CHAPTER 6

By six the next evening I was established in my new accommodation, the Palazzo Bollani on the rio di San Trovaso in Dorsoduro, and the property of the Marchesa d'Arpagno. I had sent my card at ten that morning and was instantly ushered in to see her. In my mind's eye I had seen an old lady, decorously dressed with the signs of departed beauty all about her. A little stout, perhaps, but in diminished circumstances, dreaming perpetually of the glitter of youth. A pleasing, if melancholy, vision, which lasted until the moment I entered the salon.

She was quite ugly, but strikingly so. In her late forties, I guessed from the fine lines that could just be seen beneath the thick powder around her eyes and mouth; tall and imperial in manner, with a long nose, black hair which was plainly dyed hanging down her back in a thick plait. She was wearing a dress with an overskirt in white satin trimmed with green, which was far too fashionable for one of her age. Around her neck was a necklace of emeralds that drew attention to her extraordinary eyes, which were of exactly the same hue. On her bony fingers were several excessively large rings, and she wore a perfume so strong and overpowering that even now, more than forty years later, I can still smell it.

It is not often that I am lost for words, but the contrast between expectation and reality in this case was so strong that I couldn't find anything to say at all.

'I hope you do not mind speaking in French,' said the lady as she approached. 'My English is terrible, and I imagine that your Venetian is worse. Unless you prefer German.'

She had a harsh voice, and the slight smile she gave as she spoke was grotesque in its girlishness. I replied that I could manage French, and quietly thanked my mother for having had the wisdom, all those years ago, to engage a French governess for me and my siblings. They could not afford much at the time and, with governesses, you get what you pay for – in this case a lazy, coarse wretch. But she spoke French and, once inside our home, was dislodged only with difficulty. She stayed long enough to teach me the language, although far too much of its nether reaches and not very much of its higher flights. Only with Elizabeth did I ever properly master it; she is one of those annoying people who pick up languages quickly, by merely listening. I have to study hard, but Elizabeth has always preferred French to English. So study I did, to please her.

The Marchesa sat down, indicating that I could do the same, offered coffee, and fell silent, looking at me with a faint smile.

'I understand from Mr Longman that you occasionally consider allowing people to stay in your house,' I began a little hesitatingly. That was why I was there, and the subject would have to come up sooner or later.

'That is true. Maria will take you to see the rooms a little later, if I decide I can bear to have you under my roof.'

'Ah.'

'I do not do this for money, you understand.'

'Quite, quite.'

'But I find it interesting to have people around me. The Venetians are such bores, they drive me to distraction.'

'You are not Venetian yourself?'

'No.'

She offered no more information and, much as I would have liked to, I felt unable to continue the questioning.

She was not an easy conversationalist. Rather, she was one of those who command through silence, contributing little, but looking with a faint smile that affected her mouth more than her eyes, summoning the other on to fill the void.

So I told her of my journey around Italy, my current stay in the Hotel Europa, my decision to stay and my desire for slightly more comfortable accommodation.

'I see. You leave out much in your account, I think.'

I was astonished by the remark. 'I don't believe so.'

No response to that one either. I sipped my coffee, and she sat quietly, watching me.

'And how do you find Venice, Mr Stone?'

I replied that I found it perfectly agreeable, so far, although I had seen little.

'And you have done as everyone does here, and hired a gondola to think sad thoughts in?'

'Not yet.'

'You surprise me. Are you not disappointed in love? Recovering from a broken heart? That is why people come here, for the most part. They find the city a perfect place to indulge in self-pity.'

A sudden sharpness in her tone, all the more strange for being so unexpected. I looked at her curiously, but could see nothing in her face. She had said it as a matter of fact, an observation only, perhaps.

'Not in my case, madam,' I replied. 'I am perfectly unencumbered.' If she desired to make me ill at ease and put me on the defensive, then she was succeeding. I was not used to such conversations. She saw that and was enjoying my discomfort, which made me fight back.

'Then you are here to have your heart broken. You will become like the others.'

'What others?'

'Those who cannot leave. There are many here. The city traps the weak and never lets them go. Be careful if you stay here for long.'

I shook my head. I had no idea what she was talking about.

'Foreigners, especially from northern countries, make a mistake when they come here. They do not take Venice seriously. They come from their lands full of machinery and money, and feel pity for it. They think it is a harmless relic of the past, once glorious, now beyond hope. They walk and admire, but never rid themselves of a feeling of contempt and superiority. You are the masters now, no?'

Again, I said nothing.

'And Venice waits, bides its time. Most come, and see, and go away again. But the weak are its prey. It sucks the life out of them, bit by bit. Robs them of their will, their autonomy. They stay, they stay a little longer and then they cannot even imagine leaving. Their life has had its purpose removed, they become mere shadows, walking the streets, eating at the same place every day, walking the same routes every day, for what reason they cannot recall. This is a dangerous place, Mr Stone; it is cursed. Beware of it. It is alive, and its spirit feeds on the weak and unwary.'

'I think it unlikely that this is to be my fate.'

She laughed softly. A beguiling laugh, but disturbing in the context of her words, which had nothing humorous about them. 'Perhaps not. But you came for a few days, and now you are taking an apartment for a longer stay. I sense you are searching for something, Mr Stone, although I do not know what it is. Nor do you, I think. But be careful: you will only find sadness here. I feel that in you; you thrive in adversity. You think yourself strong, but your weakest place is your heart. One day it will destroy you. You know that, do you not?'

This melodrama completely reduced me to silence. Obviously she was trying to fascinate me, put me off-balance, and, if you wish, dominate the conversation by the bizarre nature of her words. And, equally obviously, she was succeeding. I felt an air of foreboding descend over me, and realised it was the same feeling I had experienced the day before. The feeling of sadness as I walked the streets, the sense of the inexplicable I had had that first night watching the palazzo, these were all part of the same sentiment that she had expressed in words. The desire to taste the recklessness of extreme emotions, throw off the usual cautious, careful way of life I had developed for myself. That was why I had left England, was it not? Why I had roamed Italy for three months, in search of precisely that? But had not yet found it. I caught myself, at that very moment, thinking of my brief introduction to Mrs Cort, the way her eyes had met mine.

It was mere absurdity, a combination of the light and the tiredness, the strangeness of the surroundings, the water. Quite soothing and relaxing in its way, all the more so because it was so foreign to my normal life. I looked up at the Marchesa and smiled. Almost grinned. It was a challenge to her. Silently countering that I was not to be fooled by her words, try as she might. I was a tougher nut than a man like Cort.