Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  I write to you in this open manner as you told me you were a foreign visitor of high standing and therefore I trust you will not betray me to the Abbess, the Patriarch or members of my family. If you can help me in any way, please indicate this, and I will try to devise a way we can meet. It is difficult, but not impossible.

  Yours, in hope and prayer,

  Suor Faustina Contarini

  I looked up. She was still in her position, standing tightly by the window, and, for the first time, she was looking at me intently.

  She is afraid, I thought, suddenly realizing why she took such pains to avoid signalling what she was doing.

  I looked from side to side, but nobody seemed to have seen the note being passed, or that she was awaiting my response. I looked at her as intently as I could and, as she caught my eye, I nodded, just once. The smallest of smiles pinched the corners of her mouth and she blinked, as if holding my gaze was unsettling her.

  I continued to look intently at her, but again her eyes roamed around the crowd, apparently searching for observers. Eventually she seemed satisfied that our communication was not being observed and her eyes returned to mine.

  As quietly as I could, I indicated the act of writing and tried to signal my return in two days. She seemed to understand and nodded, the small smile returning just for a fleeting moment. Then she was gone. A little later I saw her again, right at the back of the crowd and to one side, eyes wandering still, as if looking for enemies.

  I did not signal again – it seemed inappropriate – but instead quietly left and made my way home. Twice I stopped where it was quiet and re-read the letter, on each occasion looking carefully behind me before taking it out of my pocket. Something in her nervousness seemed to have attached itself to her note, and now affected me. It was clear she was very frightened, and although I was not sure who, or what, she was afraid of, I had only to remember that look on her face to resolve to protect her.

  As I neared our temporary home, I found I was unable to bring myself to approach the Ca’ da Mosto. Instead, I veered away towards Titian’s house by the marshes. I needed time to think: time to take in what I had read, time to work out just what, if anything, I could do for Suor Faustina Contarini. If I was going to think clearly, the last thing I needed was Courtenay’s self-centred demands.

  Approaching Titian’s house I found a low wall upon which I could sit, and looked across the lagoon towards Murano, hoping the view would somehow give me inspiration. Instead, I found myself getting angry that any girl should have been taken into a convent at the tender age of seven, and then effectively imprisoned there ever since. I was incensed that the beautiful twenty-year-old she had turned into, a woman, who should now have all her life before her, instead faced degradation and perhaps violence in her continuing prison, simply because the family who had placed her there had failed in their obligation to provide for her.

  Most of all, I realized that I was angry because I felt powerless to do anything about the situation.

  Despite that anger, there was within me an opposing inner caution; one that told me not to act with my usual rash urgency, but to think carefully first.

  I needed to walk; sitting still was making me feel even more impotent. I rose and began walking beside the sea, the afternoon sun behind me and the lagoon beginning to darken. As I passed Titian’s house, a rich patron was leaving, his carriage horses blowing impatiently in front of the door. I paused opposite. There was a deep dirty laugh from the doorway and a rotund cardinal rolled towards his carriage, Titian at his side.

  ‘You can certainly paint flesh, Titian; what wouldn’t I do to get my hands on those ample breasts! Have it delivered immediately; I will hang it in my private bedroom. It will be some sort of consolation, I suppose.’

  Titian bowed low. ‘Always a pleasure, Your Grace. Perhaps you would contemplate having her sister beside her, as I suggested? The one with the red hair, you remember? Your bedroom wall would accommodate both.’

  The cardinal leaned out of his carriage conspiratorially. ‘Having her sister beside her. Well, there’s a thought for an old man! Room on my wall there may be, but room in my bed there certainly is – for both of them and me inbetween. What a thought: two of her at once – one on one side with golden hair and the other on the opposite side with red hair. I shall think about it. Frequently!’

  The carriage rolled off briskly and Titian went back inside.

  I shook my head. Titian’s noble patrons! Rich middle-aged men, high up in the Church, pretending to be models of piety by patronizing great works of art in the name of religion, but in reality lusting after the model in the picture. To make matters worse, less than a mile away a woman of equal, if less visible, beauty was effectively being held a prisoner by those same ‘noble’ men.

  Their cynicism suddenly brought home to me the real and day-to-day meaning of my belief in the Protestant Church. I did not understand the great arguments about the sacraments, and had tended to rely on what Lady Jane had told me – if only because it was impossible to gainsay her. Nor had I ever really felt anything for the politics that set one church against another. I distrusted the fine words of plump cardinals in scarlet and gold. In the end, deep down, what held me to the Protestant faith was my instinctive desire for plain and unadorned truth.

  That recognition must have calmed me, for I found I had turned towards home and was passing the Oratorio dei Crocifieri, a modest, two-storeyed building, faced in peeling yellow stucco. The doors and windows were small and unassuming, but what caught my eye were the four mighty chimneys above; the returning Crusaders of the thirteenth century must have felt the cold, I thought, after their many years fighting in distant lands. Nothing seemed to have changed in the last three hundred years, and coughs, groans and frightened weeping could be heard from inside. My mind went to Thomas, who was probably still working there, helping the sick and frail through the measles attack.

  No sooner had I thought of him than he appeared, almost bumping into me as he joined my pathway home. He asked what my day had brought and I began to tell him about Suor Faustina and her imprisonment in the convent. As I did so, the image of the bloated cardinal came back to me and my anger returned. Having Thomas to talk to was a release and I found myself almost ranting about the unfairness of it all, and about the rich nobles and cardinals who rode roughshod over others while pretending piety. I blamed the nobility, but most of all I blamed the Catholic Church. I knew it was a mistake as I spoke, but somehow it kept coming. Thomas walked quietly beside me as I vented my spleen about the world in general and his church in particular.

  We walked for perhaps a mile, along quiet backstreets and narrow lanes. Finally I ran out of venom and paused for breath.

  ‘I am sorry your visit was so loathsome to you, Richard. Would you like to ask me about my day at the Oratorio?’

  There was admonition in every inflection of his voice and I knew immediately I had gone too far. It was always thus.

  ‘What about my day, you may ask? Old people dying of measles. We lost eleven people today, largely because they are too undernourished to fight. Look at that old woman over there!’

  He pointed to an old crone, bent low, gnarled hands clutching the top of a stout stick to help her on her painful way. She was dressed in rags, and insufficient of them to keep out the cold, and I was suddenly aware of my warm coat, clutched around me as the evening cooled to night. I watched her, shuffling forward painfully in her own nightmare, and could not think what I could or should say. Thomas made me stop on a bridge and watch as the old woman disappeared around a corner. The shuffling sound of her retreating footsteps was somehow even more painful than the sight of her had been.

  ‘Think, Richard. Do you believe your nun is the only one who is badly or unfairly treated in this world, or even in this city?’ He turned to me and I knew that beneath his controlled words he was furious. ‘Can you comprehend, Richard, that you are not the only person in this city today who has seen sights he finds
distasteful? Are you perhaps also not the only one here today who feels impotent to offset, or ameliorate, the pain of God’s will for these people?’

  I went to reply, but he was not going to let me escape so easily, and put his hand emphatically on my chest. ‘Let me ask you this. Are you absolutely sure you are not being just a little bit disingenuous when you take your high moral stance against the painter’s patron? Would your feelings for this nun Faustina have been the same had she been sixty years of age and crippled with illness? Would she have gained the immediate priority in your attentions had she been anything less than the “frightened but spirited colt” you described so eloquently to me just now? How much is human compassion and how much is lust? I would prefer you consider the answers to all these questions and satisfy yourself that you are not found wanting before attacking my Church and the nobility of this ancient city.’

  Again I went to defend myself – even to apologize – but still he would not let me go. I had to stand there in the near-dark, the mist starting to rise from the dank canal, and take it.

  ‘Do not be too quick to judge, Richard, for others may be judging you also. In my experience, it is frequently easier to recognize the wrongs in this world than it is to find the solutions with which to put them right, and to make them work. Whether you believe that this is a nasty, brutal, ungodly little world, or whether you believe, as I do, that these things were put here by God to try us, the fact remains that there is a very wide gap between those who have and those who have not. If we cannot change that fact, our role in life could at least be to try to reduce the discomfort which arises from it.’

  It was too much. I was unwilling to retreat further. I pushed my face close to his, eyes blazing.

  ‘Like those Catholic cardinals and clergy, I suppose, who spend their lives taking from the poor while standing between them and their God, telling them to respect their natural place in society!’

  Thomas went pale, but kept his control, perhaps better than I was doing.

  ‘Grow up, Richard. Be a realist; the Catholic Church is the single greatest source of succour to the poor in any of the countries in Europe. All the wealth that flows to the Church to enable it to do its good works comes from wealthy patrons, and the church is hardly going to bite the hand that feeds it. These are difficult issues, which many great men have failed to solve in the past and many will no doubt struggle with in the future. Rather than discomfit me with your frustrations, perhaps you should improve your Greek at Padua University, and then, in addition to medicine, study Plato, Aristotle, Socrates and the other great philosophers who have agonized over these same issues. What is the rinascita but an attempt to return to the truths which were discovered in ancient Greece and lost again? You are not alone, and if you do not want to end up alone, please do not attack those who would help you. Each of us has to find his own truth, and after your years with Lady Jane, I acknowledge that you may find a different truth from mine. But I believe we both seek the same human outcome. Let us, at least, not fall out over that.’

  We walked home in silence. As we walked my mood changed, from hating him for his contrariness to recognizing how hard it must have been for him to say the things he had said, and respecting and loving him for his honesty.

  We reached the Ca’ da Mosto and both of us seemed aware that the mood would break as soon as we encountered the earl. I stopped in the doorway and shook his hand. ‘The truth hurts, Thomas, but I thank you for it. I apologize unreservedly for what I said.’

  He shook my hand and gripped my elbow with the other. ‘There is no more to say. Let’s move on – together.’

  CHAPTER 31

  March the 10th 1556 – Ca’ da Mosto

  I woke with a headache, still smarting from the previous day’s argument with Thomas. He had been right, and had showed me to be an impetuous fool whose mouth worked faster than his head. I regretted every aspect of our argument, apart from the lesson it had taught me, and that had been an uncomfortable one.

  I resolved to be more thoughtful in what I said, and to think ahead more carefully before letting my tongue loose. Today would be a good opportunity to test my resolve, as I had to break the news to the earl about my conversations with the painters, and try to get him to agree that I should commission Tintoretto at the offered price.

  I convinced myself in advance that it would go badly. Staring out of the window at a wet morning, the mist so thick that I could not see across the canal, I argued my side of the case and then responded to myself on his behalf, making reservations and finding problems. I realized, as I climbed the staircase, that I was falling into my old trap of approaching a discussion already angry.

  Why, I wondered, was I so angry all the time? Looking around me in Venice, my life was better than most people’s, so what did I have to complain about? I compared myself with Thomas, and came to the conclusion that I was expecting too much, and getting frustrated at my inability to convert all my dreams into realities. I tried to look at it from Courtenay’s point of view, as Thomas would have advised. The Earl had asked me to find an artist to paint his portrait. As he was both the subject and the patron, was it not reasonable that he should approve the artist, the approach and the price to be paid? Armed with this more reasoned view, I knocked on his door.

  ‘Your Grace. The artist Titian is, as I informed you, unavailable. I have had similar discussions with the house of Veronese and he is also overburdened . . .’

  I could see that the earl was already irritated. What he wanted was the solution, not a list of my failures. I continued, as rapidly as I could.

  ‘However, I have found an artist of outstanding workmanship and reputation, who has agreed, in view of your elevated position, not only to fit you into his busy schedule, but to paint your portrait at a special price. The price I have negotiated is fifty ducats. This is lower than Titian asks and equal to that asked by Veronese. However the terms of the arrangement are better than Veronese’s office proposed: there will be no deposit and payment will only be made upon satisfactory completion.’

  To my delight and complete surprise, the earl did not complain, nor did he try to improve upon my proposed price. ‘Excellent, Richard. It seems you have found the right man. Do you have a list of his recent patrons?’ I had expected the question and handed over a prepared list. He scanned the noble names and appeared satisfied.

  ‘You agreed the size? The format to be head and shoulders, with hands visible – I do believe hands tell so much about a person.’

  I confirmed that all these matters had been discussed and agreed.

  ‘Excellent. And what about a date to commence sitting? There is a degree of urgency, you know.’

  Again, I explained that the preference for an early commencement had been discussed, and agreed in principle. I was beginning to feel more confident. There was no point upon which I had not secured an acceptable response, and for the first time I could foresee myself returning to Tintoretto’s workshop and meeting the model in those paintings.

  ‘Do I have your authority to proceed, Your Grace?’

  I saw his face change and knew I had made an error. He hated being cornered and I was pushing him too hard. ‘I shall think about it, Richard. I always say it does no harm to dwell on a decision for a while. It gives an opportunity for unconsidered issues to emerge and for judgement to be applied fully. I shall think about it. Thank you for your efforts.’

  My heart sank. It was so typical of the man. I was dismissed. Reaching my own room once again, I looked out across the canal. The morning fog was burning off and the prospect of meeting Tintoretto’s model was disappearing with it. Nevertheless, I resolved to keep my temper, and to keep trying. I would secure a contract with Tintoretto and I would meet that woman. It just required tact, diplomacy and persistence. At least I had the latter; I should have to work on the other two but, remembering that face, I knew it would be worth the effort.

  I tried, as Thomas so often did, to look on the brighter side of li
fe. There must be some good news. One thing did seem to be improving: they had called off the guards, so the threat must have disappeared.

  CHAPTER 32

  March the 11th 1556 – Convento di Sant’ Alvise

  Peace and privacy were on my mind again the following afternoon, as I made another of what Thomas teasingly called my ‘pilgrimages’ to the convent of Sant’ Alvise. The continuing rain seemed to have dampened the spirits of the normal crowd of youths and there were only four of us outside the window. Luckily one of the gang had brought a sturdy boat and we had a more stable platform than usual to stand on.

  At first there was no sign of her, but eventually Suor Faustina joined the group of nuns at the window and, in her usual fashion, hovered at the back. I managed to find myself a position by the corner of the window and tilted my head to indicate to her that she should make her way to the corner also. At first she was reluctant, but slowly her courage seemed to improve and she came close to the window for the first time. Standing as tall as I could, and holding on to the bars for support, I was able to bring my face close enough to hers to whisper with a reasonable degree of privacy.

  She was so close I was aware of her scent – clean, soapy, fresh, just as I had known it would be, and so different from all those around me every day

  ‘I need to talk to you properly I want to help, but it’s hard to make arrangements like this.’

  She nodded, carefully, and I could see the pale blue of her eyes, both hope and fear passing across them. She gave a little frown and I wondered if I had made a mistake, but then I realized she was considering her reply. She signalled me to come closer still, and then she leaned forward until we were almost touching.

  ‘I have responsibility here as Chapter Clerk, I keep the books of account for the abbess and am responsible for buying all our needs from the market. It gives us an opportunity. Come back tomorrow, at nine in the evening, to the side canal. Make sure you have a low boat, not a gondola, and a boatman you can trust and in whose presence we can talk openly. There is a door to the convent warehouse in the canal side, the low grey one with two large handles. It will be open – push on the handles and the door will open inwards. There is a little dock inside for unloading provisions from the boats. Bring a sack of flour or something similar as cover, just in case.’