Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  I indicated my understanding. This was promising: Neville was clear and forthright.

  ‘Now, consider the position of a noble family with four sons and four daughters. Only one of the sons can inherit the family fortune, for dividing it would weaken the family name to everyone’s disadvantage. The other sons are therefore discouraged from marrying and instead live in fmtellanza, or male communities, and devote their lives to government and diplomacy. Meanwhile, the one son who inherits makes sure he uses his position to improve the power and wealth of the family by demanding a huge dowry when he marries.

  ‘That leaves the problem of the daughters. One or perhaps two will certainly marry into another noble family, paying those huge dowries, but the rest, especially the youngest, the less beautiful, the lame or those disadvantaged in other ways, have no marriage prospects. It would not be seemly for them to remain unmarried and to go into trade or commerce – everyone would believe they were prostitutes in disguise – so the only place for them is the convent. And in view of the competition, the best convents – those which almost exclusively take the daughters of the nobili – also demand a marriage dowry of sorts, which they call a “conventual dowry”.

  ‘That is the source of the problem. Many daughters of noble families are not allowed to marry outside the Golden Book and their families cannot afford for them to marry inside it. The nunnery is the only alternative. What you may have heard of, perhaps even seen, are nuns from noble families who have effectively been saved from themselves. What is the alternative? To have them running around doing what they like? That would cause mayhem.

  ‘Young women are difficult to control, as anyone knows. Some knuckle under with the influence of a good husband, but for the others? They need to be locked up and put under the control of a good priest. It’s the only way. And if we are forced to do that, we have to allow them a little laxity; otherwise all hell might break loose. So what are a few parties, some nice clothes and the occasional accompanied visit in the parlour from their relations? It’s not too high a price to pay for contented daughters.’

  I heard what he said, and thanked him for his clear explanation. Deep down, however, I was appalled that decent, able, noble women were effectively being imprisoned by their families for life, with no recourse. It was another aspect of Venetian society I found hard to accept.

  CHAPTER 23

  February the 20th 1556 – Workshop of Tiziano Vecellio, Calle Larga dei Botteri

  The house and workshop of Tiziano Vecellio, known to all as Titian, stood overlooking marshland and facing the sea. This time I found the building without difficulty. It was in a world of its own, almost secluded from the rest of the city and hidden away in a pocket of land along the Fondamente Nuove. It was a wooden structure, less impressive than I had imagined; having associated the painter with the nobility he painted, I had expected him to live in a palazzo.

  The house before me was not small – the generous space in the marshes around it must have made it easy to build a large house – but in style it was simple and plain. It had three storeys. The ground floor was clearly the studio, for men could be seen coming and going through the large doors, whilst the huge windows on the northern, seaward, side admitted an ideal light to work in.

  Having finally found the house, I was unsure how to approach those within and found myself standing outside, just looking at it. I suddenly realized why Titian did not live in a casa fondaco alongside the Grand Canal: his trade had no need of a canal-front warehouse, or an impressive piano nobile within which to impress his would-be patrons. His showcases were the Doge’s palace and the many fine churches where his frescoes and altarpieces were now on display. All he had to do was to take potential patrons to see the work in situ and the association with power and wealth did the persuading for him. Suddenly I lost all confidence in the Plantagenet name and the prospect of making a ‘beneficial agreement’.

  I was on the verge of walking away when an apprentice carrying a wooden frame across the yard saw me and called out.

  ‘Are you looking for the maestro?

  I nodded, walking towards him with regained confidence.

  ‘He is out at the moment, at the Palazzo Ducale, but his office manager is here. Shall I introduce you? What’s your name?’

  I was led into a small but comfortable office and was quickly joined by a small wiry man with the face and manner of a terrier dog. His beady eyes flicked everywhere, taking in my clothes, which no doubt marked me down as a foreigner, and my muddy shoes, which might have indicated I had arrived on foot and was therefore probably living within the city.

  ‘Buongiorno, Signore. Claudio Manzi, at your service. I am sorry that the maestro cannot see you today.’

  I nodded. ‘I am sure you are the right person to talk to, as you clearly have the authority to make business arrangements on the maestro’s behalf.’

  The attempt at flattery did not make much impression on this hardened bargainer and he merely tipped his head to one side in acknowledgement of his own authority. I continued.

  ‘I represent the earl of Devon, an Englishman of the royal Plantagenet line, who is recently arrived here in Venice and is under the Doge’s personal protection.’

  Manzi closed his eyes slowly, like a lizard on a hot day, and opened them again. ‘So I heard. What has an Englishman done to require armed guards day and night?’

  I decided to ignore the remark, but noted that there was probably not much city gossip that this man did not pick up.

  ‘The earl has not had his portrait painted for nearly two years and believes it is time for another to be made.’

  Manzi blinked again, non-committally ‘After a woman, is he? Where is she from? Hungary? Poland? It makes a difference to the style, you know. Send a portrait to Poland in French clothing and they will think he is . . .’ He dipped his wrist to indicate what he meant.

  ‘Yes, marriage is expected but the earl has nobody specific in mind at this stage.’ As I said it I knew he would jump ahead of me again, and so it proved.

  ‘You want a “visiting card” then? How big? You want something easy to transport? The maestro does not do miniatures. Nothing below life-size, and usually groups. You want drapery? A lot of drapery? The maestro usually does the faces and, if it’s particularly difficult, the drapery. The assistants do the rest.’

  I felt out of my depth. ‘The earl thought life-size, head and shoulders, but including the hands. He has fine hands.’

  Manzi pursed his lips and nudged his right shoulder forward and pushed out his lower lip in a disparaging gesture of professional lack of interest. ‘Uh. Fine hands? Uh. All nobles have fine hands, or so they say, but given a chance, they nearly always finish up wearing their best gloves. They’re all the same: trying to look and act more important than they really are. English, did you say? In my experience, the English never have any money‘

  Somehow I felt the subject of a discount was going to be difficult to introduce into this conversation. ‘When might the maestro be available?’ I thought a different tack might loosen things a bit.

  Manzi explored an item of food between his teeth with his tongue. Finally, as if weary, he took a deep breath.

  ‘Maybe next spring? How long do you plan to stay in Venice? The maestro has so much work, mainly with the Doge and the Council. You have seen his portraits of the Doges? It is a standing commission and at the moment he is busy with Doge Francesco Venier.’

  He stood up as if to indicate that I was dismissed, and put his hand on my arm. ‘Nothing personal young man, but if I were you I would look elsewhere. I can put you on the list, but somehow I think others – Venetian nobles – will always jump in front of you. I would not want you to be disappointed. Why not try elsewhere?’

  He began to leave the room, turning his back on me. As he left the room he called over his shoulder, ‘Of course, there is no competition. No real competition. But others are, shall we say, competent and . . . available.’ He left without saying goodbye
. I was left in the room alone. Behind a door to my left I could hear voices and laughter. Intrigued, I opened the door slightly.

  Before me was the main workroom, with completed and part-completed paintings everywhere. Apprentices were mixing paint, master painters were painting drapery and landscapes. The work was bright and beautiful. The apprentice who had originally spoken to me caught my eye and came over.

  ‘You are not supposed to be in here,’ he whispered. ‘Claudio is a bastard and whips us if we let people into the workroom, but he has just gone out, so we are safe for a while.’

  Seeing that I was intrigued, the apprentice continued.

  ‘When the maestro is here, he does not allow any visitors. He used to have a workroom at San Samuele, on the Grand Canal, but after his wife died, before I was born, he moved out here for the privacy. Most of the commissions go straight out to the patron as soon as they are finished, but those paintings the maestro develops for his own pleasure may sit here for ten years, as he returns to them again and again. He hates anyone to see any of that work before it is finished. Are you a painter? If you are, you would understand.’

  Without thinking, I nodded. ‘Yes. Just starting, in England. I am here on a visit, to learn from the masters. Your master is, I believe, the best?’

  The apprentice smiled proudly. ‘Of course. Look. This is the drawing he made at the Council of Trent last year. It is unfinished, but you can see the flow of the lines. You can almost feel you are there.’

  I looked at two paintings. They seemed to surpass anything I had seen before, but my companion dismissed them. ‘Those are only copies. We apprentices are allowed to knock them off when we are quiet. The seniors do the faces and the drapery, but the maestro never touches the copies. Anyway, we learn by doing them and Claudio says they keep the wolf from the door.

  ‘Here.’ He led me across the room, apparently more confident now that the manager would not return. Above me was a big painting of a man with two huge hounds being held by a naked lady. ‘Venus and Adonis. He started it last year but it got damaged on delivery, and we are doing a repair. Do you like it?’

  I stood, mouth open at the work. The hounds were real. I had hunted with hounds like that, many times. Adonis too was well formed; the folds of his orange toga were warm and realistic, and his muscles showed his strength. But the painting was stolen by the Venus, twisting to hang on to her man and prevent him from leaving. She was no innocent, starving village girl; this was a full-blooded, golden-haired woman, who had known the joys of love and wanted to enjoy them again before her man departed for the hunt.

  ‘And this. Look at this. It is a portrait of Doge Marcantonio Trevisani. It has been here for three years. The maestro won’t let it go. He says there is something wrong with the expression, but the rest of us think it is magnificent. Claudio, of course, wants it delivered so he can collect the money. That’s all Claudio thinks of. Look at the colour of the robe. Have you ever seen a colour glow like that?’

  I had to admit I had not. And I could not see what was wrong with the expression: the old doge, now dead, looked at me with world-weary eyes, as if he had seen everything there is to see and understood the immensity of it all. I found it quite disturbing.

  There was a rumble as a large painting on a trolley was wheeled across the room. As it passed us I stood back and stared at the fine figure of an unclad woman looking at herself in a mirror held by cherubs. Every detail was memorable; the woman’s body was eye-catching, but her face was unforgettable. It was the same woman again, the Venus, with the same rich golden hair. This time you could see her dark eyes. The combination of dark eyes with her golden hair gave her an air of mystery, whilst the long, straight nose spoke of nobility. A noble lady then, but her warm complexion gave the lie to any thoughts that she spent all day hidden away coldly in her palazzo. Finally, the lips; lips that made you lick your own lips as you looked at them, and made you wonder just who was this woman, who posed almost naked, looking at herself in a mirror, and yet was aware – so aware – that you were looking at her?

  ‘You like it? I was allowed to paint part of the background, over there, and the middle cherub. I think I made his face a bit too fat but the maestro liked it. What do you think of the Venus? Good, eh? It is called Venus with a Mirror.The patron will wet his pants when he sees it.’

  I had to ask. ‘Who is she? The Venus?’

  He looked at me sneakily ‘You mean who was the model? I cannot tell you that. I thought you were a painter? You must know it’s an unspoken rule that you never reveal who the model is. If you did they would never return. And besides, the scandal: all her secrets revealed to everyone. You are crazy even to ask such a question.’

  I had overstayed my welcome. I made my apologies, mumbling something about the rules being different in England, but I had been found out.

  Slowly I made my way back to the Ca’ da Mosto, trying to think what to say to the earl when he asked me what kind of bargain I had been able to strike, but all I could think of was that woman. Was she simply the product of Titian’s imagination, or did she really exist? Did she really look like that?

  And if so, who was she, and where?

  CHAPTER 24

  February the 21st 1556 – Ca’ da Mosto

  ‘Richard, I must say I am disappointed in you. I thought you were capable of better.’

  ‘Your Grace, It appears that the proposal of Titian’s name was misleading, if not misguided, for he was never available for such work. The artist is contracted by pension to the State of Venice and works exclusively for them. We should have been told before I was sent off on a wild goose chase. Titian will not do your portrait.’

  Courtenay clearly did not like being rebuffed by a mere tradesman and reacted with a superior sniff. ‘Then enquire more widely.’

  I was about to storm out when Courtenay made it easy for me. Without further comment, he turned his back and walked out of the room himself.

  ‘Damn him. Damn the man.’ I was still banging my fist on the table in sheer frustration when Thomas came into the room.

  ‘Calm yourself, Richard. Do not let your pride burn up your energy. The man is deluded. Consider his position and you may understand the workings of his mind. A young man is brought up in a noble family, at Tiverton Castle, with all privileges, ruling over the whole of the south-west of England and lauded by the whole community Then, when he is twelve years old, his father is taken away from him and beheaded, whilst he, who has done nothing wrong that he is aware of, is imprisoned in the Tower, uncertain whether he is to live or die.

  ‘From the age of twelve to the age of twenty-seven, he remains in solitary confinement in the Strong Room of the Bell Tower, occupying himself only by his studies of languages, the lute and painting. He is sustained only by his mother’s written reassurances that he is the last survivor of the oldest royal family in Europe and that one day he will surely be a king. Finally he is pardoned under the general amnesty of King Edward, but even then he is not released until Queen Mary comes to the throne.

  ‘Now imagine the change in his life when, released from fifteen years alone in prison, he is elevated to Earl of Devon and his name is seriously proposed as a future husband for the Queen, or if not her then her sister Princess Elizabeth. Yet one after another they reject him and, with the Queen choosing to marry Felipe of Spain, he becomes involved in a plot to overthrow her and is imprisoned once again.

  ‘Finally, he is released and believes he has been sent to Brussels as an ambassador, only to discover that the reality is banishment, and that he will be forced to live abroad, sustained by what he considers to be a meagre allowance, whilst others at home mismanage his estates for their own advantage. Such a life does not leave a man without scars. Please try to be understanding, and, in the words of the Holy Bible, “forgive him his trespasses, for he knows not what he does.”’

  I stopped punching the furniture and sat down. Once again, Thomas had reason on his side.

  ‘But he m
akes me so mad.’

  Thomas crossed the room and laid a hand on my arm. ‘Ignore it. Let it pass over you, for in truth it is a trivial thing. What would Lady Jane have said to you?’

  I did not have to think for long. ‘She would have said exactly what you have said, then told me to consider the wider issues and to rise above petty squabbles.’

  Thomas did not need to reply He simply tilted his head to one side and raised his shoulder to meet it. The gesture said ‘Exactly’ and I knew there was no more to say. Finally I rose.

  ‘Well, standing around won’t get anything done. I suppose I had better try to find another artist. It’s something to do, anyway. The answer must be to find an up-and-coming young painter who needs the work. I must go and search again.’

  Thomas simply repeated his gesture. Sometimes he made me nearly as angry as the earl did.

  CHAPTER 25

  February the 23rd 1556 – Workshop of Veronese

  Although the city of Venice was full of paintings, the list of reliable artists provided to me by Vannes was very short indeed. Paulo Caliari, originally from Verona, but now established in Venice and known by all as Veronese, was next, and I followed Vannes’s instructions carefully, looking for his workshop.

  I had seen some of his recent work in the form of ceiling paintings in the Palazzo Ducale, completed only a year ago. Vannes had also told me to visit the Church of San Sebastiano, where the first of a set of planned paintings had just been delivered. Perhaps I would do so after talking to the artist.

  Veronese’s workshop was quite modest – much smaller than Titian’s – and I nearly walked past it, before the smell of fresh paint made me turn and look again. I knocked gently on the door, dreading a repeat of my treatment by Claudio Manzi. Once again a young apprentice answered my knock. I was surprised to be led straight into the studio itself.