In Venice, mass tourism has become a very real and constant threat to the city’s existence and far outweighs the natural peril of being washed away to sea. In addition, many of the residents situated in the old part of the city can no longer afford to live there because of over-inflated real-estate prices. It’s all incredibly sad. The worst offenders with regards to tourists are the gigantic cruise ships. Docking in the beautiful Venetian lagoon, they disgorge a vast number of passengers who, because they are fed and watered aboard, don’t even contribute to the local economy, save for the odd souvenir. The Venetian authorities are unapologetic about welcoming these huge vessels, more’s the pity, as Venice apparently keeps the entire Adriatic cruise industry afloat, providing tens of thousands of jobs. I found out quite recently that things are so bad these days that even the city’s UNESCO World Heritage status is under threat.
When Pru and I arrived in Venice with the Canal Journeys crew, we attempted to buck the trend by not behaving like tourists. The original plan suggested by the production company had been to take the Orient Express to Verona, and then approach Venice via the Brenta Canal, which would have been incredibly touristy, but given the situation we decided not to come by rail. Instead we flew to Venice and spent our first night in the beautiful city of Mira, which is situated on the mainland. The next morning we went to the ancient town of Dolo, where a boat was waiting to take us along the Brenta Canal.
Our boat immediately met with Pru’s approval. ‘Very nice,’ she said. ‘Didn’t the Venetian nobles regularly come on this canal?’
‘Yes, they did,’ I confirmed. ‘But they would have travelled in even more luxurious vessels called burchiellos, which, more often than not, were adorned with velvet and gold leaf.’
I assumed that my lesson in Italian maritime history might have fallen on deaf ears as Pru had wandered off, but I was wrong.
‘I don’t suppose they had a fridge in their burchiello,’ she said, waving a bottle of chilled wine she’d found.
‘No, I don’t suppose they did,’ I replied. ‘Then again, the Venetians have always claimed that for every four kilometres of canal you need one litre of wine, so they obviously managed somehow.’
The Brenta canal boasts six elegant locks that are thought to have been designed by Leonardo da Vinci. Unfortunately, they lay upstream of our journey, so we had to make do with the impressive number of very grand houses that were built along the waterway as a result of the repeal of an early law forbidding Venetians to build on the mainland. One of these houses is an elegant Palladian villa called the Villa Foscari – also known as La Malcontenta – that was built in the late 1550s for the ancient noble Foscari family, who have owned it ever since. We were privileged to meet Antonio Foscari, who rescued the place from neglect in 1973 and restored it to its original condition.
‘Which of the wives was malcontenta?’ Pru asked me as we arrived at the villa.
‘Why do you assume it was one of the wives?’ I asked her.
‘Because it’s malcontent-a and not malcontent-or,’ she said.
That was me told. ‘Well,’ I replied. ‘I expect she was very malcontent at being shut away for thirty years for having an affair.’
‘Was she really?’ said Pru. ‘Good heavens. That’s a bit unfortunate.’
Actually it was indeed quite unfortunate, as in those days it was considered perfectly normal for a Venetian wife to take a lover.
Pru and me had visited Venice a couple of times before (which was one reason I’d been keen on us returning, as I thought it might evoke some happy memories for Pru) but we had never approached it from the mainland. As we emerged from the canal into the lagoon, we looked out into the distance and watched the gradual appearance through the haze of this magical island resting in the sea. It was an unforgettable experience.
We at last bullied our way into a mooring (how well we know that problem) and disembarked onto the Piazza San Marco, the social, religious and, of course, touristic centre of Venice. At the Caffè Florian, patronized at different times by Byron, Goldoni, Goethe, Dickens and Proust, we were told of the strong aphrodisiac properties of hot chocolate, habitually ordered by Giacomo Casanova for his companions.
‘Did you know they’ve been serving coffee and hot chocolate here since before you were born?’ I said to Pru as we entered.
‘Really? How long’s that?’
‘Ooh, about 1720.’
‘Charming!’
Since arriving in Venice, Pru seemed to have had a permanent smile on her face, and her infectious lust for life had become more palpable than ever. Venice was having the desired effect, that’s for sure, although I hadn’t expected it to be quite so potent. As we were making our way carefully to our next appointment Pru suddenly, and without warning, started singing some of the libretto from The Barber of Seville.
‘Bravo!’ I said, once she’d finished. ‘Where on earth did that come from?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, somewhere,’ she replied, with a broad and beautiful smile.
I had played the title role in a production King Lear in 1971 at Venice’s world-famous Teatro la Fenice as part of that year’s Venice Biennale. Considered too modern for Milan, Verdi’s La Traviata and Rigoletto had both premiered there, a fact that had not been lost on me at the time. A quarter of a century later in 1996, this most beautiful of theatres had been completely destroyed by a fire and had had to be completely reconstructed.
It took two years and ninety million Euros to resurrect the opera house’s mid-nineteenth century heyday. ‘What do you think Pru?’ I asked as we entered the auditorium. It was my first time there in almost half a century and it felt exactly the same.
‘It’s incredible,’ she said. ‘You’re so lucky to have performed here.’
An altogether different kind of theatrical experience awaited us at our next appointment, which was at the famous historical costumiers, Nicolao Atelier, where the actor Alessandro Bressanello dressed us in traditional costumes of the Commedia dell’Arte and improvised some scenes with us. It’s a very actor-based kind of theatre; there is no place for writers or directors. But Carlo Goldoni, while using familiar Commedia situations, developed them in a more formal style, with the playwright always in control. Commedia troupes were actually the first in Europe to employ women to play female parts, we discovered, a device that proved so popular that sometimes scenes were included that encouraged girls to appear completely naked. Critics were not impressed by this (the playwright Ben Jonson described one female Commedia performer as a ‘tumbling whore’) and the Catholic church even less so. Indeed, the inclusion of women was deemed so scandalous by the Vatican that actors were not allowed to be buried in its cemeteries. That last fact garnered a gasp from Pru and me.
After having done our level best to remain a cut above the uncouth tourists, we finally succumbed to riding in a gondola, that timeless Venetian image. It was late at night, when the Grand Canal was deserted, and it was wonderful sailing in the moonlight. Just the splash of our gondolier’s oar, and his song echoing from the walls of the silent palaces – it doesn’t get much better than that. Pru was the happiest I’d seen her in years, and I was quite contented myself. This was turning out to be a marvellous trip.
The following morning, as the throngs of tourists began to appear, we wondered how many of them were aware of the secret behind the city’s soaring spires and elegant squares. The reason for us considering such a question was because we were about to visit the Arsenale, the great shipyard at which, in the eleventh century, shipwrights, using separate workshops for carpenters, sailmakers, pitch-boilers, ropemakers and so on, would construct up to three large ships in a single day. The present enlarged complex was built in 1320.
Dante, in The Divine Comedy, pays tribute to the tireless workforce in his portrayal of one of his eight circles of hell:
As in the Arsenal of the Venetians
Boils in the winter the tenacious pitch
[…]
One hammers at the prow, one at the stern,
This one makes oars, and that one cordage twists,
Another mends the mainsail and the mizzen.
Thus, not by fire, but by the art divine,
Was boiling down below a dense pitch
Which upon every side the bank belimed.
We went over to the island of Burano, where we met two attractive young women who were the local champion rowers. In their boat, which is called a puparin, they stand facing forwards with an oar each – one in the centre and one at the stern – which makes it easier to spot the sandbanks and sail along at an incredible rate. The girls kindly asked me if I’d like to have a go, but I thought I’d leave it to the experts. Puparins are perfect for fishing the shallow waters of the lagoon but were clearly not designed for transporting two nervy actors. Pru didn’t say as much, but I think she was quite relieved.