The Honeymoon (7 page)

She felt compelled to write a poem of her own, to feel the words being born in her own body:
“As o’er the fields by evening’s light I stray, / I hear a still, small whisper — Come away,”
it began. It was a hymn to death, to giving up earthly things. She sent it to her old teacher at Miss Wallington’s school, Maria Lewis — she was no longer “Miss Lewis,” she was now a friend, they were only ten years apart. Maria urged her to submit it to the
Christian Observer
. Lo, it was accepted and published, signed “M.A.E.”

Her father, ever mindful that she must one day earn a living, and proud of all her learning, said she best keep up on her lessons, and he hired a Signor Brezzi from Coventry to tutor her in Italian and German.

Signor Brezzi was in his early thirties, dark-haired, with black eyes. Sitting there gravely opposite her, he was so stiff and proper in his suit. But his eyes, mustn’t they hide a passionate nature? She noticed the strong, muscular curve of his thighs under his trousers. He said he was from the Piedmont, but otherwise was reserved, conscious, no doubt, that her father had hired him to teach his daughter. She found herself drawn to him, wanting to break through his impenetrable propriety. Was he married? He didn’t say. He didn’t wear a wedding ring.
“Bene, signorina, ripeta,”
he urged.

And she did. Foreign languages came easily to her. Italian was similar to English and to Church Latin. She loved the sensual, staccato rhythms of it. And the sweet, liquid sounds of German, the way German words at first appeared to be long and complicated yet yielded to careful, logical pronunciation.

“Bitte sprechen Sie mir nach — Ich bin — du bist — er ist …”

“Very good,” Signor Brezzi said.

She studied hard to please him. But he seemed to look right through her, as if she were but an object to him upon which he must focus. His eyes were penetrating, but he didn’t see her. Whatever sensuality he had within him didn’t apply to her. Or perhaps he didn’t want to focus on her because she was plain. She was the negation of all that would ever find love and esteem, she thought. As the lessons continued, she decided to give herself a motto: Cease ye from man. She would live her life by it.

The more knowledge she gleaned from her studies, the lonelier she felt. There was no one around with whom she could discuss all that she was learning. There were no other women like her — not even her former teacher, Maria Lewis, who’d read all the books she had now, who knew the secrets of German verbs and the physics and philosophy she had discovered in the Arbury Hall library, who could understand her love of language. It was as if she had a secret life. She belonged to a different species from the good people of Nuneaton. Most women of her age were married or engaged to be married, and occupied themselves with housework. She was a stranger among them.

One evening, she went to a party at the house of their neighbor, Mrs. Bull. She sat against the wall and watched the dancing, the young men holding the women around their
waists, waltzing to the music. A man with a lock of orange hair on his brow and friendly blue eyes approached her, smiling. She sat forward, expectantly. Her heart lifted — he was going to ask her to dance. But when he saw her, he said, “Oh, sorry, I was looking for Miss Adams,” and he walked away.

The evening wore on and still no one asked her to dance, but she was too proud to get up and leave, everyone would see her. The music pounded in her head, seemed to grow louder and louder, the room was very hot. Everyone must be noticing her there, sitting alone and shamed. She pulled her chair back into the shadows. At midnight the music stopped, and she went home to her room and sobbed.

She began to have headaches, piercing pain coming from behind her eyes. Only darkness, and sleep, many hours of sleep, brought relief.

In June, Isaac married Sarah Rawlins. How could Isaac marry such a plain woman when he was so good-looking himself? She knew he was marrying Sarah partly because the Rawlins family was rich, and the marriage pleased their father, and it would pave Isaac’s way in the world. Again, Marian was a bridesmaid, at the Edgbaston Parish Church, wearing the same plain brown dress that she’d worn at Chrissey’s wedding and had patched and repaired so often since then. She was twenty-one, and the prospect of marriage seemed more remote than ever.

Chrissey was living in Meriden now with Edward Clarke. Edward was struggling to set up a practice, the new doctor in the town competing with the old doctor, Dr. Kittermeister, who’d been there for years. Soon they had three little babies to feed. Chrissey named her third child Mary Louisa after Marian, and sometimes she brought the baby over to Griff
and let her sister keep her. At night, Marian would hold the warm little thing in her arms and sing and rock her to sleep.

Three months later, Mary Louisa was dead. Oh God, to lay the little creature in her tiny coffin in the merciless earth, the one she had warmed with her own body, whom she had loved so much.

Then her father announced that he was retiring. Isaac was taking over his job with the estate and he and Marian were moving to Coventry. She was being cast out of Griff, her childhood home, the magical countryside of her childhood, because Isaac wanted to live there.

She lay now in the Hotel Europa in Venice, her memories of childhood dissipated, but the sadness was still there. There were no kind arms to embrace her, no soft breath to ruffle her ear.

A new wave of homesickness passed over her. In this, the most exquisite city in the world, she longed for Witley and the Heights, the bright, clean sunlight of the English summer and her old routines, for Brett and Mrs. Dowling, the servants, so totally devoted to her, and Charley, George’s son, to care for her. To be at work again on the book that had been brewing inside her, completely absorbed as she summoned the words and tried to make sense of the universe. She hadn’t brought any of the books for the research — one wasn’t supposed to work on one’s honeymoon. It would be insulting to Johnnie. Perhaps she could write to Charley and ask him to send some of them to Venice?

But on your honeymoon you weren’t supposed to work, you were supposed to …

I
n the morning it was a lovely, sunny day. There was the murmur of voices in the
sala
. Johnnie was up, a servant was making an inquiry. She noticed for the first time the faded outlines of cherubs and garlands on the ceiling, the blue plaster on the walls stained and chipped and flaking from the perpetual damp. The paintings were copies of Titians and Raphaels. You could tell by the clumsy features of the people and the dull folds of their robes.

From beneath the window came the sounds of people talking and of banging. She rose and looked out at the canal, where tradesmen in their boats were delivering food and supplies to the hotels. Men were unloading wooden crates from the boats. Among them was the gray-haired gondolier, Corradini, in his striped shirt and black pants. She watched for a moment as he bent down to grip the crates with his sinewy arms. His striped shirt rode up and she could see the bare flesh of his waist, shining and soft and white where it had eluded the sun.

She dressed and went into the
sala
. Johnnie had on his white suit, a black silk cravat, and a waistcoat. He was freshly shaved around the contours of his beard, his cheeks pale from his morning toilette, his red hair brushed back from his high forehead, his curls 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 with
grime. 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 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 tore
a 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.