were a relief.
When they reached the entrance to the Sala dell’Assunta, Johnnie cried, “Look! Look!” At the far end of the gallery was Titian’s immense
Assumption
, covering the entire wall,the Virgin ascending toward God on a cloud supported by cherubs, the Apostles beneath her gazing up at her adoringly. The expression on the Madonna’s face was rapturous, dazed, fearful, yet curious.
“The Virgin looks just like you,” he said.
She laughed. “That’s sacrilegious.”
Titian’s Virgin wasn’t like the traditional Madonnas. She wasn’t delicate and girlish. She was androgynous, square-jawed, with a thick neck, flat-chested with broad shoulders.
“No, no,” he insisted. “You are ‘the Madonna.’ George called you that.”
“He was joking,” she said.
“But I mean it. Why can’t I say it? I can say it.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m not the Madonna.”
“Yes. You are. Pure and wise and —”
“Not so pure. And wise — I wish it were so …”
Just then, a man and woman entered the gallery carrying their guidebooks. She lowered her voice. “Please, Johnnie. Let’s go back now. Here —” She took his arm. “Come.”
“No. I want to stay and look at the Madonna.”
“Come,” she said again, pulling him away.
“Let me be,” he said irritably. It was a tone she’d never heard from him before.
“I think we should go, Johnnie. I really do. I’m tired. I’d like to rest.”
“I thought you were rested. I want to stay. I want to look. It’s my wife.”
The other two had noticed them.
She whispered urgently, “It’s not your wife.” She tried to drag him away, but he was bigger than she, immovable.
“Johnnie, let’s go,” she commanded, raising her voice.
He scowled and abruptly walked away across the gallery ahead of her.
On the way back to the hotel, he was silent, his mouth clamped shut. He didn’t look at her, his eyes were fixed ahead. She’d never seen him angry. It was new and startling.
“Johnnie, what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
She was afraid to speak.
When they reached the
appartement
, he sat down at the dining table and stared out the window, biting his nails.
“I’m going in to rest awhile,” she said. He ignored her.
She went into her own room. It was quiet outside, all of Venice was cast into an afternoon torpor.
Suddenly, she felt the twinging sensation in her left side. She touched herself there. Please, no. She couldn’t survive it. What would she do if she had an attack here? Her doctor, Sir James Paget, was so far away across the sea. There were no good doctors in this foreign place.
She rinsed a flannel in cold water, lay down on the bed, and pressed it to her head. There was a foul, bitter taste in her mouth. She prayed, Please don’t let it happen. Not now. Relax, every part …
He’d never spoken angrily to her before. And she hadn’t had to raise her voice in years. She almost never exchanged cross words with anyone. No one ever challenged her. People were afraid of her. George had shielded her, babied her. For so many years, she’d been a loved woman, by George, by Charley, by all their friends and her admirers andfollowers. With all the fame, she thought, she’d become spoiled, everyone around her trying to anticipate her needs, everyone in awe of The Great Talent. That was the price of celebrity, she knew.
No one told you the truth.
Chapter 5
A fter a brief nap she felt better. The sensation in her side had abated.
They were going to a concert at the Teatro Malibran. It was to be the highlight of their stay.
She began to get ready. She put on the green silk dress she’d bought at Madame La France’s in Battle Square just for this occasion and spread powder on her face. It gave her skin a thick, flat color, but it was better than having her naked wrinkles visible to the world. She dabbed on the Parfum Violette Johnnie had given her as a gift in Paris, and draped the mantilla over her head and
When they reached the entrance to the Sala dell’Assunta, Johnnie cried, “Look! Look!” At the far end of the gallery was Titian’s immense
Assumption
, covering the entire wall,the Virgin ascending toward God on a cloud supported by cherubs, the Apostles beneath her gazing up at her adoringly. The expression on the Madonna’s face was rapturous, dazed, fearful, yet curious.
“The Virgin looks just like you,” he said.
She laughed. “That’s sacrilegious.”
Titian’s Virgin wasn’t like the traditional Madonnas. She wasn’t delicate and girlish. She was androgynous, square-jawed, with a thick neck, flat-chested with broad shoulders.
“No, no,” he insisted. “You are ‘the Madonna.’ George called you that.”
“He was joking,” she said.
“But I mean it. Why can’t I say it? I can say it.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m not the Madonna.”
“Yes. You are. Pure and wise and —”
“Not so pure. And wise — I wish it were so …”
Just then, a man and woman entered the gallery carrying their guidebooks. She lowered her voice. “Please, Johnnie. Let’s go back now. Here —” She took his arm. “Come.”
“No. I want to stay and look at the Madonna.”
“Come,” she said again, pulling him away.
“Let me be,” he said irritably. It was a tone she’d never heard from him before.
“I think we should go, Johnnie. I really do. I’m tired. I’d like to rest.”
“I thought you were rested. I want to stay. I want to look. It’s my wife.”
The other two had noticed them.
She whispered urgently, “It’s not your wife.” She tried to drag him away, but he was bigger than she, immovable.
“Johnnie, let’s go,” she commanded, raising her voice.
He scowled and abruptly walked away across the gallery ahead of her.
On the way back to the hotel, he was silent, his mouth clamped shut. He didn’t look at her, his eyes were fixed ahead. She’d never seen him angry. It was new and startling.
“Johnnie, what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
She was afraid to speak.
When they reached the
appartement
, he sat down at the dining table and stared out the window, biting his nails.
“I’m going in to rest awhile,” she said. He ignored her.
She went into her own room. It was quiet outside, all of Venice was cast into an afternoon torpor.
Suddenly, she felt the twinging sensation in her left side. She touched herself there. Please, no. She couldn’t survive it. What would she do if she had an attack here? Her doctor, Sir James Paget, was so far away across the sea. There were no good doctors in this foreign place.
She rinsed a flannel in cold water, lay down on the bed, and pressed it to her head. There was a foul, bitter taste in her mouth. She prayed, Please don’t let it happen. Not now. Relax, every part …
He’d never spoken angrily to her before. And she hadn’t had to raise her voice in years. She almost never exchanged cross words with anyone. No one ever challenged her. People were afraid of her. George had shielded her, babied her. For so many years, she’d been a loved woman, by George, by Charley, by all their friends and her admirers andfollowers. With all the fame, she thought, she’d become spoiled, everyone around her trying to anticipate her needs, everyone in awe of The Great Talent. That was the price of celebrity, she knew.
No one told you the truth.
Chapter 5
A fter a brief nap she felt better. The sensation in her side had abated.
They were going to a concert at the Teatro Malibran. It was to be the highlight of their stay.
She began to get ready. She put on the green silk dress she’d bought at Madame La France’s in Battle Square just for this occasion and spread powder on her face. It gave her skin a thick, flat color, but it was better than having her naked wrinkles visible to the world. She dabbed on the Parfum Violette Johnnie had given her as a gift in Paris, and draped the mantilla over her head and
Similar Books
