She clung to me then. “You’re all I’ve got, darling,” Mummy said. “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

Amazingly, Aunt Hortensia was on my side. “You let her sister, Winnie, go all the way to India,” she said. “Surely the girl deserves her chance at a life of her own. She has taken care of you all these years.”

And grudgingly Mummy had to agree to that. I packed my meagre wardrobe, and at the beginning of July I headed for the station, laden with more than a little guilt.

And here I am. I arrived yesterday and took a room in a small hotel near the railway station, until I can find digs for the year. The room is about as spartan as that convent we stayed in last year. And not so clean, with lingering smells of smoke and sweat—also it’s terribly noisy on the main thoroughfare from the train station to St Mark’s. Not an encouraging arrival! The weather is hot and muggy. I lay on top of the bed last night, too uncomfortable to sleep. When I dared to open the shutters to let in any night breeze, I was immediately besieged by mosquitoes.

I was awoken at first light by a great cacophony of church bells, reminding me forcefully that today is Sunday. So I’ll not be able to accomplish anything today, even if I wanted to, except for reacquainting myself with the city. Tomorrow I’ll visit the academy to find out more about where I shall be living and to plan a class schedule. Since I’m classified as a visiting student, not on the same academic schedule as Italian students, I may attend classes right away, which will be wonderful. I have brought few painting supplies with me, as I am sure the professors will have strong opinions on the only brushes/paints/canvases that are fit for painting. I seem to remember my professors at the Slade were most particular about which brushes and paints we used. The Slade. How long ago that seems now. Almost another lifetime away. This morning, I stared at myself in the speckled mirror that hung over the painted chest of drawers. Was I once that girl who gazed at the world with hopeful eyes, who had great plans for a beautiful future? I saw now the creases developing on my forehead. And Leo had commented last year that I had sad eyes.

I turned away. Leo. I must not think of him. Then I told myself there were other handsome Italians, and Leo had mentioned that men did not like to marry until after thirty. Maybe I’d meet someone here. An Italian artist. Marry. Live for the rest of my life in Venice.

So I did have a modicum of hope and fantasy left in my soul after all!

July 3, 1939