CORRESPONDENCErnLetter From Venicernby Andrei NavrozovrnThe Last Doge’s EnglishrnI now want to add another likeness to ni-rnGogolian gallen-‘ of Venice’s living souls.rnIf this continuing series should start torntake on the blurry aspect of a spinningrncarousel, becoming a kind of soap operarnof flcehng impressions, all I can say in myrndefense is that the development is an intendedrnone, and that the clamorous successrnof Monet’s water lilies, for instance,rnowes far more to the soap effect than doesrnm own humble sketching. Impressionismrnis a pcrfcctlv good approach to thernworld, but it probabK’ ought not to ha’ernfallen into the hands of the French who,rnlike all regicides since Lady Macbeth,rnlong to turn ever’thing under the sun intorna savonnerie.rnAnd invariably I think of my friendrnGio’anni as someone who has managedrnto escape that perfumed world with hisrnjudgment intact, although French remainsrnthe language most native to him.rnIdiomatic as the- are, neither his standardrnItalian nor his deeply AmericanizedrnEnglish, which I would describe asrnheavy-hearted, is good enough to let himrnsav what he realh’ thinks. As for his Venetianrn—not a minor dialect among Italy’srnman’, but a literar’ language with a richrntradition that includes the theater of CarlornGoldoni —it is altogether stillborn,rnwhich ma- be bewildering to the isitorrnfrom abroad who finds himself drinkingrnv^ine and eating roast veal in the house ofrnthe man who governed Venice for muchrnof the centur, Giovanni’s father. CountrnGiuseppe Volpi di Misurata.rnBut however serious or trivial die reasonrnfor die visitor’s bewilderment, die nativesrndiemselves have many more suchrnreasons, and arc consequeuHy far morernbewildered, with the result that asking arnVenetian about Gioanni Volpi is as dangerousrnas walking through a construehonrnsite without a helmet on. It is dieir aggregaternreachon—some voluble hybrid of arnNevada filling-station attendant talkingrnabout Howard Hughes, a retired colonelrnin Hampshire talking about Bill Gates,rnand a Gdansk orchestra’s coneertmasterrntalking about Herbert von Karajan—thatrnis the focal point of m- impressions here.rnThe long and the short of it is that, tornVenice, Giovanni is a mvsten’. Some ofrnthis tenebrous aura is obiousl an inheritancernfrom his father, who managedrnItah’s finances until the war: “CountrnVolpi is the voice of sincerih’,” said Mussolini.rn”He is not afraid of me. He is notrnafraid of anybody. It could be venturedrnthat he is much more powerfid than thernhead of die ftiscist regime.” The quotationrnis from Taccuim Mussoliniani byrnYvon De Bcgnac, a mammoth, decadelongrncontinuous interview with thernDuce, unpublished until the author’srndeath in 1990 and still largely unknownrndespite the revelations it contains.rnApparenth’ he was die onh’ man inrnItaly whom die Duce addressed as lei. Tornunderstand what respect is attached bv arndictator to diis simple pronoun we mayrnrecall diat Stalin resen ed the polite in’ forrnthe scourge of Stalingrad, MarshalrnZhukov. Mussolini himself to sa}’ nothingrnof his eeonomic field marshal whomrnhe called “the last Doge,” emerges fromrnthe book as a complex, independent, andrnwholly engaging figure, a brae thinkerrnand a good talker:rnCount Volpi’s rccoUeetions are notrnof men, but of a eit. And for him,rnVenice is the uni’ersal cih. If thernworld became one big Venice, thernsite of the foremost of human sentiments,rnhe would deem himself arnliapp’ man. Flis melancholyrnhinges upon the knowledge thatrnthis dream can never be realized.rnOn the crisis of 1929, of which Mussolinirnsas “Count Volpi was the onl- Europeanrnfinancier to surie unscathed”:rn”Waste!” Count Volpi uttered thisrnword a number of times. “Waste,rndestruction of usefiil diiiigs, oxerproductionrnof useless things, peoplernrushing into cities, urbanization,rna diminishing desire to work,rnget-rich-quiek mania, gamblingrnaway the future, intelligence subjugatedrnto fortune, a middle classrnturned stupid, and workers resignedrnto their fate: there’s your crisis!”rnAnd on the gestation of Hitler’s war,rnwhose deep-hidden Soviet roots are onlyrnnow beginning to be exposed to historicalrnscrutiny with the publication of worksrnlike Stephen Koch’s Double Lives, ErnstrnTopisch’s Stalin’s War, and Viktor Suvoro”rns Icebreaker trilogv’:rnIn the wake of the A/^sc/i/uss,rnCount Volpi said to me: “Germanyrnis heading towards Moscow, withrnthe Kremlin’s consent.” Immediatelyrnafter Munich, he said: “Berlinrnis moving towards Moscow, offeringrna morsel to Warsaw. Polandrnwill chew of die morsel, but we allrnknow who will gulp it down.”rnSuch was GioN’anni’s intellectual inheritance,rnwhich he was free to accept asrnhe chose. Yet, naturalK-, the world beingrnwhat it is —e’cn this ideal world, lockedrnaway in the filigreed lagoon like a portraitrnminiature in a gold locket, all but hiddenrnfrom envious magpies and other scavengersrnof social progress —fe tout Venisernis far more keenly aware of his inheritancernof bricks and mortar, including thernbeautifully presented 16tli-eentun- PalazzornMartinengo-Volpi, up the canal fromrnCorte Tron where I used to lie andrnwhere we first met. Giovanni is rarelyrnthere, however, preferring to spend hisrntime at Ca’ Leone, the family house onrndie Giudecca diat drowns in flowers e’-rner’ spring.rnHe is not married. People say that hernis a recluse, that he loathes their eit’, thatrnhe is never here, that he prefers Paris, thatrnhe never goes to parties, diat he shunsrnriieir company, diat he is a snob, a misanthrope,rnan oddball . . . And the truth?rnThe truth is that he is a virtuous man, arnVenetian to the marrow of his bones, arnman who has chosen to accept his intellectualrninheritance in its entiretv, mixedrnblessings and all —come hell or acqua altarn—and, braving the ineomprehension,rnand the uncomprehending scorn, ofrndiose who would see Venice mereh as arnrestful alternative to Holhwood andrnCannes, a quaint destination for thernglamour crowd, has centered his life onrnsolitar)’ scholarship and the study of mod-rn.34/CHRONICLESrnrnrn