Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  ‘I see in these communications support for my marriage to an appropriate person in Europe. I shall proceed with that objective and increase my social activity until the right person is found. Richard, I am decided. I shall go ahead with the portrait forthwith! Make haste to the painter Tintoretto and arrange the first sittings. There is no time to spare.’

  I lowered my head, as if bowing, whilst remaining seated. I dared not stand until my heart stopped racing. The portrait was back on again, and with it my prospect of meeting the model whom Tintoretto had stolen from Titian. Thomas looked at me from the corner of his eye. He could read me like a book.

  ‘Come, Richard. There is work to be done. Important decisions have been made in this room today and His Grace needs to reply to the Cornishman with all haste, before rumours abound.’

  As I ran up the stone steps to my own room, the smell from below seemed to have disappeared. All I could think of was returning to Tintoretto and discovering more about his model.

  CHAPTER 35

  March the 16th 1556 – Workshop of Tintoretto, Fondamenta dei Mori

  Overnight everything had changed. The wind had abated, the rain had stopped and the city sat, strangely still, in a cool mist. I had walked enthusiastically all the way from the Ca’ da Mosto to the workshop on the Fondamenta dei Mori, and stood expectantly outside the heavy wooden door.

  I paused to consider what I was going to say, and looked at the statue of the Moor for inspiration. The atmosphere was strange. Through the light mist, two old ladies came along the road, shopping baskets in their hands. They passed me like wraiths, talking quietly, and I shared their desire for quiet and stillness. It was as if the cessation of the buffeting wind had given us all a holiday from noise, and no one – not even the small boys – seemed to want to disturb the mood of calm.

  As I stood by the door, Tintoretto himself came along the road, carrying the day’s fresh bread.

  ‘The English patron! And so early in the morning! You must have urgent business. Come inside and let us discuss it.’

  I followed him through the little latch door in the corner of the main doorway and we entered the workshop. As we prepared ourselves, the first apprentices began to gather, yawning and stretching as a flat white light illumined the studio from a large skylight.

  Meat and cheese were brought and a small flagon of beer. The atmosphere was friendly, like a school, and although Tintoretto was clearly the master, he did not rule with a metaphorical rod of iron as Titian had appeared to. I was introduced and joined the others in breakfast.

  ‘What shall we draw today?’ The group were assembling grey paper, black charcoal and white chalk. They looked around for inspiration.

  ‘Richard, will you sit for us?’ Tintoretto had a way of looking at you which did not allow “no” for an answer. ‘Take the chair there – the high one, where the light falls strongest.’

  I sat in the chair and tried to relax and keep still. It was harder than I expected. Eight men looked at me with a closeness that at first I found unnerving, as if they were finding fault with every angle and contour, or looking into my very soul.

  ‘Has Yasmeen arrived yet?’ Tintoretto seemed to be able to draw and think of other things at the same time. They had forgotten me. Now I was just the model. An assistant called Giacomo snorted. ‘No. It’s too early for Yasmeen. If she came in this early she would drop her papers and fall over everything because she wasn’t awake. Anyway, she always takes breakfast with her father. She will be here in a minute.’

  Charcoal scratched away on paper. Apprentices used their fingertips to blend shadows, while feathers, or balls of what looked like window putty, were used to remove unwanted shading. Now some took up white chalk, to mark highlights.

  ‘Twenty minutes left.’

  Tintoretto may have been friendly, but his discipline in the life class did not slip. I had seen his eyes flick to my left where, over in the corner, a sandglass was measuring the passage of time. It was so silent in the room I could hear the sand slipping down from the top glass into the bottom one.

  ‘What time is Veronica arriving today?’

  Giacomo looked up. ‘In about twenty minutes, Jacopo. Roughly when we finish. The cartoon did not look right when we transferred it on to the big canvas and Michelangelo here wants to go over it before you do the final checks.’

  A large, ugly apprentice on the far side grinned. It appeared he had been given the nickname ‘Michelangelo’ because of his likeness to the great artist, who was reputed to have oversized, coarse features.

  Tintoretto continued to organize his team. ‘When she comes, will you set up the chair for her, Biffo? And no leering when she takes her clothes off. She is a model, Biffo. That’s what they do, and you must get used to it. I promised your father I would give you a chance, but I can’t have you in the studio with models around if you keep drooling. It upsets them and they get distracted, then the pose goes and we can’t work.’

  Biffo nodded vigorously. An awkward fourteen-year-old, he looked more like a butcher’s apprentice than an artist’s, with a heavy head, thick neck and meaty hands. His manner was slow and I wondered whether he was a bit dim. ‘Do you want her chair in the same position as Richard’s?’ His voice was as slow as his movements. Jacopo Tintoretto put down his charcoal and looked across at Biffo patiently.

  ‘No, Biffo. The way I showed you last week. Facing that corner, so the light falls over her shoulder. Do you remember?’

  Biffo looked confused. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll help him. He’ll learn; it takes time for everyone.’ Giacomo showed he had a gentle side.

  ‘Right, time’s up; one minute, then finish what you are doing and put it on the table.’ Tintoretto put his drawing on the table and one by one the others did likewise.

  ‘Can I move now?’ I felt I needed permission to leave my seat.

  ‘Of course. Come and see yourself

  I joined the group and looked at the drawings on the table. Each was different, in style as well as viewpoint.

  Tintoretto himself had concentrated on my profile and the way my hair fell over my shoulder. It made me realize that my hair was unfashionably long.

  For all his brutal looks, Michelangelo had a delicate touch and had concentrated on the way my hand rested on the carved arm of the chair. He had caught the play of light on the fingers perfectly, but more than that, he had allowed the viewer to understand how the small muscles and tendons in the hand contracted to form the hand’s gripping action. I realized how much I had to learn if my medical drawings were ever to express as much as the small sketch before me.

  Tintoretto looked over my shoulder and grinned. ‘Not bad, Michelangelo. Already better than Titian, but of course you know that’s not a very high standard.’ The assistant laughed. He knew how good his drawing was and he was obviously used to Jacopo’s faint praise. It was clear also that everyone in the room was used to the insults thrown at their competitor, Titian.

  ‘Right, everybody. To work. Richard, you can come with me. And thank you for sitting; you did well. We may have to ask you again.’ There were nods of agreement and thanks from all round the room.

  I followed Tintoretto into a hallway and from there into the courtyard where we had met before. My small role as their model had made me feel part of his little family and this time I felt totally relaxed.

  Stretched over the whole of the courtyard two floors above us was a white canvas sail, letting in the light while protecting the courtyard from rain. It created a light, airy space in which to talk, and even this early in the morning it was warm and relaxing. Again we sat at the same table, and in the same positions. I remembered the last visit and looked up; there was the carved grille, and I wondered whether anyone would be hovering behind it today.

  ‘Well, Richard, now you have seen us at work and met some of my family of artists, what do you think of us?’

  There was a directness about Jacopo Tintoretto that made me, in turn, answer directly. ‘I am impre
ssed. I like the atmosphere and the workmanship is first-class. I wish I could draw like that.’

  He smiled expansively. ‘It is a skill that can be learned by practice. Bring me some of your work and I will discuss it with you. Now, to business. What progress have we made since we last spoke?’

  His voice was quite loud, almost forceful, and for a moment I thought he might be deaf. Instinctively, I raised my voice as I replied.

  ‘We have full agreement. A head-and-shoulders nuptial portrait, including hands. The price is fifty ducats as agreed, without deposit, and sitting to start as soon as dates and times can be arranged to mutual convenience.’

  Tintoretto slapped the table. ‘Excellent. Then we have a bargain. Hands on it.’

  He slapped my hand in the manner of the Venetian markets and I slapped his back. Then we shook hands properly to seal the bargain. ‘You know, sometimes I think I enjoy the business side as much as the painting.’

  I looked at him quizzically. His voice was still loud. Was he joking?

  ‘But then I get started, with my colours mixed and a model in front of me, and I think, No, this is the best – making it come to life. I am a lucky man, to do what I love, and to be able to feed my family from the results. What do you do with your life, Richard?’

  As I went to reply, I heard the slight scrape of a chair being moved, and was sure I saw a fleeting movement once again, as I had on the last visit, behind the carved grille. It was only for an instant, but there was something.

  How could I reply? What did I do with my life? To say I did nothing would make me sound like a wastrel, and in any case I did not feel that was a fair description; but in truth I had no real profession or trade.

  ‘At this moment, Jacopo, I am trying to make a decision. I have spent much of the last five years very close to a master and mistress who were of the Protestant religion and who persuaded me to become the same. Within a period of two weeks, both were beheaded for a treason that was not of their making. Since that time I have been studying medicine with an English doctor who trained in Padua. I left England because of the persecution of Protestants as heretics, and I am considering following my mentor’s path and becoming a physician.’ For a moment I thought of Suor Faustina, imprisoned in the convent. ‘But there are complications, and I have not quite decided.’

  Behind his shoulder I saw the movement again. Clearer this time. A female face: olive skin, black hair and dark, elongated eyes. Who was she?

  ‘Complications? You mean women?’ I was caught out by the speed of his response.

  ‘Women? Perhaps. What makes you say that?’ As I spoke, someone walked past the open door opposite me. It took her only one pace to cross the doorway, time enough for me to see black hair – no, not black, but darkest brown. As she passed there was a brief flick of the eyes: shaped like willow leaves, with dark irises beneath heavy dark eyelashes. Those eyes looked at me for a mere passing instant, yet in that instant I knew it had been the owner of those eyes who had listenened to me and that her glance was not accidental.

  Tintoretto followed my eyes, grinned and punched my arm lightly. ‘I can tell you have a healthy interest in women. Even for an Englishman. We still only have half a bargain, remember? Are you telling me you have forgotten?

  Half a bargain? My mind was still on the passing face behind him.

  ‘My model! Remember? I made you a promise?’

  It all came flooding back: the Venus in the Titian painting and another of Tintoretto’s. He had promised me I would meet the model. Immediately my mind was back and a third face filled my imagination.

  ‘Wait here and I will see if she has finished sitting.’

  He was back in a few seconds, followed by a lady, loosely wrapped in a sheet. ‘Allow me to introduce Veronica Franco: model, friend, courtesan, poet, and great lady of Venice.’

  It was the Venus With a Mirror. She walked towards me, slowly and confidently, despite only having a loose sheet around her. She offered her hand, and as she did so she allowed her cover to slip precariously, catching it again before too much of her nakedness was revealed.

  ‘Veronica, may I introduce Richard Stocker, English patron.

  She was quite short, almost plump. I must have been nearly a foot taller than her, and she almost seemed vulnerable. But she used that vulnerability to her own advantage. In that damp courtyard, she stood out like a ripe peach on a summer’s morning, with a warm and voluptuous aura which excited and invited me. I knew immediately that Titian had absorbed that aura on every occasion she had modelled for him. Her mouth seemed to embody the sensual, tactile awareness that was her essence and which was so immediately arousing.

  One thing stood out against my memory of the paintings: her hair. For unlike the two Venus paintings, in which the subject’s golden locks were piled high in what was fashionably known as the Virgin’s Crown, Veronica’s hair was russet red, and cut simply and plainly. I knew from one glance at this hair that it signified her underlying independence, and in that moment of recognition, I also realized why both artists had changed it for something more fashionable – and gentle lemon-bleached blonde. Theirs was the compliant virgin; this was the real woman.

  She sat, comfortably, opposite me, and I knew she would appear comfortable wherever she was and whoever she accompanied. She was friendly, without being familiar, making gentle jokes at the expense of Tintoretto, asking about my visit to Venice and how long I had been here; but it was only later I realized she had told me almost nothing about herself.

  She did make me one promise, however: I was invited to return in five days’ time to watch her being painted. I could hardly wait.

  CHAPTER 36

  March the 20th 1556 – Piazza San Marco

  ‘Is he sulking again, Thomas?’

  Without speaking, my friend raised his shoulders in the Venetian manner, opening the palms of his hands. He clearly did not intend to commit himself

  ‘Surely he realizes that the first day of spring is a local celebration? There was no reason to expect the Doge or the Council of Ten to invite an English visitor, even an earl. Why couldn’t he just join the crowd and watch the spectacle as we are doing? Do you think this social snub, as he perceives it, will instigate something?’

  Thomas shook his head in apparent uncertainty. ‘I find him just as hard to predict as you do, Richard, but I shouldn’t be surprised if he did suggest something. He has that invitation from Duke Ercole d’Este to visit Ferrara, for example. He might respond to that. He has had it for weeks now.’

  I was no expert on the subtleties of international intrigue, but I did know that Duke Ercole d’Este was generally regarded in Venice as being dangerous, said to be in the pocket of the French. And one thing I did know about the English Court: it never trusted anything French, either directly or indirectly. If the earl ever hoped to return to England and be accepted back fully in English society, getting himself associated with the French might not be a very good idea. Still, as Thomas reminded me, I could not influence the earl’s decision, so I might as well sit back and let him get into his own difficulties. He was, after all, the earl, not me.

  ‘Why does he always need his social position to be recognized?’

  Thomas smiled his familiar weary smile.

  Sometimes, when I was railing about something I considered unreasonable, Thomas’s calm resilience made me worse, and when he smiled that particular ‘I have seen all this many times before’ smile, I felt as if I could shake him. Recently, however, I had found it easier to come round to his point of view.

  Was it the warmer weather, or was I growing up? My twenty-first birthday was only three months away; perhaps I would soon become staid and responsible like Thomas. Whatever it was, I decided to enjoy the sunshine, the procession and the sights and sounds of the Piazza San Marco in full celebration, and not to let Edward Courtenay’s mood spoil my afternoon.

  The procession streamed in front of us, group after group of musicians, each playing its own melody.
There was a good distance between each group but when the wind shifted and their music intermingled, the result was something of a tangled mess. Nevertheless, the entertainment was free, the sun was shining and, like the rest of the huge crowd, we were enjoying ourselves.

  ‘The Doge! The Doge!’ The crowd rose to its feet as Doge Francesco Venier was carried across the piazza in front of us.

  He was preceded by musicians playing pipes and long silver trumpets, and by some sort of lord, in full armour, bearing a huge rapier and flanked by a chaplain and a shield bearer. They were followed by a gilded chair with cushion of cloth of gold, surmounted by an effigy of the Virgin Mary and carried by eight squires. Behind the Doge walked eight commandanti, carrying silk standards: two white for peace, two red for war, two purple for truce and two blue for union.

  Doge Venier looked frail, old and tired, but the famous corno – horn-shaped – hat sat proudly enough on his head, and his stance remained upright despite the weight of the brocaded silk dogalina and a heavy cloak with wolfskin collar. Nevertheless, as he passed close in front of us, I was aware of the piercing clarity of his gaze, and realized that however old and weak the body, the mind was still razor sharp.

  I would not want to get on the wrong side of that man, I thought, as he moved away from us.

  The procession lasted for two hours, with mounted soldiers following the walking nobility, their lances held high and pennants fluttering in the breeze and catching the golden afternoon light.

  When finally it finished, there was a mad rush for the taverns around the piazza. Thomas and I decided to walk along the Riva degli Schiavoni beside the lagoon and enjoy the warmth of the sun as we sought a trattoria with an empty table. Eventually, approaching the Arsenale, we found one and established ourselves at an outside table in the sunshine. We were just in time, for within minutes we were joined by a large group of shipyard workers as they streamed in after their day’s work.