The day’s offering was brought to us – a huge bowl of fish soup, golden with saffron, a loaf of ciabatta and a jug of white wine. It was a feast fit for a doge and we toasted his good health as we enjoyed it.
Although only early evening, it was dark by the time we returned home. We found the earl in his room, surrounded by papers. He had clearly been busy writing letters – a favourite occupation when his mood had just changed. ‘Gentlemen! I trust you enjoyed the spectacle. How was the Doge?’
I replied that he looked old and tired but still very alert.
‘I have decided that I will go where I am appreciated. I have written to Duke Ercole, confirming that I shall be pleased to accept his kind offer and shall travel to Ferrara in a week’s time. If either of you would care to join me, you are of course most welcome, but if you have other commitments in this city, I shall not be offended if you feel the need to honour them.’
The acid in his voice was not entirely unexpected. In his mood of self-pity, he was inviting us to snub his invitation, as he believed the Doge had snubbed him. Thomas looked at me carefully as he replied. ‘I should be delighted to accompany you on part of the journey, Your Grace, but with your permission I will stop off at Padua and spend some days with my old friends there. Richard, what will you do?’
There was something in his tone that contained a warning. I decided to prevaricate.
‘Thank you, Your Grace, it would be a pleasure. However, the invitation is unexpected and I have a number of small arrangements to make. Perhaps I could confirm to you nearer your proposed departure date?’
Courtenay accepted, in a manner which indicated that he really did not care one way or the other, while Thomas nodded his approval. It appeared he had been signalling to me not to reject the offer out of hand, with the earl in his present sensitive mood. I had taken my leave and was at the door when Courtenay lifted his head from his papers.
‘Oh, you can tell that painter not to bother for the moment. I may have something made in Ferrara, the Duke has a very good man, I understand.’
Damn the man!
I left the room, irritated that, once again, Courtenay’s whim was disrupting other people’s lives so easily. Part of me was trying to think of an acceptable excuse not to join him; another was wondering what I was going to say to Tintoretto.
CHAPTER 37
Early morning, March the 21st 1556 – Fondamenta dei Mori
I kept my word and she kept hers. I had arrived at the bottega, as Jacopo Tintoretto liked to call his workshop, just after seven o’clock, in order to make sure I did not get in the way. Although looking forward to meeting Veronica again and seeing her model for the painters, I was preoccupied by the need to tell Tintoretto about the earl’s decision to postpone or even cancel his portrait. Having got myself here on the basis of securing a commission, how could I tell him that Courtenay was soon to leave for Ferrara and was no longer as committed to the idea as he had been? I decided to say nothing and to wait for a suitable moment.
Gentile Bassano – ‘Michelangelo’ – took me under his wing and gave me instructions. Unlike his namesake, who had a reputation for roughness and rudeness, our Michelangelo was kind, thoughtful and helpful.
‘You will understand the significance of what we are doing if you try to draw yourself; it will make you aware of the light, and how the edges of shadows fall away on the far side. We have a large painting already started using La Franco as a model, and you will see the maestro painting her direct as she sits. However, in order to save time and to use her presence to the best effect, I shall be confirming some of the details by making an abbazato – a sketch – which we can use later to refine our base drawing on the canvas.
‘As the painting progresses, you will see that our approach is different from the Florentine painters’. They still tend to use oil paints the way the fresco painters use tempera – in very thin glazes, with the original drawing showing through, sometimes even in the finished painting. Since the early days of Giorgione, we in Venice have moved away from that style, and we now use the paint more thickly. The result is that we often lose sight of the drawing as we progress. That’s when the reference sketches are useful. Mind you, not everybody uses them – Titian rarely refers back to abbazati once his paintings get going, and he often changes them completely from the original composition, scraping the old paint off or painting over the top, depending how dry it is. He is a terrible fiddler, and goes back again-and-again. I am glad Jacopo does not do that. He paints very quickly – faster than any of us – but only when he has the original composition clear in his mind. Ask him to show you his theatres. He has little boxes in which he arranges clay models. Then, he or I draw them. That way, we can try all sorts of compositions without having to pay for models or use lots of paint.’
I took the drawing-board he gave me, with blue paper, charcoal and white chalk, and sat in the corner as he had indicated. Soon I was forgotten as the bottega moved into action, the younger apprentices, or garzone, lifting easels into position and mixing paint, the more senior assistenti, including Gentile, setting up the pose for the model, while Jacopo himself worked a series of levers which opened and closed the shutters on the high windows, until a single shaft of light was concentrated on the model’s chair.
Just as everything was in position, Veronica arrived, wearing a long-belted silk robe, and carrying a piece of white silk drapery She nodded to the team of painters and acknowledged my position in the corner as she walked to the chair. Approaching it, she leaned over to look at the part-completed canvas, and I saw her move her body as if practising the pose. She stepped on to the platform, approached the chair and, with a single lithe movement, slipped out of the robe, catching it in her left hand and dropping it out of sight behind the chair.
With easy grace she placed the drapery over her shoulder and allowed it to slip until the required position was reached, then, lifting the trailing end, she swung it over her thigh. Gentile stepped in front of the canvas and looked at it, then at her, then back at the canvas again. Veronica looked at him and he nodded.
‘Perfect. The pose exactly as we left it last week. Thank you.’
With the ease of a cat, Veronica relaxed into her pose and held it. Sitting in the corner, in line with her right shoulder, I tried to put myself in her position. I knew I would have been stiff and muscle-weary within minutes, but Veronica seemed to have the ability to hold the position and to relax without slumping or dropping her shoulders.
‘Ready, Veronica?’ said Tintoretto.
Veronica gave the smallest of nods.
‘Half an hour, then.’
Jacopo concentrated on the drapery over her leg and began painting the fall of the shadows in varying shades of grey, his brush moving quickly, his eyes pivoting from the model to the canvas and back. Never did he seem to look at his palette, and I realized how important it was for a professional painter, working at speed, to place his mixes of paint in the same place each time, so they could be picked up by the brush without thought or diversion.
Now he took a second brush and, to my amazement, began to paint the light shapes with his left hand and the dark shapes with his right hand. I had seen that painters often carried two, three or four brushes under the thumb of the hand which held their palette, but this was the first time I had ever seen a painter put his palette down on the table beside him and paint simultaneously with two brushes.
Gentile stood behind him, looking over his shoulder and capturing the way the light fell on her forehead and lit her eyebrow and the top of her ear. I could see him lifting the inverted handle of a brush with his left hand and checking measurements, then transferring them to the paper before him, initially making light marks with his charcoal, then building up the shapes as he was satisfied the overall proportions were right. Every now and again he would put down the charcoal and blend the drawing with his fingertip, or use the end of a feather to flick off the marks and try them again.
I began drawing.
The only sounds in the room were the scratching of charcoal and the soft grinding sound of the pestle and mortar which Biffo was using to mix fresh pigment, before oil and a few drops of turpentine were added to it later. His powers of concentration appeared limited and his hands seemed to work independently of his eyes, which leered at Veronica, as she sat, breasts exposed and with only a small drape of silk across her thigh.
I tried to copy what Gentile was doing, and used the handle of a brush held vertically in my left hand, as a measuring stick. It was harder than it looked and the first marks were all over the place.
I was sure I could smell her perfume, despite the heavy scent of oil and turpentine hanging in the air. The sun caught her right breast and it seemed to glow as if lit by a lamp from inside. Down the right-hand side of her neck a small vein pulsed, the area slightly redder than the rest of it. Her hair was the colour of horse chestnuts newly opened on an autumn morning, yet the light catching it reflected gold and yellow, whilst the shadows were a deep greenish-brown. The tip of her nose, catching the light, was almost pure white, whilst the bulb of her nose, facing towards me, appeared in one small spot almost as red as an eating apple. It was amazing how much local colour you could see when you really concentrated.
How could you begin to capture such subtlety of form and colour in a painting? Where could you start? Watching Tintoretto and Gentile at work, I began to mimic the way they followed a contour with the brush or charcoal, as if feeling its shape, before transferring the same movement to the canvas or paper.
I had begun to get the profile of her forehead right, and was working down to her throat, when I became aware of a small movement on the edge of my field of vision; a tiny movement – just a flash of light. I looked at Veronica’s face. She was still in the same pose, but I could see that her eyes were focused on Biffo as he mixed his pigment across the room to my right. His mixing had grown faster, his knuckles white as he gripped his implements, and he was leering at her in an aggressive and suggestive manner. I wondered whether I should do or say something, for Jacopo was immersed in his brushwork and the others were similarly hard at work. I decided that, as a visitor, it was not my role to disturb their concentration.
There it was again – a tiny change in the reflected light. Slowly, ever so slowly, Veronica was moving her right leg towards me and away from the other. There was no change to the expression on her face, but I realized that Biffo’s mixing was becoming frenzied and he was staring between her legs. With the smallest of movements, she spread her legs even more and I realized that she was exposing her sex to him. Biffo, face red, finally lost control completely and the mortar and pestle crashed from the bench, spilling precious pigment across the floor.
‘Biffo, you bloody fool!’ yelled Tintoretto, putting down his palette and grabbing the red-faced boy by the collar. He pushed Biffo’s face down into the bright blue mess on the floor.
‘Do you know what this is? It is ultramarine – powdered lapis lazuli crystals from far across the seas, and worth a thousand times what you are, weight-for-weight. Not that that’s saying much, you useless lump. Now get down there and sweep up every speck of it. If there is any left when I inspect it at the end of this painting period, you will be sent home to your father as a complete and utter failure. This is your final warning.’
I cast my eyes back to Veronica. She sat impassive, the same expression on her face. The only difference in her position was that her knees were drawn together again, the drape replaced.
I looked across at Gentile, who continued to draw. He saw my glance and winked, just once. Now it was clear: Veronica Franco was a lady to be watched and learned from.
They soldiered on for a few more minutes, but everyone’s concentration had been disturbed and Biffo’s frantic brushing on the floor did not make it easy to regain. Finally Jacopo called a halt.
‘Let’s have a short break. I am sure Veronica would like to stretch her legs.’
Nobody responded, and I decided that even if everyone did know what had happened, there was an unspoken pact not to refer to it, and I should do the same.
She rose from her throne-like chair and came over to me, seeming in no real hurry to put on the gown as she approached. Never before had I met a woman who appeared so relaxed with her nakedness, yet the events of the last few minutes had shown she would go so far as having Biffo sacked in order to protect her privacy. It appeared the model was there to be seen but not to be consumed.
‘Richard! How nice to see you again. You decided to accept my invitation. I am pleased. And to see you drawing also, that was a surprise; I did not know you could draw. May I have a look?’
My stomach turned over. It was bad enough seeing the inadequacy of your own drawing, and worse still to have it examined by experts like Gentile and Jacopo, but to have the model herself ask to see the mess you had made of drawing her face, her neck, her body, was deeply uncomfortable.
‘It’s my first time.’ I lifted the drawing board and allowed her to see my efforts. One or two features were all right – I had caught the light on her forehead and her hairline was nearly right – but the remainder was an embarrassment.
‘Your first time? Is it really? You should practise, Richard.’ She managed to say the words loudly enough that Tintoretto and the others all heard. ‘Perhaps the maestro will let you join his apprentice class? Who knows, within a few years you might turn into another Il Furioso and learn to paint with both hands at once?’
Jacopo grinned. Yes, of course I could join the class. My work was promising; I had a good hand.
In the end it was agreed that I would return, and I turned to Veronica gratefully.
‘That was kind of you, Veronica. Thank you. Now I will have an opportunity to make some friends here in Venice and to learn a skill also. What can I do for you in return?’
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she considered whether I was having fun with her. Finally she replied.
‘I would like to meet your companion, the English earl. Jacopo says he is from an ancient royal family, the Plantagenets. Is that so?’
I agreed that it was so, but, aware that Courtenay was soon to leave for Ferrara, I answered carefully. ‘I should be happy to make an introduction, Veronica. The earl is of a careful and suspicious nature; may I tell him the purpose of the meeting, for he is sure to ask?’
She put her head on one side, at the same time coquettish and considering. How well she played these little games – no doubt she would sparkle in the company of courtiers and ambassadors.
‘Will you walk me home when Tintoretto has finished with me? Then, perhaps, I can explain more fully.’
I saw Gentile and Jacopo glance at each other and realized that they were reading signs in the conversation that I appeared to be missing. I had nothing to lose. She was beautiful and interesting and I had no commitments for the rest of the day. I wondered how far her house was from where we were now and what the correct etiquette was in Venice.
‘It will be a pleasure. Shall we walk or perhaps we will take a gondola together?’
She smiled and took my hand. ‘Perhaps there will be time for us to do both? Who knows?’
CHAPTER 38
Afternoon, March the 21st 1556 – a small palazzo overlooking the Grand Canal
‘No. Please . . . I will pay him.’ Veronica paid the gondolier and led the way up the stone steps to her rooms on the first floor of the palazzo. ‘A woman needs what independence she can get.’
The words were thrown over her shoulder as we climbed.
It had been a short but instructive journey. Cutting through the small back canals from the Rio della Sensa, crossing the Rio della Misericordia and finding the little Rio di San Marcuola, we had finally come to an old and rather tired-looking palazzo beside the Grand Canal. We were opposite the Palazzo Ferrara owned by Duke Ercole, who was expecting our own Earl of Devon to join him in Ferrara in a few days’ time. What a close little world this was.
The gondolier
had chatted to Veronica like an old friend and for the whole journey she had called out to friends and pointed out places of interest. Although the city was said to have a population of a hundred thousand, that population quickly broke down into a number of groups, who appeared to live their lives largely separately. The nobility entertained each other in their palazzi on the Grand Canal; the shipwrights lived and worked in the Arsenale; the merchants, the Jews and the Germans each lived in their own quarters; and the nuns were safely hidden away in the convents. And all of the time the popolani toiled unrecorded and unrecognized down below, making the whole edifice possible.
What brought everybody together was trade and commerce. The desire to make money was the one activity that crossed all social barriers, and the painful thought hit me that Veronica’s familiarity with citizens of all classes stemmed directly from her life as a courtesan. Now circumstances had brought me into that life, although in exactly what capacity I was not sure. As we entered her rooms, I had a feeling that I was about to find out.
Like many of the palazzi I had visited since arriving in the city, the inside of this one had fared a great deal better than the outside. The salty humidity of the lagoon was around us all the time – not least on this sultry afternoon, when a heavy but warm mist hung over the whole city and invaded even these splendid rooms.
The air was still and no birds were singing. It would have been oppressive if the stink of a few weeks ago had prevailed, but all of that was gone. The houses had been washed through and swept, and up here on the piano nobile Veronica had arranged spring flowers and bowls of early imported lemons to scent the atmosphere.
I walked over to the windows, edged the shutters apart and looked out across the Grand Canal.
Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker) Page 18