His wife had not his talents, but she was a very cultivated woman who spoke French and Italian (and probably German) rather slowly, as she always spoke, but quite correctly, and who read a great deal, though she would not always admit to this.

Together they occupied the Palazzo Contarini dal Molo; not a typical Venetian palazzo, but with the most beautiful view in Venice, and perhaps in the world; for being on the north side it overlooked the inward curve of the Fondamenta Nuove, on the Laguna Morta; and further to the left on the cemetery of San Michele (too beautiful to be thought of as a cemetery) and then towards Murano and Burrano. Those who had eyes to see could see what Guardi, one of whose favourite subjects it was, had seen.

But the view was not the only beauty of the Palazzo Contarini dal Molo. It had its garden. There are few gardens in Venice and this had a rival on the Giudecca; but it is, or was, the most beautiful. It was designed by Palladio or Sansovino, I forget which, and ran down a couple of hundred yards, with the lagoon lapping it, until it was outflanked by a dusty-red building on the right-hand corner. ‘The Casino degli Spiriti’ it was called. It was said to be haunted, hence the name; it was also said to have been Titian’s studio, but no one was ever asked to go inside it. Some said it was empty and there was nothing to see.

But the greatest of the many beauties which emanated from the palace and to which, so to speak, it held the key, the enchantments over which it waved its wand, was the palace itself. Not outside; it was not a typical Venetian palace, towering upwards within a riot of ornament and embellishment; outside it was low and plain and unadorned, and might have been mistaken for a warehouse or even a workhouse. Oh, how different now from its former aspect! ‘C’erano tante famiglie, tante, tante,’ my gondolier used to say, occupying the palace before Mr. Carteret came and turned them out. Seeing its possibilities he took it over and transformed it into the vision of beauty it afterwards became.

My gondolier was obviously in sympathy with the ‘tantissime famiglie’ who had been evicted by the Carterets; but nothing succeeds like success, and many Italians, high and low, cannot resist its allure. The Carterets had made their will prevail, and others less fortunate than they (such is Fate, and the Italians have a great regard for Fate) must fend for themselves.

And so it came about that the Palazzo Contarini dal Molo, which had been occupied by tantissime famiglie, in indescribable squalor, was now occupied by two persons with a suitable number of retainers, in great grandeur. The moment one was admitted by the butler (who was also the Carterets’ first gondolier, but so transformed by his black clothes that no one who didn’t know would have recognized him) everything changed. He might have been admitting the guest into a church, so solemn and reverential was his demeanour as he walked rather slowly up the unimpressive staircase, keeping to the right, and treading softly as though on holy ground.

But when the door of the ante-room was opened, what a change! What a vision of beauty, subdued, protected from the vulgar encroachments of the sunshine by ruched honey-coloured blinds, drawn half-way down. And from the midst of this luminous twilight would appear Mrs. Carteret wearing, as often as not, the broad-brimmed straw hat which cast a shadow over the upper part of her face.

‘Oh, it is you!’ she would exclaim, with a faint air of surprise. ‘I hardly expected you, but here you are!’ (The element of surprise was never quite absent from her manner.) ‘I was afraid some other engagement might have kept you, as it did once before, do you remember?’ The embarrassed guest tried to remember an occasion when he had let down Mrs. Carteret, but couldn’t, and at that moment Mr. Carteret, who had been somewhere in the shadows eclipsed by the ample form and wide-spreading hat of Mrs. Carteret, came to his rescue.

‘We are so glad to see you,’ he said, with the beginnings of a titter that seldom left his lips. ‘Venice is quite a desert now since the dear Hohenlohes, and Lady Malcolm and Mrs. Frontisham died or went away—so we have found no one to meet you, alas!’ And in the minutes following five more guests were ushered in, all with the most resounding names.

They looked about them—it was impossible not to, so great was the prestige with which the Carterets had contrived to invest their house—and then they followed Mrs. Carteret and her pale-blue silk fichu (meant for the cold or the heat?) into the dining-room, but not before aperitifs had been offered. These, though exiguous, were quite delicious, and I once asked Mr. Carteret what was the recipe. He hesitated long enough for me to feel I had made a gaffe, and then said, ‘Please don’t mind, but I think people might . . . might talk if two Englishmen in Venice served the same cocktail. Oh don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t!’

With that and the cocktail I had to be content, although Mr. Carteret was only a recent Englishman, having changed his nationality for reasons best known to him, and his wife had followed suit.

All the rooms in the house were low by Venetian standards but the Carterets’ dining-room had a ceiling by Tiepolo which one could not help looking at, so near was it to one’s head. It depicted the glorification of someone—perhaps a prevision of Mrs. Carteret?—with angels, saints and putti assisting at the apotheosis.

Mrs. Carteret did not like the ceiling to be remarked on, but equally she did not like it not to be remarked on. With her, it was always difficult to get things right.

Course followed course; the cooking was excellent, the service beyond praise. At the end Mrs. Carteret might say, ‘I’m afraid we have had a rather frugal meal—the cook is ill, as she sometimes is—so tiresome—so we have to rely on the kitchen-maid.’

No, it may have been a perhaps perverted and unrealizable wish on the part of Anna (née Hannah) to keep up standards, of whatever sort, that made her look so critically on the outside world. From her ivory tower she could afford, in every sense of the word, to do so. So-and-so was common (a word she was not afraid to use), so-and-so was stupid, so-and-so was ugly, so-and-so could not speak French and above all, so-and-so had no introduction to her.

Anathema! Away with them, and leave the world clearer for Carteret standards to prevail. In the provincial city of Venice (though she did not regard it as such) it was easier to make her considerable weight felt than in the capitals of Europe. So when a well-known couple, whose relationship was irregular, but who had a letter of introduction to her, asked what day would be convenient to call, she replied ‘No day would be convenient.’

Snubs to you, and snubs all round, except to a few individuals who satisfied Mrs. Carteret’s exacting conception of what is comme il faut, and even they were liable to fall from grace. I remember an instance. A friend who had every qualification for enjoying Mrs. Carteret’s esteem appeared at dinner in a slightly décolleté dress (it wouldn’t have seemed so now) and Mrs. Carteret, a storm on the rugged terrain of her features, rose and asked the guest to put on a shawl. She was not received again, even if she had wanted to be.

Receive, receive!

She herself had been received first into the Jewish Church, then into the Anglican Church, then into the Roman Catholic Church. What a number of receptions, each inflating her ego. No more receptions were in sight, except from the Pope.

Meanwhile her rôle was to make reception, as far as she was concerned, a stumbling-block.

‘Procul O procul este, profani!’

The profane vulgar must be kept away, they would never climb the heights, or go through the initiations, that she had.