
Back down in the Piazza, “Look!” Johnnie cried. Across the Piazza was a wooden platform and atop it sat a man on a stool at an easel, painting. A group of people had surrounded the platform, looking up at the strange edifice, trying to see what he was doing, but he was ignoring them.
“That must be Mr. Bunney,” Johnnie said. “Mr. Bunney!” He hurried over to the platform while she hung back in embarrassment.
He stood under the platform calling up to the man, then beckoned vigorously to her to come. Bunney lowered a ladder and descended from his
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