perch.
“John Wharlton Bunney!” the painter said, introducing himself. He was white-haired with a white beard and wore a smock. “Miss Evans,” he said. Then, correcting himself, “I’m sorry. Mrs. Cross. I’ve been expecting you. I got Mr. Ruskin’s letter saying you’d be coming.” He had a North of England accent. “He’s very anxious that you see the work we’re doing about the restoration. Sorry about this contraption but there have been incidents.”
She knew what he meant. Three years ago, Ruskin had written an angry review of James McNeill Whistler’s painting
Nocturne in Black and Gold
. He called Whistler a
“coxcomb”
and accused him of
“flinging a pot of paint in the public’s face.”
Whistler sued Ruskin for libel. Everyone in London followed the case in the newspapers. Whistler won, but went bankrupt from the court costs. Recently, Whistler had been going around saying that when he was in Venice, he’d spotted Ruskin’s employee, John Bunney, in the Piazza working on his eternal Basilica painting. Whistler said he torea page from his notebook and wrote, “I am totally blind!” on it, then went up behind Bunney and stuck it on his back. Whistler claimed Bunney was so intent on his work that he didn’t notice it until some tourists pointed it out.
Now, in the Piazza, Johnnie ordered the crowd gathered around the platform, “Could you step aside please?” as if he were Mr. Bunney’s personal guard.
The people began moving away. Bunney climbed up on his platform, gingerly handed his canvas down to Johnnie, and they stood looking at it. “Isn’t it wonderful?” said Johnnie.
It showed the facade of the Basilica, each column carefully articulated, the mosaic figures above the entryways exactly rendered, even the planes and girders of the dome. Not wonderful, she thought, mechanical. No romance in the light, the sky dull, the whole thing devoid of life. Indeed, there wasn’t a human being in sight.
“Very nice indeed,” she said politely. She couldn’t be unkind.
“Have you been at it long?” Johnnie asked Bunney eagerly. People were watching the curious scene from a distance now, afraid, because of Johnnie’s peremptory manner, to come closer.
“I’m here every morning at five o’clock, weather permitting. I’m in my fourth year now,” Bunney said. “I’ve done four hundred sessions so far.”
“My goodness,” she said. “Do you know when you’ll finish?”
“Before I die, I hope. As I said, Mr. Ruskin is very exacting. Well, I better get back to work while the light’s good.” He turned to climb up his ladder. “Oh, before I do, I can’t letyou leave without giving me your promise you’ll come to the studio. Mr. Ruskin has sworn me to give you his pamphlets about Venice. He wants you to see everything through his eyes. He’s so obsessed with this restoration.” Then he pulled the ladder up behind him and seated himself at his easel.
Taking up his brush again, he called down to them over the platform, “It’s number 2413 San Biagio!”
They left him at his labors.
As they walked away, Johnnie began humming, “Mr. Bunney, Mr. Bunney, Mr. Bunney.”
“It’s a wonderful name, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yes,” he said, then resumed in a little song, “Oh, Mr. Bunney, Mr. Bunney …”
“Yes,” she echoed, “ ‘Mr. Bunney.’ A fine name.”
“Yes, indeed.” He kept going, singing brightly now. “Oh, Mr. Bunney, Mr. Bunney,” over and over again.
“I think perhaps that’s enough,” she said. “It’s not fair to make fun of him because of his name.”
He stopped. “Oh, I am fair!” he cried. “Fair, fair, fair,” he said.
He looked out across the Piazza, his brow knit. “We should go to the Accademia,” he said. “It closes at three. Better hurry.” He laughed. “There I am, going too fast for you again. Take your time.”
The heat was rising now from the stone, and inside the Accademia the coolness and silence
“John Wharlton Bunney!” the painter said, introducing himself. He was white-haired with a white beard and wore a smock. “Miss Evans,” he said. Then, correcting himself, “I’m sorry. Mrs. Cross. I’ve been expecting you. I got Mr. Ruskin’s letter saying you’d be coming.” He had a North of England accent. “He’s very anxious that you see the work we’re doing about the restoration. Sorry about this contraption but there have been incidents.”
She knew what he meant. Three years ago, Ruskin had written an angry review of James McNeill Whistler’s painting
Nocturne in Black and Gold
. He called Whistler a
“coxcomb”
and accused him of
“flinging a pot of paint in the public’s face.”
Whistler sued Ruskin for libel. Everyone in London followed the case in the newspapers. Whistler won, but went bankrupt from the court costs. Recently, Whistler had been going around saying that when he was in Venice, he’d spotted Ruskin’s employee, John Bunney, in the Piazza working on his eternal Basilica painting. Whistler said he torea page from his notebook and wrote, “I am totally blind!” on it, then went up behind Bunney and stuck it on his back. Whistler claimed Bunney was so intent on his work that he didn’t notice it until some tourists pointed it out.
Now, in the Piazza, Johnnie ordered the crowd gathered around the platform, “Could you step aside please?” as if he were Mr. Bunney’s personal guard.
The people began moving away. Bunney climbed up on his platform, gingerly handed his canvas down to Johnnie, and they stood looking at it. “Isn’t it wonderful?” said Johnnie.
It showed the facade of the Basilica, each column carefully articulated, the mosaic figures above the entryways exactly rendered, even the planes and girders of the dome. Not wonderful, she thought, mechanical. No romance in the light, the sky dull, the whole thing devoid of life. Indeed, there wasn’t a human being in sight.
“Very nice indeed,” she said politely. She couldn’t be unkind.
“Have you been at it long?” Johnnie asked Bunney eagerly. People were watching the curious scene from a distance now, afraid, because of Johnnie’s peremptory manner, to come closer.
“I’m here every morning at five o’clock, weather permitting. I’m in my fourth year now,” Bunney said. “I’ve done four hundred sessions so far.”
“My goodness,” she said. “Do you know when you’ll finish?”
“Before I die, I hope. As I said, Mr. Ruskin is very exacting. Well, I better get back to work while the light’s good.” He turned to climb up his ladder. “Oh, before I do, I can’t letyou leave without giving me your promise you’ll come to the studio. Mr. Ruskin has sworn me to give you his pamphlets about Venice. He wants you to see everything through his eyes. He’s so obsessed with this restoration.” Then he pulled the ladder up behind him and seated himself at his easel.
Taking up his brush again, he called down to them over the platform, “It’s number 2413 San Biagio!”
They left him at his labors.
As they walked away, Johnnie began humming, “Mr. Bunney, Mr. Bunney, Mr. Bunney.”
“It’s a wonderful name, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yes,” he said, then resumed in a little song, “Oh, Mr. Bunney, Mr. Bunney …”
“Yes,” she echoed, “ ‘Mr. Bunney.’ A fine name.”
“Yes, indeed.” He kept going, singing brightly now. “Oh, Mr. Bunney, Mr. Bunney,” over and over again.
“I think perhaps that’s enough,” she said. “It’s not fair to make fun of him because of his name.”
He stopped. “Oh, I am fair!” he cried. “Fair, fair, fair,” he said.
He looked out across the Piazza, his brow knit. “We should go to the Accademia,” he said. “It closes at three. Better hurry.” He laughed. “There I am, going too fast for you again. Take your time.”
The heat was rising now from the stone, and inside the Accademia the coolness and silence
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