The whole occasion had the busy atmosphere of a beehive, with boats wriggling their way hither and thither through the mêlée. Then the queen bee herself appeared in the form of the Bucintoro, the Doges’ ceremonial galley. It was a huge gold-encrusted structure two storeys high (and three at the stern cabins), with fifteen oarsmen on each side. As it ploughed into the crowded basin, the smaller ships seemed to melt away, and as it got closer we could see why. The bow of the great galley was built in the same form as the war galleys, with a huge spear-fronted prow which would have split open any unfortunate boat that failed to clear its path.
The Bucintoro swept shorewards, followed in strict family precedence by the smaller vessels of the nobility, and with the effortless skill of expert boatmen slid smoothly and with one single movement to its position against the shore between the two granite pillars. As the great ship slid to a halt, the Doge stood and raised his ceremonial hat. At this signal, the seated members of the crowd rose and the Doge led the nobles across the piazza to the ceremonial platform which had been erected for the occasion.
It was, indeed, a great spectacle, and one which epitomized the life of this great city. I was thoroughly enjoying myself, observing the procession and feeling uplifted by the cheering of the crowd. Why, I wondered, had Veronica tried to discourage me from coming?
Minutes later I had my answer.
The Doge swept by, only ten paces ahead of me and so close I could again see the tired old face and the steely determination in those eyes. Behind him, but maintaining a respectful distance, came the members of the Council of Ten, accompanied by their wives. They were followed in turn by the ambassadors and highest officials, before the remainder of the noble families could take up their allotted positions.
I saw him before I saw her.
Amidst all the gold and silver, the scarlet of his robes caught the sun and screamed out for my attention. There he was, ten paces in front of me, the fat cardinal from Titian’s house, walking with his nose in the air, confident in his superiority, and exuding pious self-satisfaction. And who held the pudgy multi-ringed hand which he raised so confidently aloft but Veronica Franco herself, dressed from head to toe in silver brocade, so bright in the sunshine that it appeared to be white.
I stopped applauding and watched silently as they processed in front of me, unaware of my presence. The red and the silver-white appeared to complement each other perfectly – a picture of noble elegance and superiority. Yet suddenly I saw the whole spectacle in a different light.
I saw a show, an artifice, put on to please the masses and to remind them of their humble place in this structured world, whilst reminding outsiders that the power of the Venetian Republic remained undiminished.
Beside me a child gave a cry. She was no more than ten years old, and dressed in her very finest for the special occasion. It appeared she had been fiddling with her ring and in the excitement had dropped it. Her father turned on her angrily and I saw the fear in her face as she stared forlornly down between the planks of our stand, where the ring had fallen.
‘Don’t worry, I will look for it. What colour is it?’
‘It is red – a deep ruby red, with gold around it. My grandmother’s ring.’ The girl was distraught.
Carefully, I made my way to the rear of the crowd and climbed down from the stand until I was able to burrow underneath. The stones of the piazza were recently brushed and clean, apart from the scraps of food dropped by the crowd above. I worked my way forward again, towards the green dress which marked the girl’s position, and looked around amongst the flagstones. The ring lay undamaged and I picked it up. Half-standing, for the height of the platform would not let me do more, I tapped the girl’s ankle and felt her jump. She looked down and I held the ring high for her to see. She bent and reached down, taking the ring gratefully and putting it on her finger. She gave me a little wave and I saw her relief as she showed the ringed finger to her father.
I worked my way towards the back, until the increased height allowed me to stand. This was another Venetian underworld. Like the workers who spent their lives in the Arsenale building ships, the gondoliers who plied their craft, the fishermen who braved the winter storms on the lagoon, and the pile drivers whose year-round work provided the physical base upon which the fondamente and the buildings of this great city were erected, I was, in this instant, part of the separate world which supported the other one above us.
I thought of the women in this world; the prostitutes who literally lay beneath the male nobles and merchants who controlled this city, and the nuns whom those same nobles locked away in order to maintain the narrow fabric of their highly structured society. Many of them had begun their lives confidently in the noble world, only one day to slip and fall into the underworld beneath. How many, I wondered, would ever be recovered and restored to their positions above?
Stiffly, I climbed out of the mass of scaffold poles and stood behind the raised platform. It seemed the procession had finished, for the crowd was dispersing and people were streaming past me. I stood back, out of their way, brushing at the marks on my clothing and feeling somehow dirty and withdrawn.
I heard foreign voices close to me, and saw a dark, slender girl walking past, talking to an old man who was holding her arm. The man was also dark, with a large hooked nose, and he held the girl tightly, like a possession. In an instant I could imagine the situation: an old man, perhaps reasonably wealthy after years of trade, comforting himself in his latter years by owning a beautiful young woman.
As they walked away she turned, and in that instant I recognized her profile. Yasmeen. Of that I had no doubt, but what was she doing being held so possessively by that old man? I hesitated, and they disappeared round a corner, and were lost once again, in the crowd.
The day was over. Painfully, I remembered seeing Veronica with the fat cardinal, seeming as comfortable in that stratum of society as she had been among the common prostitutes on the canal bridges.
And what of Yasmeen? Was she, too, a plaything of some rich merchant? If so, how had she appeared in Tintoretto’s studio, acting, so Veronica had said, as his business manager? It did not make sense, unless she led two separate lives. I found the thought deeply troubling and walked home with a heavy heart.
CHAPTER 53
April the 26th 1556 – Fondamenta della Sensa
‘So, this is the house you have chosen?’
Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon, and Dr Thomas Marwood completed their tour of inspection; the earl carrying his travelling gloves in one hand as if he might need to use them to brush away the dust before sitting down. I waited for his criticism but to my surprise there was none.
They had arrived at late morning, having left Padua just after dawn and travelled the whole way by barge. They had caught the tide well and had been able to bring the barge right alongside the fondamenta and close in front of the house. As a result, all their possessions were transferred within the hour and the bargeman was sent back to Padua on the same tide.
Courtenay was in remarkably good spirits. On first arrival he had asked for confirmation of where we were in relation to the Grand Canal and the Rialto. Knowing exactly what his real concern was, I had mentioned the proximity of the house where Veronica lived and he immediately moved on to other issues. I showed him the suite of rooms I had in mind for him and the smaller rooms remaining for Thomas, myself and the house servants. He looked at his rooms, satisfied himself that he would be able to entertain important personages there without embarrassment and, again was satisfied.
Thomas, meanwhile, merely stowed his things in his room and went out to find the easiest route to the Oratorio.
‘Richard. About the portrait.’ Courtenay called me into his rooms, already cluttered with open chests. ‘I have been catching up on the private letters which arrived while we were away and which you so kindly brought here with you. One is from Cardinal Pole. He writes of events in England and tells me that another seven heretics were recently burn
ed for their beliefs and that Archbishop Cranmer himself went to the stake on the twenty-first of March, having publicly denied his supposed recantations on the scaffold, saying they were forgeries made by Philip II’s Spanish friars.
‘Although I am a committed Catholic, the prospect of the Spanish Inquisition worming its way into English society leaves me seriously concerned, Richard. Other Englishmen feel the same, I know. There are active plots against Queen Mary and Philip.’ He looked at me enquiringly.
‘Really?’ I tried to look shocked. ‘Our country must indeed be a troubled place.’
He continued, in the same vein. It did not appear his remarks had been directed at me.
‘Yes. According to my letters, a number of conspirators were put in the Tower on the twenty-eighth of March. No doubt someone’s version of ‘the truth’ will have been racked out of them for the benefit of Queen, Church and nation?’
I continued to play the innocent, and as I had expected, he soon got bored and changed the subject. ‘But to happier things.’ The earl brought out a small box from which he drew a coin-sized bronze medallion. ‘Duke Ercole had his man make this likeness for me. It’s honest, don’t you think?’
I presumed by ‘honest’ he meant flattering, and as he passed me the small medallion, I fully expected an Adonis to confront me, but again my prejudices were confounded. The profile showed how much weight the earl had put on in the last few years. His beard was nicely trimmed in the latest fashion.
‘It is, as you say, an honest likeness, Your Grace.’ As I handed it back to him I asked the one question I really cared about. ‘How does this affect the portrait from Tintoretto, Your Grace?’
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Richard. This medallion has confirmed to me that my profile lends itself to portraiture. At the same time, the situation in England has convinced me that my future lies over here on the continent of Europe. Duke Ercole made a number of opening gambits on behalf of the French Court, but I am not stupid enough to fall for that. France has been too long an enemy to become my salvation now. No. On balance, I shall resign myself to remaining over here, and what more comfortable way to consolidate my position than to marry into a good family and settle down to domestic bliss with a good wife at my side?’
I nodded without great enthusiasm. He continued regardless. ‘I believe such a prospect may not be too far away. A certain lady here in Venice has responded to me with – how can I say? – with encouragement. Yes, that’s it. With encouragement. I believe I may yet win her hand if I am diligent in my pursuit of it. She has a number of – er – qualities that might encourage an English earl. Don’t you think?’
And a Venetian cardinal. I managed to stop the words before they left my mouth. Instead, I offered him my very best man-toman, understanding smile.
‘Indeed.’ It was a courtier’s word, and no less useful for that. ‘And the portrait?’ I was beginning to wonder if he would ever get to the point.
‘The portrait is clearly now a matter of urgency.’
‘You would like me to resume the conversation with Tintoretto?’
‘No.’
My heart sank. I might have guessed it: another change of plan. What was it to be this time? Back to Titian?
‘Not merely resume it, Richard. I would like you to hasten it. This whole business has dragged on for far too long. This man Tintoretto may be a good painter but he has no sense of urgency. I would like your assurance that sittings will commence in the very near future. Meanwhile, I shall have to talk to the lady and enquire, very discreetly of course, what her favourite colours are. I may only have one shot at this target and I must get it right.’
I made my departure and looked for Thomas. I found him sitting outside, talking to Pietro, who, by some little accident, had chosen to fish close to our doorstep on this very afternoon. ‘The mud stirred up by your barge will have attracted the fish.’ Pietro always had an excuse ready. I wondered if there was a job for him in the diplomatic service, for he had a natural flair for such matters.
‘How are the bread deliveries going? I asked. Any new orders?’
Pietro looked at me with his quick eyes. He had long ago found out about my messages to and from Suor Faustina at Sant’ Alvise through his brothers and Hieronimo, and had on occasions delivered the bread to the convent himself. I trusted him, but only in small things. He looked from me to Thomas and read the enquiring look on Thomas’s face immediately. ‘I am not sure. I will go and ask my father.’ He turned to Thomas. ‘Will you mind my rod and basket?’ I watched him run along the fondamenta towards the trattoria.
‘What was all that about?’ Thomas watched him turn into his father’s doorway.
‘He runs errands for me. His family delivers bread to the convent where my nun is. We send each other notes through the delivery boys.’
Thomas scratched his head, smiling. ‘You and your intrigues. And there’s always a woman involved. Any new ones in your life since I saw you last?’
I thought of Yasmeen and looked at Thomas. In truth I could not say she was ‘in my life’ in the active sense that he meant, but in the sense of occupying my waking moments (and many of my dreaming ones, too) she was as important to me as anyone at this moment.
‘There might be.’
He saw me hesitate and guessed complexity. ‘What’s the difficulty this time? Don’t tell me she’s a Catholic?’
I stared blankly across the canal. ‘I am not sure, but I think she may be Arabic, and of their faith.’
Thomas too stared across the canal. We did this sometimes when the issue we were discussing was difficult or personal, avoiding eye contact but each attuned to the silences between the other’s replies. ‘You don’t make it easy, do you? I assume she is unmarried?’
I stared across the canal at the terracotta brickwork. ‘What do you mean by that?’
His reply was immediate. ‘It hasn’t stopped you in the past.’
‘That was different. Lady Frances pursued me.’
Thomas leaned back lazily. Sometimes this way of talking worked. ‘So you admit you are pursuing this one?’
I was starting to find the conversation irritating and, to my surprise, inappropriate. ‘I admit nothing, Thomas. I have only met the girl once and have hardly spoken to her. I am not sure if there is any opportunity to pursue, but I will tell you one thing – if the opportunity exists, then it’s probably serious.’
‘Have you had any more thoughts about returning to England?’
I considered my reply. ‘Yes, but I have come to no conclusions yet. I believe my future lies here, at least for the next few years, but at this moment I cannot see the full shape of it.’
‘And medicine? In Padua?’
I sat up and faced him. ‘Yes, Thomas. I think medicine may play an important role, but at the moment there are too many loose ends in my life.’
‘A noble nun, a courtesan to the nobility and a Muslim. It sounds like a difficult choice. Loose ends, indeed.’
I leaned back against the warm wall. ‘If it is a choice, it is a choice I shall have to make myself, Thomas. For the meantime, I should be grateful if you would not make disparaging remarks about people for whom I have both a liking and a respect.’
I felt a shadow fall across my face and realized that Thomas had risen and was standing in front of me. I opened my eyes and saw that his hand was outstretched. ‘I apologize. I had not realized quite how seriously you were taking the matter. I withdraw everything, with apologies.’
I did not stand, but simply smiled at him. How many men did I know who had the strength of character to act as he had just done? ‘Thomas, you are indeed my greatest friend. And I am your greatest admirer. The matter is closed.’
I let my eyes drift across the canal once again, thoughts ebbing and flowing like the tide of the canal. The matter between Thomas and myself might be over, but he was right, the three women who now shaped so much of my life did present me with a dilemma, and a complicated one
.
CHAPTER 54
April the 27th 1556 – Fondamenta dei Mori
I wasted no time. Early the following morning, I set off on the short walk along the canalside from our new home to Tintoretto’s studio. I caught him as he opened up, and as I helped him with the studio shutters I told him the good news. He seemed pleased but relaxed, and in no hurry to make the arrangements.
‘Yasmeen looks after the sitting diary. I believe you met her the other day, with Veronica?’
I confirmed that we had met, although very briefly.
‘Well, this will be an opportunity to get to know her better. Yasmeen is a gemstone; I would be lost without her. She was only fourteen when she first came to ask me for work. How shy she was, but even then I could sense the potential. Her organizing skills are extraordinary; my mind would burst asunder with the thousands of details she is able to keep in her head – dates, sitting positions, accessories, clothing, everything. I learned long ago that you can’t trust the models. With the exception of Veronica, who can be relied upon, they will turn up in a green robe one day and a red one the next – for the same painting! But now Yasmeen controls the wardrobe and everyone knows where they are.
‘She will be here in half an hour – she likes to take breakfast with her father before she begins work. They live just down the pavement, only a few doors away. This is not called the Fondamenta dei Mori for nothing. This canalside has been home to the city’s Moorish population for over a hundred years. When I first set up my studio in Venice, I came here because it was cheap, but now I would not move anywhere else. It’s quiet, the light is good and the neighbours are friendly.’
We finished setting up for the day as the apprentices drifted in and helped us. I now attended the drawing and painting class four or five mornings a week, and was accepted as part of the family. I regularly offered to pay Jacopo for my education, but every time he refused.
Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker) Page 25