Adventures of a housesitter: Lost in Padua
I'm strill trying to work out whether there is any way I can blame this on Shakespeare. Or the Oxfordians. Or better yet, Edward de Vere. Somehow. Anyway: Monday night say me attending to the book presentations by Paul Edmondson and Stanley Wells. The books in question were Shakespeare Beyond Doubt and A Year of Shakespeare. Joseph Fiennes was on the cover of the former, thought the authors actually wanted a Max Beerbohm caricature of the bard, but were told the younger Fiennes simply has more recognition value right now; the later documents all the productions that formed a part of the global Shakespeare festival last year, all 35 plays in dozens of languages.
It was a nice evening, though behind me sat a grim looking gentleman who muttered, while Edmondson was talking "I do not like this ironic style of presentation; there are SERIOUS scholars doubting the Stratford man". However, he didn't dare to speak up later on, perhaps intimidated by Edmondson & Wells joking they had a mole at the most recent Oxfordian conference who told them the Oxfordians were aghast that not only did Anonymous flop but was so ridiculous it actually damaged their cause instead of promoting it.
Shakespeare Beyond Doubt isn't solely about refuting the Oxford claim, there are essays why Bacon and Marlowe couldn't have written Will's plays as well, by experts on either. The Marlowe guy is none other than Charles Nicholls, whose The Reckoning about Marlowe's death some of you may have read. Incidentally, Stanley Wells mentioned that there is a new novel about how Marlowe faked his death and became Shakespeare about to be published, for which they have some awed admiration because it's written entirely in verse.
So home I went on a "Will forever!" high and promptly made a fatal mistake. I had planned a trip by train to Padua for Tuesday. Now I have two handbags with me, one tiny, black and small and to go out with, and one big and baggy and there to put tour guides, cameras, and other objects in it. The big handbag was for Padua, obviously, and I had been careful to put in it already said tour guide, and my train tickets, and the number which I had to present in order to get my ticket for Giotto's frescoes in the Capella degli Scrovegni, which was the main reason why I wanted to go to Padua in the first place. What I, thoughts still on matters Shakespearean, completely forgot was to remove my purse with money, credit card and ID from the small to the big handbag.
Come Tuesday, I happily wandered to the railway station, devalued my advance bought ticket and thus didn't have reason to check my purse, flopped down in the train, and 45 minutes later was in Padua, famous for its university, the Giotto paintings, and the tomb of St. Antony, patron of lost things.
Go figure.
By now, it has become very warm in Italy, so when I arrived in Padua, I thought, well, let's buy a small water bottle for the day. Which was when I discovered that I was in complete lack of a purse. Or any money whatsoever. Or a credit card. There were two possibilities: either I had forgotten the wretched thing in my other handbag, or it was stolen. I was pretty sure I simply had forgotten, but you can't be 100% sure, can you? So... what to do? Giotto was waiting. And that ticket had been paid in advance by credit card online, because you have to book tickets in advance, and they're not refundable. I decided to gamble, wandered to the Capella degli Scrovegni, presented my number, and did get my ticket, which however was not due until about four hours later. (I had wanted to play it safe when booking.) As it turns out, there are some churches you can visit in Padua without having to pay an entry fee (there are hardly any in Venice), though no other museums than the one already included in my Giotto ticket. And of course one can stroll through the streets at one's leisure. Padua isn't as striking a city as some other Italian towns, but some of the streets have cobblestones and arcades, which are charming to look at. The Duomo is one mighty baroque church, but not the standout attraction; nor is the basilica St. Guistiniano (also free of entry); that's the basilica of St. Antony, which has the remains of the titular saint in it. Also some beautiful frescoes on the ceilings, which you can hardly see because it's in the process of being restored, and a shrine over the actual tomb which is no holds barred every excess baroque could ever throw at it, sculpture wise. Photography is absolutely forbidden but I managed one shot nonetheless. Now, not all of Antony rests there. No, they keep his tongue and chin separately as relics. Here I was reminded of my hometown Bamberg, where they used to keep the skulls of the sainted Imperial couple buried in our cathedral on separate altars, and child!me always wondered who decapitated Heinrich and Kunigunde.
With Antonius, it's even worse. I mean, who pulled out his tongue from the body? Seriously. And currently a poster boasts that it's the 750th anniversary of Antony's tongue being discovered intact, even.
One of my grandmothers was an Antonia and always lit a candle to her patron saint when she was looking for lost things, but I felt split between two thoughts in that basilica: 1.) Who pulled out the tongue? and 2.) Please, St. Antony, let me find my purse in the black small handbag when I get back to Venice!
...and a third thought about the blessed water starting to look good. See, by the time I arrived at the basilica St. Antony I had been walking around for two and half hours, and did I mention it was HOT?
Anyway: I made it back to the Capella degli Scrovegni and surrounding museums, which were included in my ticket. The archaeological one surprised me by having various letters by Giovanni Belzoni (see last narrative post), some medals in his honour and a bust showing him as well as a Sekhmet statue which he donated to the city of Padua. The multimedia room, which usually I skip in museums but which now was cool and allowed me to sit a bit, had a short film about Enrico Scrovegni, who had hired Giotto to paint his chapel, and how one of his key motives for the whole chapel building and painting enterprise had been the fact that his father had been a moneylender and even had been mentioned by name by Dante in the Divine Comedy as being in hell. Basically, the film claimed Enrico's thought process had been that chapel + Giotto's paintings beats literature, as far as the postumous fate of his old man was concerned.
Be that as it may: they're really careful about keeping corrosion away from these frescoes. As mentioned, you have to book your tickets in advance, there are only a certain number of people allowed in the chapel, you first are let into a room where you sit for 15 minutes getting attuned to the cool air condition that prevails in the chapel, then the automatic door opens and you enter the chapel itself, and then you stay there for another 15 minutes precisely, after which you're kicked out through another exit. But, you know: so worth it.
Giotto is at the transition point between late middle ages and early Renaissance, and of course I had seen some post card size reproductions, but nothing like the real thing. Which is absolutely amazing. The chapel shows three narrative cycles - in almost comic strip form - one about Mary's parents, Joachim and Anna, one about Mary, and one about Jesus. And there is passion and movement in these paintings: for example, the one about the murder of the children at Nazareth. I've seen many variations of this subject, but never one where the focus of the painting was on the women, the mothers, and where they were presented as an angry, crying, outraged and active crowd, tears on their cheeks, shaking fists, clutching the children, fighting back. Or: a nativity scene with Mary, Joseph and Jesus. Mary is lying half on her side, half on her belly and holding her baby to look at him. I've never seen Mary depicted like this in a nativity scene, and I bet Giotto must have observed women playing with their babies this way. And the colours are so vivid and intense; it's breathtaking.
As I sat in the train back to Venice (at least I had bought the return ticket in advance as well - I'd have been so screwed otherwise) , the Giotto effect started to fade, and the slow nibbling sense of impending hysteria started. What if I HAD brought my purse with me, and it had been stolen on the train? What then? So, dehydrated as I was by then (and, err, with a somewhat growling stomach), I practically jumped out of the train car and raced back to the Fondamente Nuove, up the stairs, with no glance at the accusing Augustus bust, burst into my rooms, and there it was, my small black handbag. With my purse.
Today I was in Vincenza (also just an hour by train from Venice) and everything went well, plus it is full of gorgeous architecture, which means you'll get a pic spam tomorrow once I managed to upload all the photos. But the Padua tale had to get an entry of its own. Damm Edward de Vere anyway!
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