The great figure of the Madonna dominates the apse of the basilica at Torcello, her black draperies sweeping downwards across the golden mosaic curve of the semi-dome, mosaic tears falling down her pale and tragic face. The figure is so vast, its unrelieved black so solitary, there in the golden dome, as to make it one of the most moving things in the world. So Grace Kilmichael thought, sitting in the empty church staring at it, her Ruskin in her hand; she found herself pondering on why Ruskin, who was so moved by Torcello, had so caught the whole touching wonder of the place, should have devoted pages to the pulpit, and barely mentioned the Virgin! She had been reading the great chapter that morning as she rowed across from Venice in a gondola, past Murano, past Burano; now looking ahead to the pale confusion of low shores and dim hills, now looking backwards to the outline of Venice itself, a clear tracery of spires and domes etched above the floor of the sea. People could make fun of Ruskin as much as they liked, but if some of his art criticism was nonsense, it was noble nonsense, and that chapter one of the great splendours of English prose. Book in hand, she had spent the morning wandering round the island and climbing the Campanile, trying to make the neat buildings of today – the small Museum, the house which proffers coffee down on the narrowfondamento where the gondolas tie up – fit in with the desolation which Ruskin found and described. She couldn’t do it, really – except for the two churches, it was all too different; and presently she gave up the attempt and simply surrendered herself to the lost and lazy charm of the place – the wild rosemary scenting the muddy shores, the wild asparagus feathering over the still waters of the narrow inlets, the peasants cutting hay in the scraps of meadow between the buildings. The scythe-blades sweeping down the small bright familiar flowers, amongfragments of stone and marble carved in strange shapes, gave her an idea for a picture, and she made one or two careful studies – it wasreally a pity she had brought no painting things, sent them all to Antibes. If only she had even some watercolours to make notes! While she sketched, the peasants came and looked on, and said‘Molto bene!’ loudly and cheerfully; a very old man, warming his frail body in the sun, leant on a stick beside her and told her that he was over ninety. Lady Kilmichael, sketching away, gave him a lira and a cigarette, and told him that her children’sNonno was of the same age; she felt warmly to the old man, he reminded her of Walter’s father, whom she loved dearly.
Now and again a motor launch arrived from Venice, and the sunny isolation of this quiet friendly place was broken by an influx of tourists, who were swept breathlessly through both churches, through the museum, and off again. They appeared to be allowed forty minutes in which to ‘do’ Torcello. Each time, when they had gone, and only the voices of the peasants and the swish of the scythes broke the sunny stillness, Lady Kilmichael settled down into a deepened sense of contentment. She had been here for hours, and felt almost an inhabitant compared to the tourists on the launches. Altogether, that morning, she was content. This journey was being rather a success. Tucked away in an obscure pension overlooking the Giudecca, she had evaded all acquaintances; even her friend Lady Roseneath, who had a Palazzo on the Grand Canal in which she collected all visitors to Venice. She had had a narrow escape, though, from Lady Roseneath one day, in the Merceria; and only saved herself by nipping very swiftly into a small dark shop, and bending her head over a counterful of brightly coloured braces, till all danger was past. She had spent a happ
