Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  In all of these orations, I noticed that not one of them made mention of specific achievements by Venier whilst holding those venerable positions, and I began to think of him as what the Duke of Northumberland used to call ‘a safe pair of hands’: an able administrator, picking his way through life with few mistakes, but without changing the world. In short, the sequence of speeches listed what he had been, not what he had done.

  Listening to the Cardinal summing up the proceedings, I suddenly experienced a loss of faith. Perhaps it was the Catholic surroundings, with their colour, their pomp and their heavy incense. I looked up into one of the great domes of this magnificent church and, not for the first time, wondered whether heaven really existed at all, or whether it was simply a politicians’ promise, one which, if proved untrue, would be discovered too late.

  But in the end I decided that it didn’t matter whether the final accounting of your life took place at the gates of heaven or on your deathbed; the conclusion was the same: life was short and death uncertain only in its timing – all a man could do was to use his life as well as he could and try not to waste it, or spoil it with too much unkindness along the way.

  The ceremony came to an end, and for a moment I felt the need to be alone, to think. I excused myself and walked through the ornate church. Two old men shuffled awkwardly past me, each clinging to the other for support and both visibly moved by the passing of one who, I assumed, had been their friend. They paused close in front of me and one spoke, his voice strong, though cracked with emotion.

  ‘He was a strong man, even a hard man, but in the final reckoning a good one.’

  The other nodded. ‘Amen to that. Would that no future doge be so beset by problems.’

  I watched them walk the length of the church, never looking to left or right, apparently lost in their thoughts and sustained by their memories and each other.

  I needed air and took the side door. Crossing the piazza, I turned and looked back at the church. Which was the greatest memorial to a man departed: the church to its architect, the paintings to their artists, the carvings and statues to their sculptors, the windows to their glassmakers, or the words of two old men who simply said they remembered their friend with respect?

  I thought about the nuns at Sant’ Alvise, the fishermen mending their nets in the harbour in Chioggia, the four men who were at this moment working their way towards the door of the church, sweeping up the dust and dirt left by the mourners, and I thought of Thomas’s suggestion that, in matters of health, men were dealt an uneven, perhaps unfair, hand.

  Walking away from the church, I stood on the sharp bend where the two canals met. It was as if I was facing a choice – this way or that way. The conclusions I came to were simple: build on your strengths, try to offset your weaknesses and, above all, be true to yourself. And in the same way that Thomas had implied that moderation might increase the length of your life, so adhering to moral principles might, I fervently hoped, increase the happiness and the fulfilment of that life. I resolved, there on the canal-side, to know my strengths and weaknesses, and not to spend my life futilely trying to turn myself into that which I was not.

  With no other audience, but with a need to speak, for emphasis but also as a statement of commitment, I spoke aloud to the empty canal. ‘I am no diplomat, and I shall not be a courtier or a politician. I believe with much work I could become a competent artist, able to make satisfactory works which men would enjoy and wish to hang on their walls. I believe, also, that I have it within me to become a doctor of medicine, to go forth in the world and do more good than harm to my fellow man.’

  I knew that it was between these two paths that I had to choose.

  The canals did not reply, not even with the echo of my own voice. The two pigeons sitting on the next bridge, whose cooing I had interrupted with my words, now returned to their own conversation as if nothing had happened.

  But if I had not surprised the pigeons, I had certainly surprised myself. For months now, Thomas had been seeking to guide me into the world of medicine, and yet I had resisted even to the point of failing to visit the university in Padua only a short distance away. It was as if I had to make the choice for myself, and now that Thomas had finally stopped pushing me towards a life in medicine, I found myself reaching for it. How perverse I seemed to have become.

  I considered my options. If I became a doctor, it would not necessarily prevent me from painting and drawing, although my available time might be severely limited. Under some circumstances, the two might be combined for, as Vesalius, Galen and Professor Fuchs had shown, the ability to observe accurately and draw what you have seen will not only help your own medical studies, but may be of value in teaching others.

  The converse, however, was not true. If I became an artist, all hope of practising medicine would quickly fade and would become increasingly difficult to recover.

  And there was one final consideration: if I were a doctor, I might help anyone – a king (if only I could have helped King Edward) or a prince or, just as easily, a pauper. A life was a life. But what if I were an artist? Who would then receive the benefit of my work? Certainly, all who saw the work might gain pleasure from it, but in any direct sense, my customer would be . . . who? Courtenay, wanting a portrait for vanity and marriage negotiation? An ornate church to add piety to its proceedings? Or a fat cardinal, leering over the painting of a young and naked girl while he dreamed of ‘her sister’?

  I decided at that moment that, if the University of Padua would have me, my future lay in medicine.

  CHAPTER 58

  June the 6th 1556 – Fondamenta della Sensa

  I had not expected much, but perhaps some small acknowledgement would have been nice.

  I had risen early, to find the house deserted. Somehow, in my loose plans of the night before, there had been some expectation of people present – someone with whom I could share the day, but in the event I was breakfasting alone.

  I was still munching my breakfast when they burst into the room. ‘Happy birthday, Richard!‘ said the earl. ‘Today you are come of age.’

  They were dressed in party clothes and carried armloads of parcels, foodstuffs and wine. Here was a celebration in the making indeed. I had expected, perhaps, to celebrate with Thomas, and Veronica’s presence, although a pleasant surprise, was not totally unexpected. But to see the earl, dressed in his finery, and (it would appear) for my sake, was certainly not something I had contemplated the night before.

  My surprise grew as he drew a well-wrapped parcel from the crook of his arm and invited me to open it.

  I fumbled with the paper, still amazed that he had even been aware of my birthday, never mind that he should care enough to buy me a present. Inside was a book, bound in leather. It was Lives of the Artists by Giorgio Vasari, published in Torrentino just six years before. I turned the fresh new pages, still smelling of the printers’ workshop. Name after name appeared – the great names which I had heard mentioned so often in my daily classes: Cimabue, Giotto, Donatello, Leonardo, Raphael, Michelangelo (who seemed to dominate the latter part of the book) and finally, in a somewhat short chapter, Titian. There appeared to be no chapter on Veronese or Tintoretto, but I could see their work for myself and, if I chose, even talk to them. Here was a lifetime of experience in the world of painting and a most wonderful present.

  As I turned to him, my mouth hanging open, waiting for appropriate words to be found, Edward Courtenay put his hands on his hips and laughed aloud. ‘Once the boy could not be silenced, but now the man is speechless!’

  I grinned and nodded. ‘Your Grace has the truth of it. Indeed, I am without words. Many thanks indeed for this wonderful present. May I ask, how did you obtain it?’

  He smiled, and waved his arm, a throw-away gesture. ‘I had it sent from Florence while Thomas and I were in Ferrara. I am so delighted that you are pleased with it.’

  I shook his hand, something I did not remember having done since I had pulled him out of the
icy lagoon months before. ‘You have made my day. Thank you again.’

  The others stood, smiling, as I effused, but I felt I could see embarrassment on their faces as they in turn proffered their presents. The earl had trumped everyone else (as no doubt he had intended to) and they appeared very aware of it.

  Veronica was the first to pluck up the courage to follow the earl, and she, too, presented a parcel which felt like a book. So it proved to be – a sketchbook, with hard leather covers to protect the pages and keep out the weather when drawing outside. It was the same design that Tintoretto and Gentile used and my thanks were sincere as I kissed her cheek.

  Thomas followed with a long tubular parcel, which proved to be a canvas roll in which was held a selection of brushes and drawing tools.

  ‘I am not sure I should be doing this,’ he said, as he passed the parcel to me. I could not follow his line of reasoning even after I had opened the present and thanked him for it. Eventually I asked him what he had meant. ‘It would appear we are all driving you in the direction of art. Perhaps I should have driven you back towards the world of medicine before it is too late.’

  His words gave me a dilemma. In my mind I had already decided that medicine had the first call on my future, but after these presents, how could I dismiss the world of art? ‘All is not lost, Thomas, but I agree today’s wonderful and generous presents have made the decision harder.’

  My reply seemed to work, for no one was put out by it. Thomas then reached down and took another parcel from the table. ‘And now a surprise.’

  I took the parcel and looked at the careful writing in the accompanying letter. It was familiar, but for the moment I could not place it.

  ‘This parcel came to me, within an outer wrapping addressed with equal care, and a note asking me to pass it on to you on your birthday. The parcel had been sent to the Department of Medicine at the University of Padua, with my name on it.’

  I looked again at the handwriting. ‘Not my mother . . .?’

  Thomas laughed at my surprise. ‘Yes, indeed. It is your mother’s writing. See how carefully she has formed the letters? Department of Medicine at Padua was, as your mother said in her letter, the only address she could think of which we might visit or where someone might at least know how to find us. It must be some time since you wrote home, Richard.’

  I bit my lip in embarrassment as I opened the parcel. It was indeed a long time since I had written. Many times I had prepared myself to do so, but on each occasion I used the unresolved issues in my life as an excuse to put off writing. The parcel was carefully sewn into seamen’s canvas and I had to unpick the stitches with the point of my dagger before I could get it open. My friends watched me as I fumbled with the thing, but eventually it revealed itself.

  ‘What is it?’ Veronica could not contain herself.

  Carefully, I unrolled the case. It was a letter-writing set, with a block of papers, glued along one edge to hold them in place, pens, ink and a tiny, but very sharp, knife for recutting the quills. Carefully printed across the top page of the writing block were the words:

  DON’T FORGET TO WRITE

  MOTHER AND FATHER

  I felt a lump come to my throat. My mother’s hand, so careful and clear, and my father’s attempt at writing ‘father’, no doubt tutored by my mother over many attempts. I held it up. ‘It is a letter-writing set. For travellers.’

  I could hardly get the words out as I held the present for everyone to see. How much thought must have gone into this: deciding what to send, then finding such an object (they must have travelled to Exeter to buy it) and, finally, making the parcels and addressing them to what was, in their eyes, the other side of the world. I felt chastened by the realization that I had been so immersed in my own world and its many developments that I had forgotten that my parents would be interested, and worried in the absence of any messages.

  ‘That’s your first task this afternoon, then, Richard.’ Veronica nudged my elbow. ‘After we have eaten.’

  ‘We thought a return visit to the Albergo di Leon Bianco would be an appropriate way to take our dinner today.’ The earl was certainly on form, and still grinning.

  ‘In the meantime, your presence is required at Tintoretto’s studio.’ Veronica smiled at me. It was a smile which said nothing unless you could read it, and then it said everything. This was going to be a good day.

  CHAPTER 59

  June the 7th 1556 – Fondamenta della Sensa

  ‘Tell me what they have said to the lady!’

  The earl was raving, angry beyond the point of control, and I knew he was very dangerous when in this mood. I had been waiting for the explosion since the late morning of my birthday.

  After leaving my friends, I had walked the short distance to Tintoretto’s studio and been welcomed to another birthday celebration.

  One by one my fellow apprentices had given me presents – for the most part drawings which they had done and which I had admired.

  Yasmeen was not there, however.

  ‘She was too shy to be here today, Richard. She said important birthdays are to be celebrated with your family and closest friends. She asked me to tell you she did not feel she knew you well enough to presume to be either, but she asked me to give you this little gift.’

  It was a basket of exotic fruits and spices from the Byzantine market. No doubt her father’s contacts had been the source. The colours and the perfumes were overpowering and I asked Jacopo to convey my sincerest thanks to her. As I put the basket down, the phrase he had used rang in my mind. I could understand Yasmeen not feeling she was a close friend (although I thought I had made it clear that I hoped she would be) – but family? What had made her mention that?

  ‘Jacopo? Tell me again what Yasmeen said. The exact words, if you can.’

  Tintoretto smiled slowly.

  ‘She said she could not presume to be a close friend or a member of your family . . .’ the smile continued, ‘yet.’ He winked.

  Reaching into a folder, he took out a piece of paper. ‘Here is my present to you, Richard. I hope you recognize it.’ It was a drawing of Yasmeen, in half-profile, as she appeared when she slid past the door from the courtyard into her office. Tintoretto had caught her at exactly the moment I had first seen her, at the same angle, and in the same lighting.

  ‘Thank you, Jacopo. It is perfect. An extraordinary likeness. Why did you question that I would recognize it?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just a manner of speaking.’

  I had taken the drawings into the courtyard to look at them better when Veronica arrived.

  ‘I thought you were going to stay with the earl for the rest of the morning?’

  She nodded anxiously. ‘I had to make my escape. He is pursuing me and I am finding it increasingly difficult to find excuses. As I told you many weeks ago, my contacts have advised me to distance myself from him as far as I can. Large groups at public occasions with a known purpose are accepted, but if word passes that I am seeing him in private, it will go badly for me. I never for a moment thought he would be with you this morning. I heard him mention he was going out early, so I thought I was safe. I hope it didn’t show?’

  I shook my head. Veronica was the mistress of such a situation, even when caught out. She had handled the occasion with her usual aplomb, but now, in private, she let her agitation show. ‘The problem is, he is so thick-skinned that he does not pick up gentle indications. He has told me he wants to present something to me at the dinner today. I know what it will be – that medal thing he had made in Ferrara. I cannot accept it, for it would be tantamount to a betrothal in his eyes, but still he pursues me with a zeal I find disconcerting.’

  ‘It may be the effect of his illness.’

  Perhaps it was unkind of me, but my first loyalty was to her, not to the earl.

  She turned on me sharply. ‘What illness?’

  I replied reluctantly, as if the words had been dragged out of me. ‘Medical opinion is that he may be poxed, and
that it is beginning to affect his brain.’

  She looked at me closely. ‘You really don’t like him, do you? But thank you for the warning. I can assure you I had no intention of allowing him anywhere near me. He has it in his head that I am from a noble family and refuses to accept the reality of my life, even when it stares him in the face. The more coy I am, the more convinced he is of my virginity. I can play most things for most men, but the innocent virgin is one role that comes to me with difficulty.’

  I liked many things about Veronica, and her bawdy humour was one I enjoyed in particular.

  ‘How will you avoid him?’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘When I see the pretty speech coming, I shall simply have to interject that it is your day, not his or mine, and he should wait for another occasion.’

  We both sighed, knowing our subject and his moods, and recognizing the difficult task ahead of her and the repercussions for the rest of us.

  ‘I shall have to tell him soon. He will believe he has been duped; he will probably threaten to report me to the authorities, and so on. I shall be glad when it’s over. Please believe me, Richard, I shall try to avoid spoiling your day, but you know how difficult he can be to manage.’

  I agreed and tried to change the subject. ‘Speaking of managing people, and failing to recognize delicate language, do you have any idea what Yasmeen may have meant when she told Tintoretto she could not presume to be my close friend or part of my family – yet?’

  She smiled. ‘Oh yes. I know exactly what she meant.’