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Meetings with remarkable people in Venice (Italy) and Chelsea (London)

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Every year until I was 17, I used to accompany my parents to Venice. There, we stayed at the Pensione La Calcina in the Zattere district. This accommodation, where the nineteenth century cultural guru John Ruskin (1819-1900) used to stay, was next to the large Giudecca Canal. And each time we stayed there, we met other regular visitors, whom we got to know quite well …

We always took demi-pension at the Calcina – room, breakfast (such as it was), and one main meal. Usually, we ate lunch there and had our evening meals elsewhere. The dining room was L-shaped. Most of the clientele sat in the long and larger part of the dining room but regular guests, such as us, sat in the shorter section at right angles to its longer section. There were 5 tables in this part. Our family occupied a table at the end of it and next to a window that looked out towards the Giudecca Canal from which we could watch its gently undulating waves glistening and glinting in the bright midday sun.

Every summer, we dined with the same guests who, like us, stayed at the Calcina year after year. Each party occupied the same table each year. Behind and next to us, there were two elderly Russian men. They were, my mother once explained, ‘Whites’ not ‘Reds’ – they had fled the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917. Although she was not sure, she felt that they were homosexuals. They never said much at lunch except once when one of them expressed the opinion that the paintings in the Accademia Gallery had been ruined by cleaning. He thought that the old masters had looked far better before the restorers had removed layers of yellowing varnish to reveal the bright colours had been hidden beneath them.

Each of two tables facing each other and close to ours were occupied by two Polish composers and their respective wives. One of these musicians was named Horowitz. He was not related to the famous pianist as far as I know. The other was named Tansman.  I did not realise it at the time, but he was none other than the composer Alexander Tansman (1897-1986). Although he might not be as well known to the public as some of his contemporaries, he was, and still is, highly regarded by musical cognoscenti. The two composers spent much of their lunchtimes glaring at each other. They appeared to disagree about most things except one. And that was the appalling quality of the food that used to be served in the Calcina. As soon as the main course arrived at table, everyone in the regulars’ section of the dining room looked at each other, raising their eyebrows knowingly.

The food was served to the regulars by a friendly waiter, who was at the Calcina year after year. Along with the ladies, the owner Ms Scolozzi and her manager, Miss Steiner, he was a permanent fixture at the pensione.  I often felt that he sympathised with us. I am sure that he knew that what he was serving was probably unenjoyable, but that was his job. At the end of lunch, fruit would be served. This always included grapes, which he pronounced as ‘greeps’.

There was one more regular who lunched with us. A well-built elderly American, he remained an enigma for years. He beamed at us in a friendly way, but said nothing during our meals. It was not until one morning in the early 1970s that we learned more about him. For some reason we left the Calcina later than usual: at 11 o’clock instead of the usual 10 or half-past. We were standing waiting outside the pensione when my mother noticed a gondola draped with green cloths pulling up at the corner where the nearby small side canal, which ran alongside the Pensione Seguso, next door to La Calcina, met the much larger Giudecca Canal. The gondolier, a young man, was dressed in green livery that matched the drapes on his highly polished black boat.

Soon after this gondola had moored, we noticed our elderly American fellow diner emerging from the main entrance of the Calcina. He headed straight for the recently arrived gondola, and then boarded it. Next, he sat down, and then started reading a newspaper whilst the gondolier began to row him across the Giudecca Canal. We watched his gondola crossing the water, before it disappeared into one of the small canals that traversed the Giudecca Island before reaching the lagoon. We were fascinated and intrigued. After he disappeared, we began our morning’s activity.

My mother was never shy when she needed to know something. So, after lunch that day, she stopped our mysterious American lunch neighbour and asked him about the gondola and its liveried oarsman. He explained that every day, he was ferried out into the lagoon in the gondola. When he reached the lagoon, he took over the oar and rowed around the waters of the lagoon for an hour before handing the oar back to the gondolier, who then rowed him back to the Calcina in time for lunch. Remarkable as it was that a non-Venetian could row a gondola competently, what he told us next was even more amazing.

Mr Milliken, as he identified himself, was, as my father – a keen amateur art historian – was most excited to learn, none other than the director of the well-respected Cleveland Art Museum in the USA. The liveried gondolier, whom we had observed, was the grandson of his late mother’s personal gondolier. She used to accompany Mr Millikan on his annual visits to Venice before WW2, and employed her own gondolier during her stays.

Later that day, we asked Miss Steiner about Milliken. She told us that he visited the Calcina every year on the anniversary of either the birth or the death of his mother – I cannot remember which. He occupied the room in which she used to stay. It would be furnished exactly as it was when she was alive, and was kept decked with fresh flowers – not the plastic ones that adorned so many Italian hotels. We were most interested to learn this, but I did not think about it much until years later when I looked up Milliken on the internet and discovered that he had published a book about Venice called “Unfamiliar Venice”. I obtained a copy of this from a second-hand bookseller. It is a beautifully written and illustrated book, clearly the work of one who knew the city intimately. However, nowhere except in his dedicatory words does he make any reference to his own very personal connection with the place. He wrote: “To my mother, ‘The lady who loved Venice,’ and Bernard Berenson, who encouraged me to write these impressions.” The biographical note on the book’s endpaper added that Milliken had spent several months in Venice each year since 1921, when he was aged 32, but not during WW2. In his autobiography, “Born under the Sign of Libra”, I discovered that his mother’s gondolier was a member of the Fabris family. I also learnt that his mother, like mine, had a fear of small boats, but made an exception of the gondola.

We were not yet on speaking terms with our fellow diner Mr Milliken in 1960 when the Olympic Games were held in Rome during the height of summer. However, he and the other regular lunch diners including my father used to crowd around the Calcina’s only TV set after lunch during the Games. It was a small black and white receiver situated in the sitting room that adjoined the dining room. All the diners from the regulars’ section used to cluster around it to check on the latest Olympic results. Each time one of the Soviet Bloc countries won a medal, everyone booed. When a non-Soviet Bloc nation won, it was usually West Germany or the USA, they cheered. One thing apart from the awful food served in the pensione united those who sat near us at lunch in the Calcina, and that was a dislike of Communism. This was hardly surprising as the regulars included Russian émigrés, Poles, and an American; and the Games were being held during the height of the so-called Cold War.

A few years before my last visit to Venice with my parents, I met a couple who were destined to play a prominent role in my social life during the late 1960s and the early 1970s.

One evening whilst we were standing in front of the Calcina, my father greeted an elderly lady who was walking hand in hand with an equally elderly, but taller, man. It was touching to see them as they were clearly very much in love. The woman was a colleague of my father at the London School of Economics (‘LSE’). Her name was Kit Russell, and she was until her retirement in 1973 an academic member of the School’s Department of Social Administration. Her husband Sheridan was an almoner by profession. They used to stay at the Seguso which was next door to the Calcina. After that first encounter, we used to bump into them often whenever we visited Venice. As far as I know, the Russells were not part of my parents’ social circle; I had never heard of them before we met them in Venice.

One evening in Venice before August 1970 that is when I was still a secondary school student, Kit asked me whether I enjoyed listening to classical music. When I answered affirmatively, she said that she would be sure to invite me to one of the musical evenings that she and Sheridan held at their home. So it was that I turned up one Saturday evening at the Russell’s ground floor flat in Lindsey House in Cheyne Walk close to the River Thames. It dated back to the 17th century, but the ground floor flat occupied by the Russels resulted from an 18th century modification of the building. Separated from the river only by its front garden and a street, it is now maintained by the National Trust.

I attended many musical evenings at the Russell’s place. They all followed the same pattern, but always differed in detail. On arrival at the flat, the 30 or so guests would mingle and help themselves to what Kit called the ‘Stones of Venice’. These were almonds covered by a sugary coating that was coloured to make them resemble washed pebbles. The Russells used to buy them in bulk when they visited Venice. When everyone including the guest musicians had arrived, the audience would sit on a variety of objects ranging from sofas to cushions on the floor. After my first musical soirée, Kit used to ask me to sit on a chair near the windowsill upon which the telephone was perched. My job was to answer the telephone should it ring during the music, and I was to say: “We are having a party. Please ring again tomorrow,” and then to replace the receiver quickly. Fortunately, I never ever had to do this because it never rang.

When we were all seated, Sheridan, an accomplished ‘cello player, would introduce the guest musicians. Most of them were well-known professional players. Maria Lidka (1914-2013), a highly accomplished violinist who had fled from Nazi Germany, appeared frequently at these soirées. One evening, the famous pianist Louis Kentner (1905-1987) joined Sheridan’s ensemble. Kit persuaded him to give me a lift part of the way home in his car. He did so, but very reluctantly.

In addition to Sheridan, there would be up to 5 other musicians, but more usually 2 or 3. They were usually string players and pianists, but on one occasion there was a clarinettist. It was at this party that I first heard the beautiful clarinet quintet by Brahms. Sheridan explained to me that the members of his ensembles were different for each soirée. No musician would ever be invited to play with the same group of musicians more than once. And also none of his guest musicians would play the same composition more than once. Further, the Russells varied the composition of the audience so that everyone had a chance to meet someone new.

The guest musicians had no idea what they would be asked to play until they arrived. Sheridan had rehearsed the pieces in advance, but his musician guests had not. They played each work either from memory or by sight-reading. The performances were truly impromptu, but that did not matter because all the players were of the highest calibre. Kit and Sheridan made sure that none of the audience, many of whom were regular attendees, ever heard the same pieces more than once. Apart from being highly enjoyable, each of the soirées was a masterpiece of planning.

Once, Maria Lidka’s son, the then young ‘cellist Marius May, was invited to play for us. All went well for a while until suddenly one of his instrument’s strings snapped noisily. It sounded like a gunshot. Marius had to stop playing. One of his fingers had begun to swell horribly having just been assaulted by the broken string.  Fortunately, this did not put an end to his promising career as a professional musician.

The lights were turned down and, if it was summer, the curtains were drawn. Then, the first piece of the evening was performed. The Russell’s living room was the perfect setting for chamber music, much of which had been written soon before or just after the room had been built. Its acoustics were second to none. Sheridan always played with his back to the audience. Kit used to sit a short distance away from his right hand, beaming lovingly at him. I will never forget her sweet smile and her obvious care and affection for him. As he grew older, Sheridan used to wear gloves even during the performance. He would remove them only when he had to play. During the intervals in which he was counting bars without playing, he used to slip his aging shaky hands back into his gloves. I used to be saddened seeing my elderly friend having to do this.

During the interval that followed the first piece of music, we were allowed to mingle whilst we enjoyed the refreshments that Kit brought out from her kitchen. These were always the same: savoury biscuits upon which there were small pieces of a yellow hard cheese that was studded with caraway seeds. Glasses of red wine were served with this snack. After the interval, the second piece of the evening was performed. When that was over, we all bade farewell to our hosts and went our own ways. I used to love attending these evening chamber concerts. It was wonderful hearing Brahms, Beethoven, and Mozart, performed in such a perfect environment.

Sheridan, who was born in 1900, married Kit when he was 57. He told me once during an interval at one of his soirées that marrying her allowed him to do something that he had always wanted to do, but was unable to do so as a bachelor. And that was to become a marriage guidance councillor.

The encounters described above are amongst my fond memories of Venice – a place I still enjoy visiting. And had it not been for meeting Kit and Sheridan on a warm summer night in Venice, I might never have been able to experience the magical musical occasions at their home in London.

A British artist inspired by paintings in Venice

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THERE IS SOMETHING SPECIAL about the quality of ambient light in Venice (Italy). It enhances the attractiveness of the many beautiful buildings that the city contains. Maybe the special nature of the light is because it both shines on Venice and then gets reflected back by the water that both surrounds and flows through the city. Whatever the explanation might be, Venice’s natural lighting conditions have attracted, and continue to attract, artists from all over the world. One of these is the British painter David Price (born 1970), who has made many trips to Venice, and is currently exhibiting his paintings influenced by these visits at the Frestonian Gallery (in London W11 4BE) until 17 April 2025.

David has written (quoted from the Frestonian’s website):

“For as long as I can remember I have drawn from paintings. As a child, my only access to art was through the few books that my parent’s kept, some of which had tiny black and white reproductions within them. These books were my first art teachers and I drew from the Rembrandts and Poussins and Titians inside … All of my life I have made drawings in galleries and from books and these sketches have informed and inspired my practice for over 40 years.”

The paintings on display at the gallery were largely inspired by seeing late Renaissance paintings in various locations in Venice including the Scuola Grande di San Rocco, the Accademia Gallery, the Church of Madonna del’Orto, and other churches in the city. At first sight, the connection between David’s exuberantly coloured and beautifully executed paintings and the great works he saw that inspired him are not immediately obvious. Someone well-trained in the art of the late Renaissance might after a while discern something that reminded him or her of the original old masters. However, no knowledge of the history of art is necessary to gain enjoyment from David’s creations. The paintings are neither copies nor parodies of the old originals, but express the artist’s reactions to them.

What struck me as I viewed the paintings is that many of them capture both the quality of the light in Venice as well as well as the city’s rich tradition of carnival and other similar spectacular events. Whether or not this was one of the artist’s intentions. I have no idea, but seeing his works evoked memories of a city that I have visited many times during the last seven decades.

Although the Frestonian is a little way off the main London commercial galleries’ ‘beaten track’, it is well worth visiting. Housed near Shepherds Bush roundabout in what is the only survivor of the short-lived Republic of Frestonia (see: www.linkedin.com/pulse/frestonia-londons-independent-republic-exhibition-adam-yamey/), the gallery hosts a regular series of well-curated temporary exhibitions.

A church with maps in Venice

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SANTA MARIA DEL GIGLIO, or ‘Santa Maria Zobenigo’ as it is commonly named in Venice, is a baroque church with a magnificent façade. It was built between 1678 and 1681. The edifice was constructed by Giuseppe Sardi for Admiral Antonio Barbaro, who died in 1679. Amongst his many achievements he was Provveditore Generale (Governor General) of Venetian Dalmatia and Venetian Albania in 1670-71.

During my many visits to Venice, most of which were made annually with my parents during the 1960s, I have passed the church and noted an interesting feature of its façade. The base of this is decorated with six carved stone bas-relief maps. These have always fascinated me, but it was only after our recent trip to Venice in September 2022 that I finally got around to investigating them.

The maps are of Spalato (Split in Croatia); Corfu; Roma (Rome); Padoa (Padua); Candia (Haraklion in Crete); and Zara (Zadar in Croatia). Except for Rome, these are all places that were once governed by Venice. The maps depict places where Antonio Barbaro served in one capacity or another.

Wnen James (later Jan) Morris wrote “Venice” (published 1960), which is I believe the best book written about Venice, he/she noted of the façade of Santa Maria Zobenigo that:

“… it is notorious because not one item of its convoluted design has any religious significance whatsoever.”

Morris also pointed out something I have never noticed on that façade. Namely, that it bears a crest with a double-headed eagle, the crest of the Barbaro family. As this symbol interests me, I checked it out. The Barbaro family might have used it because of their connection to the Vlasto family, who were prominent in Rome by the end of 2nd century AD (see; www.christopherlong.co.uk/per/vlasto.byzantium.html). By the end of the 11th century, the Vlasto family was members of important families including the Barbaro’s. The Vlasto family crest includes the double-headed eagle, which amongst other things, was a Byzantine symbol. Interestingly, the Vlasto’s had already begun using it in the early 1st century AD, while the Byzantines only began using it in the 12th – 13th centuries. Maybe I never noticed the double-headed eagle because whenever I have passed the church, my eyes have been drawn to the maps on its fine façade. They fascinated me so much that I never bothered to look upwards.

Eating there again at least 50 years later in Venice

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EARLY IN SEPTEMBER (2022), I was eating spaghetti alle vongole (spaghetti with clams) in a restaurant in Venice (Italy). The place where I was eating this delicious dish has many memories for me.

Lantern hanging outside the entrance to the Antica Locanda Montin

During the late 1950s and throughout the 1960s, my parents took my sister and me for annual holidays in Venice. My parents were discerning eaters. Unfortunately, back in those now far-off times, there were very few restaurants in Venice which served food that met my parents’ approval.  Eventually, they homed in on one place that they liked enough to return there for every evening meal (our accommodation provided lunch as part of our demi-pension deal). That restaurant is called the Antica Locanda Montin (‘the Montin’). According to its website, it has hosted celebrities including Modigliani, Ezra Pound, Robert de Niro, Luigi Nono, and David Bowie. Well, I did not know that when I used to dine there with my family.

During our recent trip to Venice, we found out that the Montin is still in business, and we booked a table for lunch. To my delight and amazement, the restaurant looks exactly as it did when I last visited it over 50 years ago. It does not seem to have changed one little bit. The front of the Montin faces a small canal. The dining room is long and rectangular. At the far end opposite the front door, a rear door gives access to a pleasant garden, where people can eat in good weather. The walls of the dining room are covered with framed paintings, many of them of great artistic quality. Apparently, they have been donated over the years by artists, who have dined in the restaurant.

I cannot remember what I used to eat at the Montin over 50 years ago. However, my spaghetti alle vongole was tasty and enjoyable. My wife and our daughter were also happy with what they ate. Our lunch was one of the better meals we ate during our four days in Venice. What I enjoyed even more than the food was discovering that the Montin looks as it did when I was much younger. I am glad that the place has survived the trying times we have been through recently and Italy’s various economic crises.

Cabot: from Venice to Newfoundland

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THE DISCOVERY OF Canada by Europeans is not usually at the forefront of my mind, especially just after an airflight landing in Venice. Yet when we disembarked from the waterbus that carried us from Marco Polo Airport to the city, I noticed a building that surprised me at the south end of the Via Garibaldi (in the Castello ‘sestier’ of Venice). It has one plaque commemorating Giovanni Caboto (c1450-c1500) and his son Sebastiano Caboto (c1450-c1557). Giovanni is better known (to me) as John Cabot. I had no idea that Cabot, the ‘discoverer’ of Newfoundland was from the Italian peninsular. Sebastiano was also a maritime explorer. His most famous work was done in South America.

Cabot(o) lived here in Venice

Giovanni Caboto’s birthplace is unknown, but is likely to have been in the Province of Genoa. By 1476, he had become a Citizen of Venice. He was a trader there. Getting into financial difficulties, he left Venice for Spain in the late 1480s. After seeking financial support for a trans-Atlantic expedition, which never happened, he set off for England in 1495. Cabot, as he became known in England, went to Bristol. From that seaport, he led at least three expeditions to explore the east coast of North America. During these voyages, he set foot on what is now called Newfoundland and probably also on parts of what is now Nova Scotia. One of his later expeditions is believed to have been one of the earliest attempts to discover a Northwest Passage.

Cabot received a reward for his services from England’s King Henry VII. Where John Cabot died is uncertain. It might have been during his last expedition to North America during the period 1498-1501, but no one knows for sure whether he died at sea, or in North America, or after his expedition had returned to England.

A monument on the house in Via Garibaldi, which was placed in 1982 by the Canadian Province of Newfoundland, records that John’s discoveries in 1497 were made with his son Sebastiano. The house that bears this monument (written both in English and French) and another one in Italian, is said to be the house where John Cabot lived in Venice. From many of its windows, the great explorer would have had a good view of the lagoon and the quays, where trading vessels might well have been loaded and unloaded.

Our rented apartment was on a narrow street leading off the Via Garibaldi. I was pleased to see that this is close to a narrow alleyway called Ramo Primo Caboto.

Sad to leave, glad to return

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AT THE END of a four day stay in Venice, a city, which I have loved ever since my early childhood days, I felt sad at the prospect of departure for home. Wandering about the city brought back happy memories of visits there with my parents as well as giving me the chance to experience familiar sights and to make new discoveries. Although Venice is a little overrun with tourists, its history as a gateway to points further east remains fascinating and evocative. So, the anticipation of leaving filled me with sadness.

We left Venice on a waterbus, which arrived punctually and was not overcrowded. After a lovely 70 minute voyage, which included stops at the Lido, the Fondamente Nove, and a couple of stops on the island of Murano (famous for its glass production), we arrived at Marco Polo Airport. And that is where our journey became wearying.

First, we had to queue to reach the baggage depositing facility for our airline Easyjet. Next, we discovered that our departure would be delayed by about 30 minutes. Then, we sat in a crowded waiting area without knowing from which gate we would be boarding our ‘plane. It was important to know this because there are two sets of passport control points, each leading to a separate set of gates. Once the gate was announced, another queue. This time, we had to wait (not too long) to have stamps placed in our non-EU passports. On arrival at the departure gate, we were told that boarding was beginning. What this meant was that everybody had to stand up, to show our boarding passes, and then to stand in a long sloping corridor for at least 10 minutes before we were invited on-board. The 1 hour 55 minute flight to London’s Gatwick Airport was pleasant, although delayed.

At Gatwick, we disembarked at a point distant from the immigration hall. The latter was reached after a good 15 minute walk. The passport control area was chock-full of people, some of them inebriated. Unlike in the EU, where EU and non-EU passport holders are separated, at Gatwick (and Heathrow), both kinds of passport holders and those from several other countries (e.g., Australia, NZ, and Japan) queue together to use the automated passport checking machines. The process, which might save spending on labour costs, is not user-friendly. Many passengers had difficulty using the machines and had to be helped by other passengers and a few members of airport staff. Fortunately, because it had taken so long to get through the immigration control, our suitcase had arrived in the baggage collection hall.

After one more short, but fast-moving queue, we reclaimed our car keys, and soon began the 1 hour drive home. Although I was so sad leaving Venice, after the many hours spent at airports and the numerous lines in which we waited, I was glad to be home. Years ago, when I was a child, leaving wherever we had spent our holiday was always sad, but even worse was returning to everyday routines of school and life in the staid Hampstead Garden Suburb, where we lived.

Music in the piazza

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MUSIC IS A PART of what I associate with St Marks Square in Venice (Italy). Whether it be the occasional outdoor orchestral concerts that used to be held in on summer evenings in the 1960s, when we made annual family visits to the watery city, or the small bands that play on stages next to some of the square’s costly cafés. One of these ‘cafs’ is Florian’s, where a 6 Euro charge is added to your bill for the music.

Florian with its beautiful neo-baroque rooms that are entered beneath the arcade surrounding the Square was founded in 1720 as ‘Alla Venezia Trionfante’ but soon became known by its present name.

We looked at the menu at Florian, but although it is an extremely romantic place, there is a substantial price to pay to be an active part of it!

To Venice by crossing the water

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THE LAST TIME I flew into Venice’s Marco Polo airport was in the late 1960s with my parents. In those days, the airport was tiny in comparison with what it is now. Back then, there were two ways of reaching the city of Venice from Marco Polo: by bus to Piazzale Roma, or far more expensively, in a private water taxi, in effect a speed boat. Despite my mother’s tendency to become seasick easily, we always took the speedy water taxi from the airport to our pensione on the Fondamente Zattere. In those now distant times, the airport arrival hall was much closer to the shore of the lagoon than it is today.

Water bus

Times have changed. The airport has grown and is far from the waterfront. Although there are still plenty of speedy water taxis carrying passengers, there is now a regular, moderately priced water bus service, which links Marco Polo to many points in Venice. We used this service.

As we crossed the lagoon, many water taxis sped past us. We passed Murano and the cemetery island of St Michele. Then, as we approached the Fondamente Nuova on Venice proper, I spotted the curious domed Bell Tower of the church of Madonna dell’Orto. I looked at it and felt a lump in my throat as I remembered the numerous times I visited that church with my parents to see the frescos within it. It was one of my favourite Venetian excursions, being taken to see that edifice.

After getting off at the wrong stop (mea culpa) and boarding another vessel, we reached our destination near the Gardens where much of the Venice Biennale happens. There is no doubt that arriving in Venice by traversing the water in a boat is far more dramatic and pleasant than arriving across the bridge by train or bus.

Examining the past

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ON 13th AUGUST 2020, MANY YOUNGSTERS in England received the results of the state’s university admission examinations. This year of plague and social distancing, 2020, the results have not been determined by the students themselves writing examination papers but by a clumsy, somewhat arbitrary, algorithm that takes various factors other than a student’s own ability into account. Things were quite different last year and back in 1970 when I sat the A-Level examinations required for admission to university.

BLOG EXAM

Back then, as now, universities offered places to potential students subject to achieving or exceeding certain grades at A-Level. The place that was my first choice amongst the six universities I chose was University College London (‘UCL’). In ‘my time’, UCL invited potential students for extensive interviewing. I was invited to spend a whole day at the Physiology Department. During that day, I was interviewed at least three times by different people and met both members of the academic staff as well as students already embarked on their courses of study.

Several days later, I received a letter from UCL offering me a place on the BSc course providing I achieved three E grades at A-Level. The top grade at A-Level was A, the lowest pass grade was E. At first, I was not sure whether to be pleased that all I needed was just to pass my three A-Level examinations. Was that the best that they thought I could manage? No, it was not. In those days, if UCL liked a candidate at interview, they took the strain off the candidate by not expecting high grades. Thee Es was normal for most subjects except medicine and dentistry when 3 Cs were required.  These days, candidates to places like UCL would be expected to get 3 A grades or something awfully close to this. Well, having been offered a place subject to my attaining at least 3 E grades and being neurotic by nature, I began to worry. What if I could not manage the three Es?

I became obsessed by examination papers to such an extent that I used to use my father’s typewriter to compose examination questions that I hoped would never appear in front of me in the examination hall. Whether or not composing these impossible questions was a kind of self-therapy or simply an opportunity to enjoy using the typewriter, I cannot tell, but it did me no harm. At the very least, It gave me short breaks in what for me was long hours trying to understand what I was studying.

My three A-Level subjects were Biology, Physical Science (a mixture of chemistry and physics), and mathematics. I found that all of them were most interesting and not too taxing. When I was at school, it was possible to opt to attempt supplementary papers in the subjects chosen for A-Level. These papers were known as ‘S-Levels’ and were designed to test a candidate’s deeper understanding of a subject. I chose to do S-Level papers in biology and mathematics. The biology S-Level paper was enjoyable. I was able to show off what I had learnt from reading around the subject. One of the questions was something to do with discussing the origins of life on earth. Well, in addition to various then current theories I decided to include what is described in the first chapter of the Old Testament. I passed that S-Level. The mathematics S-Level paper was a quite different ‘cup of tea’. Even though I had attended special classes to learn the mathematics that was required, I was stumped. For the first 30 minutes of the three-hour paper, I just stared at the questions. There was not one that I could even begin to tackle. So, after 20 minutes, I walked out of the examination room, leaving a blank script on my desk.

I can remember where I was when I received the A-Level results in August 1970. I was in Italy with my parents and sister on one of our annual visits to that country. We were in Venice, staying, as we always did, at the Pensione La Calcina, where many decades earlier the eminent John Ruskin(1819-1900) used to reside when visiting the island. The establishment’s façade is on the Fondamente Zattere across the water (of the Giudecca Canal) from the famous Santissimo Redentore church (completed 1592) designed by the architect Andrea Palladio.

We had just eaten lunch at the pensione and were taking the air on the waterfront prior to retiring indoors for a siesta when Signorina Steiner, the manageress, came rushing up to us with a telegram. My parents opened it to discover that my aunt in London had sent my A-Level results, which to my great relief were way in excess of the minimum required to gain admission to UCL.

If I had not managed to attain even 3 E grades, I would certainly not have expected to be admitted to any university. I would have had to accept the result and might well have decided to re-sit the examinations a few months later. As far as I am aware, in my day, there was no appealing to have papers re-marked as has become normal in the last twenty or thirty years. During recent times, it is not unusual for someone who is not satisfied with a grade to have his or her examination papers re-marked. Often, the revised grade is higher than the original, but things can go less favourably for the candidate.

This year, when young people have not been able to attend school since March and have not been awarded A-Level grades based on final papers written under strict examination  conditions, they have been awarded grades based largely on statistics (generated by what appears to be a poorly conceived algorithm) rather than individual ability. Many students have been awarded grades well below what they and their teachers expected. Thank heavens that there are appeal procedures in place.

I remember how much of a nail-biting experience it was waiting for my A-Level results back in 1970. This year, it was far worse for candidates. Not only did they not know on what basis their grades would be estimated, but also many of them will have to remain anxious for even longer whilst their appeals are being considered.

An American in a gondola

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When I was young, before I was about 17, I used to visit Venice annually with my parents. We used to stay in a pensione called ‘La Calcina’. As breakfast and one meal were included in the room price, we used to take lunch in the dining room of La Calcina. Every year, we sat with other regular visitors, whom we got to know gradually. One of them was a somewhat silent American gentleman…

 

On the Canale Grande_500

 

The Calcina’s neighbour, the Pensione Il Seguso, was located on a corner where a narrow side canal met the wide Giudecca Canal. One morning, we were waiting outside the Calcina, trying to decide what to do. It was a bit later than usual, which is possibly the reason that we spotted something we had never seen before. A gondola with green upholstery and other identically coloured cloth drapes appeared from along the side canal and drew to a standstill at the corner near where we were standing. The gondolier was dressed in a livery the same colour as the upholstery and the drapes. After a short delay, the American, who used to sit silently with us at lunch, left the main entrance of the Calcina and boarded the gondola. The gondolier set his vessel in motion. His American passenger sat reading his newspaper whilst he was rowed across the Giudecca Canal. We watched them disappearing along a canal that passed through the Giudecca Island towards the wide open lagoon beyond the island. Naturally, our curiosity was aroused.

That lunch time, the American sat down in his usual place. My mother could no longer contain herself. She asked the American about what we had witnessed that morning. He explained that the gondolier was the grandson of his late mother’s personal gondolier. Whenever he visited Venice, he would hire this same grandson for the duration of his visit. Every morning, he was picked up just as we had observed, and was rowed out into the midst of the lagoon. When they arrived there, he and his gondolier exchanged roles. The American had mastered the art of rowing a gondola, and took his daily exercise by ‘gondoling’ around the lagoon for an hour or so.

The American introduced himself. My father, a knowledgable amateur historian of art, was most excited to discover that our American lunch time companion was William Milliken, a former Director of the Cleveland Museum of Art in Cleveland, Ohio, and a famous historian of mediaeval art.

Later Miss Steiner, a humourless late middle-aged Austrian who managed the Pensione Calcina, told us that Mr Milliken stayed at the Calcina every year during the month in which his mother had died. He stayed in the room that she used to occupy during her visits to the Calcina. Whilst he stayed there, Miss Steiner informed us, the room was always filled with his mother’s favourite flowers, and furnished with the very same furniture that she used to use whilst she was a guest at the pensione.

 

Mr Milliken died in 1978, at least ten years after I last met him. About twenty years later, I bought a second-hand copy of his book, “Unfamiliar Venice”. This wonderfully illustrated and almost poetically written book, which was published in 1967, describes the magic of Venice beautifully, but makes no mention at all of any of the things we learnt about our solitary American neighbour in the dining room of the Pensione Calcina.