582
WRIGHT MORRIS
Continentals.
In
this company the American car is still the world's
standard of conspicuous waste. That someone has brought it
here
numbs the senses like hemlock. Americans who feel there is nothing
in the world as tasteless and bizarre as Southern California might also
take a second look at the Hotel Hungaria. This nightmare would make
a good introduction to Peggy Guggenheim's Dada collection, illustrating
what it was the rebellion was all about.
Relatively unobserved, and unequalled, is the little church of San
Giorgio degli Schiavoni, with a series of paintings by Carpaccio. More
a private chapel than a church, it is perfectly scaled for these celebrated
paintings. Saint George slays the dragon on the wall facing Saint
Jerome in his study, where he is watched by one of the world's im–
mortal dogs. Some artists might well come here to pray, and many
have. Outside, few stones have been turned in the streets where Carpac–
cio, Bellini, and other natives cleared their heads, and took a breath
of fresh air, before going back to work.
In
a piazza full of Germans who lost no weight while several
million of their countrymen were being exterminated, the Venetian
maintains a Swiss-like impartiality. The waiter who sees the tourist
for the first time is inclined to say
Bitte,
or
Danke schon.
The German
tourist still predominates and he is still very much the German tourist.
It
is an instance-in regard to the alien---of the Venetian's "Live and
let live." The stranger meets no resistance, he has no barriers to over–
come. Over the centuries the Venetian has seen
everything,
and it is
currently on display in the Piazza.
All
he asks is that it doesn't rain.
At certain points on the Grand Canal the gondola serves as a
ferry. As a rule the passengers stand, facing the opposite shore. Seated,
they would be of little interest. Standing, the passengers are trans–
formed into specters making the ferry crossing into Hades. Or out
of it. Clearly, they face a judgment: prepare themselves to meet an
end. The motions of the gondolier, the traffic on the canal, enhances
their immobile aspect. Figures of wax or marble could not
be
more
impassive. Something in their aspect, their posture, suggests weightless–
ness. I scan their faces for news that has escaped the rest of us.
At midnight, a scud of clouds over the moon, the sky no longer
lit up with Festa fireworks, four sisters, in black habits, hooded,
watched from the roof of a school bordering the canal. They leaned
on the rail to see the last of the homebound revellers pass. Young
