1816: the Grandest Tour

Italy: Chapter 11

Rising late the next day, George had the notion to look through their various letters of introduction. Pulling the sheets from the special compartment in his trunk a familiar sensation of awe swept over him. He glanced over the monarchs first: Louis XVIII of France, Maximilian Joseph of Bavaria, Karl August of Weimar, and of course dear old Ernst Ulrich of Hundwald-Pferdigstadt. They all had a suitably official tone and appearance, and but for Ernst Ulrich's were written in the hand of a royal secretary. George noticed with a smile that even Ernst had attempted the pompous and high-flown style of the 'real' monarchs, after his own fashion.

Then he came to the more personal notes from private acquaintances. First was one he'd almost forgotten about: a short note from Pierre-Narcisse Guérin, the French master artist whose workshop they'd seen with Dr. Boxborough. He'd kindly written them an introduction to the French Academy in Rome, which would give them access to all of that country's brightest painters working in the Eternal City. With a sigh George then came to the poor doctor's own two letters: his eloquent introduction and enigmatic farewell. Studying the strange owl symbol of the Cognoscenti for the hundredth time, he shook his head ruefully and put them aside. Susan's handful of letters were in a different compartment, along with a lock of her hair, but George did not allow himself to think of those things just now. What brought him more cheer was Goethe's erudite letter, full of warm words he wasn't sure he and Tobias deserved. And then he reached Madame de Staël's lucid, ineffable prose. This letter he would treasure forever – perhaps more for the memory of that evening and the lady's conversation than its usefulness as an introduction. Reading through each line he realized the style might be too authoritative, too bold for what people would expect from a woman. Goethe's was straight to the point, and as a seasoned courtier he knew how to flatter a reader without even having met them.

It was thus Goethe's letter that they took to the next assembly at the Countess of Albrizzi's salon. Gaetano recommended hers as the finest society Venice had to offer in terms of a cultivated and artistic regular attendance. Accordingly George, Tobias, and Isaac picked out their most tasteful outfits for the evening and hoped their passable ability in French had not deserted them. When the hour approached they descended – with Gaetano of course, who could act as a translator of language and culture as necessary – and took a gondola to the western bend in the Grand Canal. Here the Countess's beautiful cinquecento palazzo dominated the surroundings: looming in silhouette from the sunset behind, while each columned floor hosted whole phalanxes of marble statues.

"What does the Countess enjoy discussing, signore?" Tobias asked their guide, trying to hide the nerves in his voice.

"Like any great hostess, the lady loves nothing more than her guests speaking freely on subjects they enjoy," said the guide.

Tobias nodded, somewhat cheered by this.

"I should warn you all though," Gaetano continued, "the discussion of recent history, and above all politics, is most positively to be avoided. We are, after all, Austrian subjects once again. The Empire has ears listening everywhere, not least at assemblies such as these."

George nodded gravely, though he wondered whether he should feel hurt that their guide might not entirely trust their own discretion – especially after what they had told him about Otto, Gaetano's suspicious predecessor. Notwithstanding this, he and the other two thanked the man for his advice and made ready to climb out, as they were drawing near the opposite bank.

"The one exception to this rule," Gaetano said unexpectedly, "is when a comment on the present can be framed within a discussion of the past. In other words: out with Napoleon, in with Caesar."