by Sara Downing
‘…the Pope’s visit to Bologna! You dreamt about that too. That’s a well-documented historical event,’ I interrupt.
‘Yes, exactly. But my point is, the girl on the left hand side of the painting is Maria. Just look at this.’ He pulls a copy of the book from his bag and opens it at a marked page, tapping the picture with his index finger. ‘Could there be any doubt in your mind that it’s her?’ he asks. ‘I, or rather Titian, painted her in one of my dreams.
‘You and I have both seen her face so many times in our heads to know well enough that Maria is that girl pouring water from the ewer,’ he goes on. ‘Not only is she Maria, but if you look very closely at this man here, playing the lute, he bears a striking resemblance to Titian as a much younger man. He was quite a lot older than that when he met her, of course. You can imagine that’s how he’d want to look, for her sake, how he’d want her to see him, I suppose. She was young and beautiful and he was an old man in his late forties, after all. This painting proves he was conscious of that fact. I always felt in the dreams that he believed himself so lucky to have a woman as beautiful as Maria as his lover.’
‘You’re right,’ I reply, awestruck by his revelation. ‘I’ve never noticed that before. It’s definitely Maria, though. I haven’t dreamt about that particular painting, but he’s forever painting me – or rather her – in my dreams. There are just so many paintings where she was the model in one form or another. But, you know, in the dreams, I’m oblivious to Tito’s age; it doesn’t matter that he’s older than me – her. And you’re right, she worships the ground he walks on, has done right from the start. There’s such a strong feeling of love in the dreams. Did you feel that too?’
‘I did,’ he replies. ‘I think that’s what made the dreams so addictive for me really. It was at a time in my life when I was alone, and that bothered me, and so I lived my love-life vicariously, through Titian, I suppose. To all intents and purposes, Maria was my lover, even if that sounds a bit weird.’
‘No, not at all,’ I say, so glad to have someone to share these deepest emotions with. ‘Well, my boyfriend ended our relationship because he couldn’t cope with the so-called competition from my sixteenth century lover. So there you go; we’re not so different.’
Di Girolamo offers his condolences with great empathy. As we discuss each aspect of our experiences, we are both amazed at the similarities emerging. We’ve each been given our very own exposés of Titian’s and Maria’s private lives, from two different angles but with a corroborating storyline. And the way it has happened is very similar too; both of us have or had the very same urge to fall asleep within minutes of setting eyes on our respective paintings, both of us feel or felt a pull, as though some invisible force was trying to reel us in.
‘So why did your dreams stop?’ I ask. ‘I’m desperate to know what happened to Emilia – why don’t you talk about her more?’
‘The dreams simply stopped once she was born. I don’t know why. I tried going back and I’d sit there and wait and nothing would happen. For whatever reason, Titian only wanted me to know so much, and I have to be grateful that he has shared that much with me, I suppose.’
‘I can’t ever imagine my dreams stopping,’ I say, ‘but I suppose they will one day. When I leave here, if not before. God, imagine if I have to go back to England and I’m still getting them. It’s going to be really hard to leave if I don’t feel like the story is complete.’
Di Girolamo can’t comment on that, of course. Nor can he answer any of my questions about Emilia and her destiny. She is born in his book and that is that. End of story. And we both know there’s nothing about her in the history books. Yet Titian lived such a very long time after Emilia’s birth, and went on to paint so many more great works of art. I’d like to think that Maria – and Emilia – had been beside him through all that, but at the moment I don’t know any more than what I’ve dreamt.
‘Why do you think we’ve been chosen?’ I ask the all-pervading question. ‘What makes us so special – receptors for these dreams?’
‘Now, I haven’t yet revealed to you my theory on that,’ he says, conspiratorially. ‘After the dreams started, I too was looking for a reason for being ‘chosen’, as you call it. So I started to look into my own family history, not really knowing what I was looking for, but with an inkling of suspicion that there might be something tying us. And I found a link. I’m related to Titian. I managed to trace my roots, with great difficulty, I can tell you, back to the mid-sixteenth century, and it turns out that I am a descendant of Titian. Via one of his legitimate children, Lavinia, so I am no relation to Maria or Emilia.’
I sit back in my seat in shock. Wow, that really is something of a revelation. Titian is one of Di Girolamo’s ancestors! The implications of this are overwhelming. Could this mean that I too might somehow be related to one of these characters from my dreams as well?
I must have turned a deathly shade of pale as Di Girolamo asks:
‘Lydia, are you OK? You’ve gone very white. Was that a shock to you?’ He summons the barista again, who this time fetches me a glass of water.
‘So, do you really think I might be related to them, too?’ I ask.
‘It has to be a strong possibility, but really there’s only one way to find out,’ he replies. ‘And if you do decide to go down that route, then you have a lot of work ahead of you. It would, of course, be my pleasure to assist you, to the best of my abilities.’
Oh my God, this really is a lot to take in. I could have some kind of family tie to these people, and that is why they’ve chosen me – and chose Di Girolamo too – to tell their stories. But why have they chosen me again now, when he’s already been through it, already lived out the story once before in his head. All I can think of is that there must be more, some aspect of the story they still need to tell, something Maria wants to reveal to me that didn’t make it into Di Girolamo’s book. Maybe even something Maria knew but Titian didn’t. Baffling.
Even if I’m shocked at this discovery, it’s reassuring from talking to Di Girolamo to discover that I’m not a freak, that there’s a reason for these dreams and I’m not alone in my experiences. But even so, to be told there might be a verifiable reason why I’ve been ‘chosen’ is slightly unnerving.
I’ve never really been into family trees and all that stuff. I love the history side to my course, and history as a subject for its own sake, but I’ve never felt the urge to go digging into my own family’s past; my present-day relatives have always been quite enough for me. Until now. How could this regular little suburban family from Sussex be related to one of the greatest artists the world has ever known? It’s pretty mind-blowing stuff. It’s scary, but it does make me feel quite special, reinforces that feeling of having been ‘chosen’.
And what if I’d never come to Florence? If the idea of us being related turns out to be true, would Maria have had to wait until another distant relative came strolling by one day to sit in front of one of her portraits? Or was it always written in my destiny that I would be the one to come, that she would be able to reveal her story to me? I’m struck momentarily by that same sensation I get when I lie under the stars, gazing upwards and wondering at infinity, trying to grasp how small and insignificant we all are down here. Maybe ‘The Fates’ have more to answer for than we think, and this moment has been mapped out for me from the day I was born.
‘So how did you do it? How did you trace your family history all the way back to Titian?’ I ask.
‘Well, that year, after I’d published the book and hidden it quickly away again, I started trawling the libraries and archives, looking for clues, anything I could, really. And it wasn’t as easy in those days; we didn’t have the internet to help us, like you will do now, if you decide to start investigating. All those wonderful ancestry websites that are out there, there was nothing like that. It was the old-fashioned way, searching for actual, physical documents, or looking at ream after ream of stuff on microfiche. It ruined my e
yesight, I can tell you. I didn’t need glasses until I started my research.
‘I spent months tracing back through generation after generation. Fortunately, in the old days in the little villages like the one I grew up in, people didn’t move around like they do now. Families grew up and stayed together, sons and daughters setting up homes in the same town or village as their parents and grandparents. And being so deeply religious, a lot of them kept family bibles, and in those they would document all the births and deaths as they happened, creating their own family tree as the years passed. Some of these bibles are a couple of hundred years old. Both my sets of grandparents had bibles dating back to the early eighteenth century, so that was a couple of centuries covered off for me almost instantly. I was really fortunate. And from there backwards it was hard slog, I’m afraid. A case of the long trawl round archives, finding out little snippets when and where I could.
‘The trouble with trying to trace your family tree with a particular person in mind (and I suspected at the start that Titian was the one to whom I’d be related) is that you don’t know which branch to follow, which side of the family will lead you to them. What with marriages, or trying to follow down the female line of a family, names change frequently, so you just have to pursue every branch as fully as you can, hoping that somewhere along the line you’ll hit on something hopeful. And that’s a huge amount of people. It took ages, but it was all very exciting to do, I have to say.
‘Fortunately I hit upon the Vecellio surname before I’d investigated too many branches of the family. It made its first appearance some time back in the late seventeenth century, so of course from then on I knew which branch I had to follow. And thereafter it was comparatively plain sailing, really. Which was just as well, as finding records which are that old isn’t easy. Records aren’t complete either, as you’d like to hope they are now. A lot more people would slip through the net of authority, especially those of lowly or illegitimate birth. And few people were literate, either. That proves a bit of a barrier sometimes.’
‘It looks like I have a big job on my hands, then,’ I say, feeling a bit overwhelmed but also quite excited now at the prospect that I might be related to one of these characters. ‘Just supposing I’m related to Maria, I don’t even know her surname! It’s a very long way back from the Irvine family of twenty-first century Britain to the Vecellio’s and co of Renaissance Italy. There’s a long way to go until I – hopefully – bump into one of them, so with any luck her name will have come to me in a dream by then.’
‘Her name is Maria Rossi,’ he says simply. ‘I don’t mention it in the book, and I don’t know why really. It just never became relevant, but it is definitely Rossi. You must excuse me now, my dear. I have a lecture to get to. But before I do, this is for you.’
He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a mint condition copy of ‘A Life In Art’. ‘Your own copy,’ he says. ‘Look inside.’
I open the cover gently, with reverent respect for a brand new (and quite rare) book, not wanting to break the spine, and flick through the first couple of blank pages to the title page.
‘To Lydia, a fellow dreamer. Wishing you the very best of luck with your research. All good wishes, Antonio Di Girolamo.’
‘Thank you, Antonio,’ I say.
Twenty-One
I leave the café and cross the Piazza del Duomo, heading down one of the backstreets behind the main shopping area, not wanting to get caught up in the ever-present tourist mêlée, but needing to get to the gallery as quickly as I can. Florence seems suddenly changed to me; sunnier, brighter, more picturesque. But then it dawns on me that this isn’t just a frame of mind brought on by my meeting with Antonio – and I feel we know each other well enough now for me to call him that – but spring has really sprung in the past week, only I’ve been too wrapped up in the Stefano and Di Girolamo sagas to really notice.
Like the blossoming trees, my sense of self esteem is bursting forth, and with it the value of these dreams, now that my story has been corroborated and I have a ‘fellow dreamer’. After talking to Antonio, I no longer feel I’m some kind of circus freak, and most importantly, I’m no longer alone in my experience. I feel normal again, I have an ally in my dreams, a companion for my research and, most importantly for my sanity, someone I can turn to who will fully appreciate what I’m going through.
I’m moseying through the city on a mission, head held high and nose up in the clouds when I turn a corner and almost bump into a man clutching a take-away coffee. How un-Italian, carrying your espresso around in a Styrofoam cup, I think, then do a double-take as I look up and realise that the man is Stefano. Just as well we don’t quite collide; I don’t much fancy having to wear his coffee down my shirt for the rest of the day. But at this particular moment, that’s the least of my worries.
‘Stefano, hi, how are you?’ I ask.
‘Good thanks. You?’ he replies rather curtly, his expression blank and unreadable.
This is the first time we have come face to face since our break-up. I suppose it had to happen some time, and it’s probably a blessing that, as it’s unprompted, it is also unscripted and therefore neither of us has had to worry about rehearsing embarrassing openers to hide our discomfort. This is as natural as it’s going to get between us for the time being, and now that we have met, the situation has lost some of its scariness.
He leans across to kiss me on both cheeks, smelling of himself, gorgeous as ever, and a pang of something shoots through me, I’m just not really quite sure what. He looks well and I comment on this, my voice managing to sound normal and not betray me as either a heartless man-eater who hasn’t been affected by the break-up, or a bitter jilted lover – neither of which I am, of course. Just keep it all on an even keel and you’ll get through this, I think to myself.
A petite, dark-haired woman emerges from the coffee shop and links arms with him, as though staking her territory in the face of competition. Don’t worry, darling, I’ve been there. You can have him now. An unexpectedly bitchy thought I know, and I am surprised at the shot of jealousy which spears me like a real physical pain in my chest. How dare he move on so quickly; I thought he was heartbroken after we split, but clearly he has found a diversion in Adriana, by which name she is introduced.
‘Adriana, hi, nice to meet you,’ I manage to utter without any of the rancour which only moments earlier had hit me full frontal.
I don’t want to be with Stefano, and I know that. Our relationship was lovely whilst it lasted, but it was way too complicated. Stefano couldn’t get to grips at all with the way I have chosen to live my life, and that makes us completely incompatible. But seeing his gorgeous, smiling face glancing downwards as a replacement pretty face glances upwards, so adoringly, really hurts. That was me only a few weeks ago. How nice for him that he had a reserve girlfriend waiting in the wings, to call on in his hour of need, and that he can move on so quickly.
I make my excuses about needing to be somewhere, and leave them to one another and their coffees.
Today I am to be presented to the Doge! What an honour for a girl such as I, whose background could not be more humble! I cannot quite believe it.
The reception is a meeting of the great minds in the worlds of art, literature and music. Tito is well respected and well known within the Palazzo Ducale; he has of course been commissioned several times to paint for Monsignor el Doxe, the Doge, and the great man himself has many paintings in his palace which bear my likeness. Of course, like the rest of Venetian society, he does not know that I am Tito’s lover, merely that I am the beautiful woman who has become his muse, the inspiration for some of his greatest works. For the Doge is a connoisseur of fine things, and likes to surround himself with the best this great city has to offer.
Tito and I are so rarely seen together in public; even on this occasion we cannot appear overly familiar with one another, and no one must guess our secret. Tito’s wife is not expected to attend, of which I am glad. I have not yet had
the honour of meeting her in the flesh – and indeed have no desire to. But there will be a multitude of people who know him well, and whose respect he commands in the art world. As one of the more famous painters in Venice, he cannot afford to have scandal brought upon his head. If they choose to look at us together and interpret more than simply artist and muse, then they have the free will to do so. But at no time must we offer up any indication that we are lovers; this must stay as mere speculation on their part. This is a spiritual place, and Tito is a married man, after all. There are certain values which need to be respected in public, even if they may be flouted in private…
Tito spends more and more time at my casa these days. Much as he adores his children, they are now growing and becoming less needful of him, and his relationship with his wife does not fulfil him in the same way that ours does, so he informs me. It is not just our love-making, which is always immensely satisfying to both body and soul, but simply the time we spend together just talking, about everything and nothing, as though no subject were beyond our reach. He discusses art with me as though I were an expert, and my own ignorance and lack of education aside, I am coming to understand something of this strange little world he inhabits.
We feel as though we belong together and that my rightful place is by his side. It is through no fault of our own that destiny was a little tardy in bringing us to one another, even if he should by then be espoused to another woman and have fathered children with her. In that he was simply doing what society expected of him; marrying well, into his own class and continuing the family line. Now there is a child growing in my belly, it is confirmation for both of us that our relationship, though unrecognised in the eyes of the Church, is in fact blessed by Our Lord.
Fortunately our child is still small within me, and well disguised by the folds in my gown, so it is with a great sense of righteousness and a feeling that I have nothing of which I should be ashamed that we glide together through the magnificent Porta della Carta, the grand entrance to the Palazzo Ducale, in anticipation of the great event before us. We are greeted by a guard, immaculately attired in colours so vibrant that it takes me back to that day in Bologna, when I observed those magnificent soldiers in the procession of Il Papa, from a small window at Rosetta’s.