Gritti Palace Hotel

The Gritti Palace Hotel is more than a lodging in Venice: it is the Colonel’s chosen refuge, a place whose measured hospitality and familiar rooms give him a temporary sense of home. Set beside the Grand Canal of Venice, it frames a sequence that begins with arrival at its dock and ends with the Colonel arranging for Renata’s portrait to be collected there if the unexpected occurs.

Setting and Character

The approach establishes the hotel as part of the city’s working waterways. Near the gondola crossing at Santa Maria del Giglio stands its wooden dock, linking the hotel directly to the traffic of the canal. From the water, the Colonel points it out to Ronald Jackson as the place where they will stay; the hotel is not an incidental stop but a destination he has chosen.

The building is described as a small, pleasant, three-storey palace, rose-coloured and abutting the canal. Once a dependence of the Grand Hotel, it has become an independent establishment. The Colonel considers it very good and perhaps the best choice for a guest who does not want to be fawned over, fussed over, or excessively attended to. That preference defines the hotel’s appeal: its distinction lies not in display but in the restraint of its service. The Colonel loves it, and Jackson’s approving response confirms that its modest, agreeable appearance is immediately legible to a newcomer.

The palace’s former life remains visible in its interior. Its corridor is large, wide, and high-ceilinged, with long intervals between the doors facing the Grand Canal of Venice. Because the building had been a palace, nearly every room has an excellent view; the stated exception is the rooms made for servants. The architecture thus preserves both grandeur and hierarchy, while the canal view gives the rooms a shared orientation toward the city outside.

Hospitality and Daily Life

The hotel’s service is personal without being obtrusive. On a cold evening, the Colonel and Renata enter through the main entrance and pass from wind and cold into the lobby’s light and warmth. The concierge greets them, and the Colonel answers without resorting to the rough, obscene exchanges he might ordinarily share with him in private. The restraint marks a small change in the familiar routine: the hotel still offers intimacy and recognition, but the presence of Renata alters the tone of their conversation.

The Gran Maestro also makes the hotel feel inhabited rather than ceremonial. In winter, with no other diners present, he has saved a table in the bar at the far end because the dining room is too large for the few guests. He offers a lobster, explaining that he saw it alive at the market that morning, dark green and unfriendly. The empty dining room, the saved table, and the specific attention to the meal make hospitality a matter of scale and care rather than formality.

The Colonel’s own room receives the same mixture of comfort and practical attention. When he opens the door for Renata, she finds it charming but cold with the windows open, and he says he will close them. The brief exchange makes the room both a refuge and a shared space: its appeal is immediate, but comfort depends on noticing what the other person needs.

A Room Made into Home

Later, the Colonel’s room is arranged around the habits and objects that make it feel like home. His pyjamas lie on the bed; Valpolicella stands by the reading light, while mineral water chills in an ice bucket beside a glass on a silver tray. His scuffed slippers wait by the bed. These ordinary details sit alongside the extra bottle of medicine beside the light, distinct from the bottle he carries in his pocket, and the three pillows he habitually uses.

The portrait of Renata occupies the room’s most deliberate position. Removed from its frame, it rests on two chairs where the Colonel can see it from the bed. He has also opened the mirrored inner doors of the armoire so the portrait remains visible from the side. The Paris edition of the New York Herald Tribune lies beside his pillows, but the arrangement of the room makes the portrait its visual center. Alone there, he thinks that he will buy it. The hotel room is thus made personal through a combination of routine, medicine, and the image he wants to keep in view.

Arrival, Departure, and Significance

The hotel remains a point of return after the Colonel has been out on the water. He arrives at its lobby after his gondoliers have been paid; two men have brought the gondola up the Grand Canal of Venice from the market, worked hard, and received what their labor was worth and more. Inside, there is no wind. The contrast between the exposed journey and the sheltered lobby makes the hotel a threshold between the unsettled conditions outside and a space where the Colonel can attend to the next practical matter.

That matter is handled by the concierge, whose crossed keys sit unobtrusively on the lapels of his blue uniform. The Colonel regards him as quick, intelligent, polite, and never servile, and compares his rank to that of a captain or, in an earlier army, a top sergeant dealing with senior officers. When the Colonel asks about calls, the concierge reports that Renata has called twice. The exchange shows how the hotel’s order depends on attentiveness: its staff carry messages, recognize relationships, and keep the Colonel connected to events beyond the lobby.

At another meal, the Gran Maestro seats the Colonel and Renata beside a window overlooking the Grand Canal of Venice. The dining room is empty, and the Gran Maestro speaks of his ulcers and heart as conditions he takes day by day. The hotel’s quiet rooms do not erase illness or uncertainty; instead, they make space for companionship and conversation in their presence.

The final departure gives the hotel a more lasting role. In hard wind, the hall porter arranges the same motorboat the party has used before. T5 Jackson travels with the luggage and the portrait, now sturdily wrapped. The Colonel has paid his bill and proper tips, while the hotel staff load the belongings and see that Jackson is seated correctly before withdrawing. As he leaves, the Colonel asks that, in case of unforeseen contingencies, Renata be asked to have the portrait picked up at the Gritti. The request turns the hotel into a place of safekeeping: the Colonel departs, but he leaves behind a practical instruction connecting the portrait, Renata, and the refuge he has chosen.