Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  I pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘Hey, don’t overdo it or I’ll chuck you in the canal.’

  For a moment he tried his usual bravado:‘It would take a bigger man than you’, but when he saw I was serious, and the prospect of a good soaking was imminent, he changed his tune and put his hands up in surrender. ‘All right! Sorry! Only a joke. So, where are you off to?’ His short legs scampered alongside me as he tried to keep up.

  I told him I was looking for the workshop of Jacopo Robusti, and he shook his head without recognition. ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a painter. A famous painter.’

  Pietro shook his head again, dismissively. ‘Nah! The only one along here is Tintoretto.’

  ‘That’s the man. Robusti is his proper name. Where does he live?’

  Pietro pointed a short way down the fondamenta ahead of us. ‘This one here, look, with the flaking yellow walls.’

  The wall looked old and damaged, past its best, the stucco falling away in places to reveal the brickwork beneath it. Like that of the buildings beside it, the stucco rendering was not yellow but a deep pinkish terracotta. On Tintoretto’s workshop, it was falling away in great patches, revealing rough brickwork.

  The house was imposing: three large, heavy doors painted a deep blue, and each framed by strong white stonework, gave access to the studio and the living quarters above. I stood back and counted the floors – five in total. It was an impressive house, although it had seen better days.

  Between this house and the one to its left was a carving of an Arab wearing long flowing robes and a huge turban. The figure itself was nearly life-size and, with the pedestal on which it stood, was taller than the doors themselves. Both the figure and the doors looked as if they had been there for hundreds of years.

  I patted Pietro on the shoulder. ‘Many thanks, but this is private business.’

  He looked a little crestfallen, but nodded and turned back towards his fishing rod, giving me a disappointed wave as he went. I knocked on the door.

  The servant who opened it looked dark enough to be an Arab himself, but his smile was friendly, and he beckoned me inward. ‘Please! Come in. Come in. Can I help you?’

  I told him I had come to discuss a possible commission with the painter Tintoretto, and he led me through a dark corridor and left me alone in a small inner courtyard, covered high above by a canvas awning, with a table and three chairs. Across the courtyard, opposite where I sat, a door stood half-open and, beside it, a wooden grille, performing the function of a window, delicately carved with Arabic scrolls and fretwork, seemed to let some air and light into the room beyond. Behind the grille, I noticed some movement and sensed somebody watching me, but the face was indistinct. Beside the grille, a large vine grew right up to roof level, and although the vine itself was not yet in leaf, climbing alongside it was another plant which, even this early in the year, was covered in bright purple flowers.

  The door behind me opened again and I was joined by an energetic-looking man, perhaps in his late thirties, who carefully rubbed paint from his hand before offering it to me in greeting. His face had the laughter lines of a man who did not take life too seriously, but his eyes had a steely competitiveness, which was emphasized by his firm grip as he shook my hand.

  ‘Jacopo. Call me Tintoretto – everyone does.’

  I introduced myself and explained my business. After my earlier visits to Titian and Veronese, I had rehearsed my speech and now I felt I was able to look and sound more knowledgeable than I had on that first, disastrous, occasion.

  ‘My name is Richard Stocker and I am an Englishman. I am accompanying Edward Courtenay, the earl of Devon, on an extended visit to Venice. The Earl is the last of the royal line of Plantagenet kings, and wishes to have a new portrait painted, as the previous one has been left behind in England. His preference would be for a head and shoulders portrait, but including the hands.

  ‘The purpose of the portrait would be to assist in potential marriage negotiations, and in this respect there is, you will understand, a degree of urgency, although we are, of course always flexible. Being from England, the earl is not able to match the superior wealth of the great Venetian families, and hopes that you will be accommodating.

  ‘As for the arrangements, he is at present available for sittings in Venice and has asked me to emphasize that if you do have some available time in the near future, perhaps through cancellations, he would be most pleased to accommodate you, and to fit in with your own busy timetable.

  ‘He and I have both seen some of your work and I, as an enthusiast rather than as a practising patron, would like to acknowledge the excellence with which you express roundness and form and the fall of light, on the human body and upon its surrounding drapery . . .’ Suddenly I had run out of things to say. I stopped, hoping that I had made a sufficiently good impression, at least to command his initial interest.

  Tintoretto sat back in his chair, smiling broadly, with his arms extended, palms uppermost. ‘How could I fail to respond to such an introduction? If only the rest of my patrons could be as clear, as concise, and as communicative of their desires! Come into the workshop and let me show you some of our work.’

  He led me back the way I had come and we turned into a large airy workshop, light streaming in through north-facing windows high above. A dozen men working at easels managed to acknowledge my presence with smiles and waves, without breaking the rhythm of their work. Tintoretto showed me a number of works in varying stages of completion. There were a few portraits but, as usual in Venice, many of the paintings were scenes from mythology.

  ‘Your workshop has an air of friendly efficiency.’

  Tintoretto bowed. ‘Thank you. Where, then, have you experienced unfriendly efficiency?’

  ‘I mentioned Titian before. I visited his workshop. The apprentices there seemed cowed, not relaxed as they appear here.’

  He grimaced. ‘Titian is a complete bastard! And that pig Claudio Manzi is an even bigger bastard. They deserve each other. I worked for them when I was first apprenticed and they made my life a misery. In the end I got thrown out. I vowed to take as much work from Titian as I could and it has remained my life’s ambition. Tell me, did you see a painting of Venus With a Mirror?’

  I nodded vigorously. ‘I don’t know who the model was, but I will never forget that picture.’

  ‘Was it finished?’

  ‘It was just being delivered when I was there – two weeks ago.’

  He smiled. ‘I will tell her it has been sent.’

  I was confused. ‘Tell who?’

  ‘The model, of course. I stole her from him. He lusted after her and she knew it. She was his best model, but I used to sneak her in here occasionally, and now she works exclusively for me. A coup. A real coup. Come here, let me show you something.’ He led me to the back of the room and turned an easel towards me, pulling a sheet from it as he did so.

  ‘Here.You like form and light? I painted this five or six years ago, but it’s been in storage here because the patron is abroad and does not want anyone else to see it. Vulcan Surprises Venus. What do you think?’

  A woman was reclining on a bed, legs spread in apparent abandon, naked but for a small strip of silk which lay across her thigh. A rough, muscular man appeared to have tiptoed up to her and was gently lifting the last of her privacy as she slowly awoke. Meanwhile, a child slept on in the cot behind her, and the whole scene was repeated in a large mirror on the wall behind.

  ‘Well? What do you think?’

  ‘Is he about to take advantage of her? She looks so vulnerable.’

  Tintoretto shook his head. ‘No, you’ ve missed the point. When have you ever seen a woman lie like that?’

  My mind went back to a day in Bradgate Park when I had been seduced by Lady Frances Grey, the mother of Lady Jane. I had responded with everything she had hoped for and she had lain like that afterwards, replete, satisfied, uncaring who found her there.

  ‘Afterwards?
’

  Tintoretto slapped his thigh. ‘Exactly. Afterwards! This is Aphrodite, and the man is her husband Hephaestus (Venus and Vulcan, if you prefer). He has come home to catch her with her lover, but he arrives too late. But look,’ he pointed to the right-hand side of the picture, ‘her lover, Ares, is hiding under the bed. He just got away with it, didn’t he?’

  But I was not looking at the man hiding under the bed. I was captivated by the raw beauty of the half-sleeping woman. It was the same one! The same woman I had seen in Titian’s workshop. I wanted to stay and look further at the woman, but he led me onward. A number of small desks were positioned along one side of the room, and in front of these a large sculpted head stood in profile. I paused, looking at the drawings on the desks, and Tintoretto joined me.

  ‘It is our morning class. You have commented kindly upon form, and I believe it is essential. Titian relies on bright colours to dazzle his audience. He is a very successful painter, although a pig to work for, but in the end I must agree with Michelangelo’s comment that it’s a pity he can’t draw.

  ‘Here, the art of drawing well is central to our work. Every morning, for half an hour, we have drawing practice: apprentices, assistants and myself included. We draw from still-life, from sculpture and from live models. I do not allow any of my apprentices to become an assistant and start to use colour until they have shown me that they can depict form and depth and mass, and roundness and the fall of light, and the play of shadows, purely by the use of changes of tone. As you can see, that means drawing on grey or blue paper, with no more than charcoal and white chalk.

  ‘If you yourself are interested in drawing, you should try it. There is no substitute, and if you come here any morning just after seven o’clock, you will find every one of us practising that skill.’

  We returned to the courtyard and the table. My chair scraped backward as I sat in it, and once again I thought I saw the flicker of a shadow behind the fretwork grille in the opposite wall. Tintoretto asked me a number of detailed questions about the earl, and, trusting and liking him, I answered them truthfully. He asked if Courtenay was vain or self-obsessed and I answered that he was both. In the end, he was satisfied. He gave me a price which compared with Veronese’s, and he did not demand an advance. It was a satisfactory bargain, in my view, and the best offer we had.

  We shook hands and it was time to leave. However, I had to return to the question burning in my head.

  ‘I must ask you one thing before I leave. The model in your Venus painting. It’s the same woman as the Titian Venus. Who is she?’

  He grinned, the pleasure of his secret all over his face, and tapped the side of his nose. ‘That would be telling. I pinched her from him and painted her – as you say, “afterwards”, ! Wait till Titian sees that painting. He will be beside himself with jealousy! If only the patron would return and let it be displayed.’

  ‘But please, just tell me, who is the model?’

  He looked deep into my eyes and in his own I saw calculation. ‘If you get me a portrait commission with your English earl, I will personally introduce you to that model. Then God help you, young man . . .

  I was still thinking of the painting when I reached home that night. I knew that with her image so clear in my mind, sleep would not come easily. Who was she?

  CHAPTER 30

  March the 9th 1556 – Convento di Sant’ Alvise

  Thomas often says that he finds travelling a good opportunity to think, but I cannot share his view when it comes to riding or to travelling by cart. When I am riding I am always aware of the horse – how well he is picking up his feet and whether his gait indicates any possible injury – and this tends to prevent me from letting my mind wander too far. And travelling by cart is so noisy and uncomfortable that it is hard to think of anything but the crunch and lurch of the wheels and the endless jarring of every part of you. However much you twist around, there is no comfortable position, and even sitting up at the front beside the driver on a sack full of straw causes bruises after only half an hour or so.

  Travelling by gondola, on the other hand, is quite different: it is quiet and smooth, and in warm dry weather it offers the opportunity to lie back and be transported to your destination as if on a magic carpet. Sometimes I wonder which came first – whether the gondola was created to meet the needs of Venice or whether the city of Venice was designed to make the maximum use of this wonderful boat’s capabilities. Whichever it is, the two come together in perfect harmony.

  On this particular afternoon although it had turned cold, I was well wrapped up in a warm coat, and with a wintry sun and no rain, I felt relaxed, although slightly apprehensive. I lay back and enjoyed the easy progress of the gondola, and let my mind wander.

  Would she respond? And if so, how?

  We slid under a bridge and, as we came back into the watery sunshine three prostitutes leaned over a balcony and called down to me. They were dressed like nobility, but with their exposed breasts and loud voices, there was no mistaking them. ‘An hour to spare, young man? Come on up and have a good time. You can have all three of us for the price of two. Come on up and let’s see what you’re made of

  I waved and smiled. What a strange city this was, with ten per cent of the population prostitutes and the same proportion nuns. And although both groups put a good face on it, how many of either group were really content with their lot, and how many were held captive within the rules set by men?

  Nor was I convinced that, in the end, the rules worked for the benefit of the men, either. No doubt some young men thought that living together in fratellanze, working as diplomats and law officers by day and carousing with prostitutes by night, was what life was really all about, but I wondered how many of them, in their hearts, did not dream of settling down one day with wife and family and a life of peaceful domesticity. One day, but perhaps not yet, I thought, as we slid under yet another bridge.

  My mind returned to the nun with the pale gold hair. Would she appear today? And, if so, would she have a reply for me? I was determined that if she did so, no opportunity would be lost, and had carefully fashioned a spliced stick, shaped so that it would not be sharp, to reach for any note she might hold out to me.

  We approached another bridge, where a gaggle of urchins were leaning on the rail. ‘Watch out!’ called the gondolier, and I realized they were playing Piss on the Boatman. They stood, ready, as we approached, and the gondolier pulled his oar clear of the water and lifted it. ‘The first one to piss on my boat gets this up his arse!’ he shouted, and the boys, giggling, retreated from the edge of the bridge. No doubt the game was played a hundred times a day throughout the city. I wondered whether the gondolier had played the same game when he was eight years old, perhaps on this very same bridge.

  We passed underneath without mishap and as we appeared on the other side, they were above us. One of them spotted my spliced stick and pointed and shouted. The other boys laughed loudly, but I could not understand his accent. ‘What did he say?’ I asked the gondolier.

  ‘They were speaking Venetian dialect. They said, “Off to the nunnery for some fun, are you? If God saves randy nuns, ask him to save one each for us”.’

  I waved my stick, showing I understood their joke. Wherever you went in Venice, such familiarity with the earthy side of life was not far away.

  We crossed the main canal of the Rio di Sant’ Alvise and turned into the side canal beside the convent. Already the gang of youths was there, and a few of them bowed low in mock-courtesy at my arrival in my own gondola. ‘Going up in the world, Richard?’ from one was followed by, ‘He’ll have snow on his head soon if he goes up any further,’ from another, a particularly short character who always joked about my height.

  The barge was not in place today but, keeping the game going, they carefully poled their boats out from the wall of the convent so that the ‘English Lord’ could bring his gondola right underneath the window.

  The gondolier glared. ‘I am not taking my
gondola up against that rough wall, sir, and if you have any ideas of climbing up from my boat, as they are doing, you can forget them.’ In the end it was easier to pay him off and join my friends.

  The nuns appeared with the usual giggles and we began the merry-go-round of taking it in turns to position ourselves near the window. I stood at the back and looked over the heads of the others for ‘my nun’ but at first could not see her. Finally, however, she appeared, well back, as usual facing away and looking through the window from the corner of her eye.

  I waved. At first I was not sure she had seen me, for she gave no immediate reaction, but then I noticed that she was slowly working her way forward. She stood close to the window. Quietly she reached into her gown and extracted a small note. Even now, she was facing away from me, but I could see her eyes were focused upon me and she was holding the note below her chin uncertainly.

  Quickly I pushed my way forward and lifted my spliced stick to the window right in front of her. With long, delicate fingers, she pressed her note tightly into the cleft and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Retrieving the note, I dropped back into the crowd.

  Hello Englishman

  My name is Suor Faustina Contarini. I have been in this convent since I was seven years old, first as an educande and child guest of my aunt, and, since I was sixteen, as a novitiate, then as a monache delle coro – what you would perhaps know as a choir nun.

  Now I am twenty years old and I have been told my family’s fortune has failed. As a result, my private income will end in the summer. The Abbess has said that without an income I cannot remain as a suor, but must be relegated to the status of conversa or lay sister. In this convent, the converse are treated as servants and I know that if certain other noble nuns can have power over me as a consequence of my fall from grace, my life will become a living hell.

  Please help me if you can.