The sirens began sounding at midnight, and then again at 6AM. I was in Venice, where my aunt Adelaide – aka Tadé – had invited me to spend Christmas with her and her Venetian friends. It had snowed heavily the previous day, so that San Marco’s Square was thickly carpeted, as were the red tile roofs at all their uneven levels, and a heavy mist hovered over the gray waters engulfing the city. A picture-perfect snow scene: what the Christmas tourist crowds clamored exclusively to witness.
Tadé, widowed countess from the d’E family of Moet and Chandon, had taken on the introduction of her free-spirited intellectual niece into the aristocracy of Europe. Having entertained soldiers in France as a Red Cross volunteer during WWII, then enjoyed the high life of wealth and celebrities, ogled in theater boxes and opera loges in her youth, and now well beyond middle age, she still maintained the lifestyle and old friends of past. Always fashionably dressed and jeweled, recognized for her ruby nails and lips, and embellished with eyeliner that curled upward to extend the corners of her eyes, she was delightful, charming, good company, full of good stories, eyes a twinkle with playfulness and mischief at once, daring and shaming others to naughtiness while remaining rigidly bound, like Ulysses, to her mast of Catholic morals. Tadé was not afraid to suggest a behavioral change or point out a flaw to a younger female descendant like me. And while some eyes perceived her as intimidating and impressive, others saw her as naïve and girlish. I was partially molded by this aunt, this countess, a royal by marriage. Not with little bells to call on servants, but with an inherited breeding of privilege.
Tadé was feeling ill, languishing in her role of grande dame malade. She had remained in bed, holding court for her doctor and friends in her nightgown, thus granting me the freedom to wander hours alone in the snowy foggy city with my umbrella, wearing my grandmother’s black karakul toque hat with tassels swishing alongside my cheek. By the time I returned to our over-heated hotel room, Tony was still sitting by her bedside, the two old friends chuckling away reminiscing over old times, with a glass of vodka in hand and an ashtray cradling peanuts between them. As she recalled an incident aboard Ari Onassis’ yacht, she laughed herself to tears, as she often did, using the side of her index finger to wipe away any moisture or stray makeup from the corners of her eyes. Tony was easy to love in his large body, warm welcoming smile, and open arms as he greeted me: “Cara! Ma che bella!” And so chic with his great overcoat, gum boots, hat and tinted glasses. A native Venetian.
Overnight, however, the snow had turned to rain, and the sirens began resounding over the city of Venice to warn of rising water, like muezzin’s calls over multiple megaphones signal prayer times in Istanbul. We outsiders were unperturbed by this and following a sound night’s sleep and breakfast in bed, Tadé felt better and we dressed up in our fancy clothes for a day of sightseeing on nearby islands. But as we turned the corner of the great staircase we shrieked in unison as we found the hotel lounge flooded entirely, with a makeshift boardwalk to allow dry passage. The personnel were in busy scatter mode sweeping the water, for all the good it did, and a general bustle dominated the hotel lobby. Apparently, we’d missed the best, for at 7AM the water had reached its peak, averaging waist depth throughout the city. We laughed and felt foolish at the smart way we were clothed, utterly inappropriate for the flood. The concierge kindly offered us gum boots which climbed right up to our thighs, and we rushed to change into pants and go be part of the excitement. In all the shops and houses, everyone was madly lifting eyebrows and sweeping water out the way they were accustomed to do at least ten times a year. I felt privileged to have witnessed Venice in all its possible colorings and coverings.
Christmas day itself left me speechless with emotions over the magnificence of ancient Venetian nobility. Christmas luncheon was hosted by Marjorie and Tony in their art-filled Venice apartment. Guests included the Duke and Duchess de Waters, the Marquize Maria Pia de Luna, and the famous de Rochambeaus, as well as the Countess Adelaide d’E and her niece, yours truly, as a tolerated American appendage. Recognizing immediately my status, I stepped up to my French pedigree and displayed the living room politeness, ease and cheerfulness reserved for these situations. Silk ascots abounded among the men, and discreet touches of mink among the women. Following Tade’s introduction, I was questioned about my studies of Afghanistan, to which I politely replied, throwing in some exaggerated tidbits for them to relay at later teas. As cocktails and appetizers made their way around the room, it dawned on me that the composures surrounding me were genuine; I had learned from gossip to detect false aristocracy. For one thing, this company never alluded to money or valuations, those unmentionables. I had never felt as embraced by a roomful of stiff backs and half smiles, by the welcome warmth of privilege. I was admitted as the Countess’s American niece, protégé, as a dog of breeding is expected to accompany such people, their nails scuttling rapidly as they trot to follow their mistress. The solicitousness reserved for guests and outsiders was absent, as were the impenetrable marble eyes often found in such company. There was a lot to be said for noblesse oblige. The day – Christmas – piqued even noble derrieres to titillation.
Everyone knew instinctively their position at the table, whom to have on their right or left. The laws of table seating are as implicit as the ones governing traffic at a four-way stop sign. The food and its presentation and table setting were fitting for such noble titles. Tadé was not one to concern herself with my presence. She could enjoy herself with confidence that I would not intrude with awkwardness but would, as her obedient and faithful Pekinese, silently observe and learn, speak only when spoken to. Woof! I both recognized and appreciated the privilege, the rarity of the situation. Dinner conversation was dominated by the authenticity of titles worn by European aristocracy, and although unable to contribute knowledgably, I was charmed by the subject, delightedly impressed by the gossip, and even feigned shock at the discovery of misappropriated titles. The usual icy stares and sweet vague expressions reserved for outsiders had given way to childlike playful laughter, spurred by inebriation and festive delight. If I did make any faux pas, which I prefer to remember I did not, these were overlooked, politely ignored. Smiles remained on faces with a shadow of amused forgiveness. The little dog had merely farted, natural for a little dog.
As custom will have it, these palazzo dwellers, rather than bid farewell after lunch, extended the party to invitations to their palazzos for drinks and visits. It was Christmas day, after all, and I was quite content to follow on my leash, mustering all the decorum and manners my breeding had bestowed upon me.
Our entire troupe bundled up and set out through the damp chilly fog and light drizzle, a procession of black umbrellas winding through Venice’s wet streets and bridges, a chatty queue of us, across squares and fountains, to the Palazzo de Waters on the Grand Canal. It was home to the largest ball/dining room I’d ever laid eyes on, with a dining table in the center which appeared dwarfed in relation to the size of the hall. We processed through the cardinal’s room, the governor’s room, the guest apartments, each containing a magnificent, canopied four-poster bed and drapes, tapestries, busts, and paintings, each with walls covered in thick silks for insulation, and floors with splendid oriental carpets, each whispering its own story. The windows all had their shutters closed, although we felt no lack of light. The rooms were not made for sunlight, but for dispersed sober lamps which radiated simultaneous grandeur and warmth. I deeply inhaled the atmosphere, slowly swallowed it, infused with an immediate desire to adopt as my own this warm, rich interior that allows in nothing from the outside, where one can remain within one’s walls of dream and luxury. The slow accumulation of wine and spirits imbibed over the afternoon loosened tongues, and the smiles and laughter were genuine. Aristocracy humanized.
The Duke and Duchess de Waters led us through, and I felt minuscule and insignificant in the somber heights. He led our procession, lighting up each room as we entered it, while she held the tail, shutting off lights and closing the doors to these rooms that were rarely disturbed. I was surprised at the extent to which I felt at home, and wanted to settle right in. Inside their own living room, a dark room of fine furniture, books, and more busts, our hosts complained that each seat required its own little reading light, so afraid was the space of adequate lighting. But when I asked to open the shutters of one window, an amazing sight met my eyes: the canal, with its lined palazzos on the opposite side, precisely what the owners on this side didn’t want to have to see all the time. And following the canal down to the right, I could see San Giorgio and the Riggiotto, illuminated in that early evening drizzle. Christmas dazzle everywhere.
From the Palazzo de Waters, Tony took us over more little bridges and down alleys to visit his own studio. Our Christmas party was still intact and feeling very merry as we traipsed through Venice by twos and threes. Tony was a story in himself. During the war he had been imprisoned in Italy for not joining the fascist party. When he declined an invitation to Germany, he had to hide out in this one-room studio with Marjorie and her father for months. Even when they moved on, Tony kept the atelier for his own work. He was a sculptor, known among Europe’s rich and famous, among whom he mingled for decades, always remaining the artist. His studio was lined with busts of beautiful women, and several famous men. Hemmingway sat on a base in which were sculpted a couple in an amorous pose. Apparently, explained Tony, lovemaking was all the writer spoke about while posing. Arthur Rubenstein sat there with his nose protruding as much as ever. These were the clay models he kept after giving his clients the bronze finals. Princes and princesses, dukes and duchesses, counts and countesses, barons and baronesses of European nobility all lined the shelves of Tony’s atelier, each with a long fine neck and face as smoothly finished as glass. He attempted a coffee-tinted sketch of me after lunch, but with his experience in pleasing his noble clients, he gave me the same long thin neck, smalled refined features and turned up nose they all seemed to possess, and in so doing lost my interest. Apart from all the busts, this was the abode of someone who devoted the creative hours of his life to his art. Messy, artsy, with a few stools, and a settee suggesting amorous advances. Even balding and deaf as he was now, he still had the spirit of a Latin lover in his blood.
A final walk “en groupe” brought us to an original 17th century palazzo on the Grand Canal, which we entered from the back street. An ancient hunched butler greeted us on the stairs with a proud look, attached to his palace, a grimace and gesture about him which seemed to say: “Madame may be waiting upstairs, but I am receiving you.” And indeed, he did receive us. I almost expected to see a great lantern in his hand, so dark was the stone stairway. He took our coats in the cloakroom and motioned for us follow him to the great “salon,” turning on small lights as he went, and then left us there. We took our seats and sat admiring the paintings and busts – with discretion, of course – while nibbling the sweets that had been provided on the green marble table. Everything was as rich and warm as to be expected in a palazzo. But our hostess, the Marquise Maria Pia de Luna, was missing, and I couldn’t help but think of Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians, invited as we were to this splendid palace, and abandoned by a butler in its luxurious living room.
Our hostess finally did arrive, having changed into a red outfit, complete with the charming smile of a perfect hostess, and the relaxed Venetian poise and beauty resulting from a line of mixed Asian blood. Exquisite was the only word befitting her. The old hunched butler also reappeared, and with a subtle nod from his mistress, served us champagne. She began telling the story of her trip to China with her daughter on a mission to buy 350 meters of bright green silk with which to cover her walls and create drapes. And she proceeded to show us magazines containing photos of her palace between Vicenza and Verona, a mere country house converted and modernized for her children to reside.
Following this most noble Christmas day, all Tadé and I could do that night was indulge in americanos and peanuts in our Hotel Saturnia bar and play Bolivia to end the night.
Anthropologist and writer Grima has published two academic books (The Performance of Emotion Among Paxtun Women, and Secrets From the Field) and two historical fiction novels (Talk Till The Minutes Run Out, and Heirlooms’ Tale. This piece is from her current memoir in progress, Photo Memories. Grima’s website: www.benedictegrima.com.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 