Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know.’

  He led me forward to the edge of the mud, and rammed the long handle of his net into it.

  ‘Venice is built on sand and gravel. But on top of the sand and gravel are thick layers of mud and ooze. Before they can build, they have to drive great timber piles down through the mud and sand and into the firm gravel beneath. This whole city is set on a base of wooden piles, thousands of them, and they are all slowly rotting.’

  He looked at me for effect. ‘Like the whole of what they call society, the shiny gondolas, the big houses, the fine churches. It’s all built on sand and it’s all rotten at the core.’

  I was amazed at his bitterness, and said so.

  ‘How hard has the famine hit you, then?’ He raised a muddy eyebrow as he searched my face for a reaction.

  I fell for it completely. ‘What famine?’

  He spat into the water, retrieved his net and rejoined me on the wall. ‘ “What famine?” he says. I don’t expect you have gone without food any day this week? And no doubt you have eaten meat at least once in the past seven days?’

  Having eaten meat every day this week, I said nothing.

  ‘You people simply don’t understand.Your sort don’t have to eat polenta day after day, and so for you what does it matter if the price of grain and bean flour rises? You probably don’t notice. But we notice. We feel the effect when the wheat harvest fails and the beans wither and dry on the plants for lack of water, or, as last summer, go mouldy because there is too much rain.’

  He pointed across to the city ‘There are two worlds on this island: your world and my world. And most of the people in your world spend their time making sure they have as little as possible to do with the people in my world.’

  I could not disagree with him. In the two weeks since we had arrived, I had not been aware of the famine here in Venice, nor had I spent any time with the poor or been aware of their problems. In truth, I had not even spent any time talking to our own house servants; to my shame, I did not even know if they had families outside the immediate little group that looked after us so well.

  ‘Can I give you some money? It’s the least I can do.’ I had no other reply to offer.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, sir, I am not too proud to accept your money. With seven hungry children left of the eleven we have had, my wife and I cannot afford to be proud any more.’

  I reached into my purse and drew out two gold ducats. ‘I hope it will help.’

  He took the coins carefully. ‘Thank you, sir. That will make a very big difference.’ He pocketed the money, shouldered his net, and began to leave. ‘God’s blessing on you, sir. I used to have a poor opinion of Englishmen, but it seems I must revise it. The money you have given me is equal to a month’s wages for me. Now I will be able to buy some clothing for the children.’

  He bowed and set off along the water’s edge.

  I had to retrace my steps a long way beside the Rio di Noale before I could find a bridge, but once over, everything began to look more promising, and I arrived confidently at the Chiesa di Santa Maria della Misericordia. Ahead of me was an area I recognized and I was instinctively drawn towards it. The water beside the Fondamenta dei Mori looked familiar and it was only when I reached the next bridge and saw the Trattoria Sensazione ahead of me that I realized where I was.

  ‘Ehi, Inglesi.’

  A familiar high-pitched voice caught my attention. There he was, the same boy, this time fishing beside a bridge where two canals met.

  ‘You are just in time. My brothers are up there now. I knew you would be back after our last conversation. Come on, they have only just started.’

  Crossing the next bridge, I could see the familiar crowd of young men standing on the banks of the canal or in one of half a dozen boats moored tightly against the convent walls.

  ‘What’s your name, Inglesi?’

  ‘Riccardo,’ I replied, without thinking.

  ‘Ehi, Marco, Angelino, come over here. This is Riccardo, the Englishman. He wants to meet some nuns.’

  Whilst the boy was exaggerating my enthusiasm, I had to admit that the gaggle of excited men, clinging precariously to the barred windows, did intrigue me. The brothers climbed from boat to boat until they could shake my hand and help me back across the way they had come.

  ‘I am Marco and this is Angelino.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ I shook hands again. ‘And what is the name of your little brother?’

  It was Marco who replied. ‘His name is Christopho, but the family call him Pietro because he is always fishing – for one thing or another.’ Pietro pulled a face to show he was proud of his wicked reputation and it was clear from his brothers’ reaction that they indulged him totally.

  ‘Been here before?’ Marco opened the conversation.

  ‘No, I only arrived from England a few days ago and am still finding my way around. I just happened to find myself here the other day and saw the boys talking.’

  Marco nodded. The look of total disbelief on his face suggested that all the young men in the boats had ‘just happened‘ to find themselves there.

  ‘So you have not played “Pass the Rose” before, then?’

  I shook my head. The windows of the convent were surprisingly large, although covered with heavy metal bars. They stood some six feet above the water’s edge, but halfway up there was a narrow stone ledge, designed to protect the walls against the rubbing of the larger barges. One or two of the more adventurous boys had stepped across from their boats and gained a precarious foothold on this ledge, clinging tightly to the bars to prevent themselves from falling back into the water, while trying desperately to show a manly calm to the nuns inside. The rest of us stood on the boats and used their height to help us see through the barred but glassless windows into the convent room beyond.

  Inside I could already see a dozen or more young women milling about and jockeying for position at the windows. There was a great deal of giggling and the bright-eyed expressions I could see bore no resemblance to those of any nun I had ever met. Nor did their clothing give them away as nuns, for most were bare-headed and wore brightly coloured, fashionable gowns.

  ‘This is how it works. First you choose a nun. Then, if you don’t know her very well, you offer her a rose through the bars. If she is willing to accept it, she smiles. If not, you try another one.’ Marco said the words loudly, so that the nuns inside were in no doubt that here was a newcomer to the game, who might add some variety to the proceedings. Two of the nuns caught my eye and fluttered their eyelashes in what I took to be mock-modesty

  ‘Next time, if she accepts it and is pleased, she may shake your hand as you make the exchange: and then you are friends. If you are lucky she might even tell you her name.’

  Not wishing to be left out, his brother intervened. ‘The third time, if you are bolder, you get your friends to lift you up to the bars on their shoulders, and you pass the rose with your teeth. According to the game, she is supposed to take it with her mouth and if you are lucky and she is of a sensuous nature, the passing of the rose may turn into a kiss. Some use it as an opportunity to whisper sweet words or to make assignations. If they go on too long the human pyramid collapses, or the boat moves, and they get dumped in the water.’

  ‘What do you mean by “assignations”?’

  Marco and Angelino paused before replying, but Pietro seized the opportunity and made a lewd gesture with his raised forearm.

  I stared at the older brothers. ‘Do you mean sex? With nuns?’

  Marco could see the conversation becoming risky, and began to underplay the description of the events. ‘Well, that’s not very common, as it’s a serious offence, but it has been known.’ There was a pause, everyone now waiting to see what Marco would say next to the stranger. He studied his fingernails carefully.

  ‘But you can, with a little arrangement, meet them in the parlour and if you bribe the ascoltatrici – those of the discrete or discreet nuns whose
job it is to listen in to the conversations there – you may say whatever you like.’ He spoke as if he had passed some pretty lascivious messages in his time.

  I stared at him, willing him now to tell the remainder of the story. ‘And . . .?’

  He turned away from the nuns and lowered his voice as he spoke. ‘Well, if you are really serious, and the nun in question is willing to take the risk, you can find somebody like me who makes regular deliveries to the convent and you can pay them to take you in by boat – normally at night-time – through the tradesmen’s entrance from the side canal, round there. Once inside, you can have your way with her.’

  ‘What, in front of the boatman?’ I was beginning to think this description was being embellished to see how gullible I was, and to entertain his friends.

  ‘Well, of course, you can pay him more to wait outside, but it’s more risky for him and besides, we all have to get our pleasures where we can.’

  There was a sniggering murmur from the other men, each of whom had made a pretence of looking at the nuns while listening carefully to every word of Marco’s description.

  I looked around me. The faces were grinning, but evaluating, trying to judge what I was made of. I had no idea whether the guidance given to me was reliable, or whether the whole thing had been just another game.

  I felt confused, appalled, but at the same time secretly fascinated. I looked back up at the window and saw that the nuns were giggling amongst themselves. Had they heard what Marco had said? Were they giggling at their own embarrassment, or at mine? My instinct was to leave quietly, but somehow I knew that, if I did, I should never have a chance to return. At the same time, if I joined in the game too enthusiastically, led on by Marco, I might well find myself in serious trouble.

  Ignoring Pietro’s encouragement to ‘climb to the window and find a good one’, I drew back into one of the rearward boats, careful to remain part of the gang but observing rather than leading.With my entertainment value diminished, the game regained its pace and two or three bolder youths climbed on their friends’ shoulders and presented roses with their teeth. Marco’s account seemed accurate to that extent. Furthermore, as he had warned, two enthusiasts outstayed their welcome on their friends’ shoulders. One found himself hanging on to the bars as his boat drifted slowly away from the wall, and the other fell straight into the water as his pyramid collapsed.

  Despite Marco’s innuendo, the game seemed friendly and light-hearted, and in some ways it was not unlike the youthful gatherings on the bridge over the River Coly on a Saturday night back in my old home town. The game continued for three hours, during which time I thought I received furtive but interested glances from a couple of the nuns. What was more, I seemed not to have made a fool of myself in the eyes of the male crowd, and by the time the bell in the convent rang and the nuns waved their goodbyes and disappeared, quite a few of the men had opened up conversations with me.

  If my accent was mistaken for Venetian in Bolzano, it certainly was not in Venice, and most of the conversations started with ‘Where are you from?’. I noticed that, amongst themselves, the boys spoke in a strong Venetian dialect, using many words that were not familiar to me; but when they addressed me, most of them modified their speech, using more orthodox Italian.

  Pietro seemed to have decided I was his protégé, and was delighted when I promised to return on a later date. It seemed I was to be tolerated, if not yet accepted. It was a start. However, it did not seem to be helping me to find a portrait painter. Oh well, there was always tomorrow. The earl seemed to have little sense of urgency, so why should I?

  CHAPTER 22

  February the 19th 1556 – Ca’ da Mosto

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, John. It’s a very small matter, but I knew that you would be the best person to advise me.’

  John Neville pushed his dogs from the seat and beckoned me to sit down. As soon as I had seen his face a flood of memories had come rushing back.

  John had been a member of King Edward’s household during the time I had been at Court, and had been on good terms with my closest friend there, a wild Irish noble by the name of Fergal Fitzpatrick, perhaps the funniest man I had ever met. Even in the darkest days of King Edward’s dying months, Fergal’s bizarre sense of humour and his total lack of reverence for anything and anyone, had kept me going, and as far as I was concerned, any friend of Fergal’s was a friend of mine. It was the earl who had heard from Peter Vannes that an Englishman had been living in Venice since shortly after the King had died, and that he would be only too happy to act as our guide. It was too good an opportunity to miss

  ‘I shall do my best. What aspect of Venetian society interests you?’

  ‘I am confused, John. I am new to this good city and still exploring, still discovering. Sometimes trying to understand it. . . well, it feels like . . .’

  I searched for an analogy and John interrupted. ‘Like peeling an onion?’

  I laughed, delighted. ‘Exactly. You peel one layer away and another appears beneath it.’

  Neville nodded his understanding. ‘It’s an analogy many use at first, but may I suggest an alternative? With the onion, you peel away one layer and the next layer looks the same. Discovering Venice is not like that.’

  I must have raised an eyebrow in surprise, because he immediately began to explain.

  ‘I think it’s more like peeling an orange. The outer coating is bright, shiny, perhaps even brash in its colour, yet somehow you are sure that what lies within will be wholesome. But then you peel away the outer skin and find white pith – surprising, unpalatable and disappointing.’

  I began nodding my agreement – clearly he knew and understood how I felt – but to my surprise, he shook his head.

  ‘No, Richard. As with the orange, it is a mistake to stop there. Remove the pithy layer and inside the orange is sweet, flavour-some and good. So with Venice: you will have seen the façades, the palazzi along the Grand Canal and you will, like thousands of others, have been charmed by them.’

  I went to speak but he held his hand up. ‘Then, perhaps, you explored further and found the dead cat in a back canal, the stench of the open sewers. You will have seen, and been affronted by, the poverty of the poor artisans.’

  Again I leaned forward to speak, but still his hand restrained me. ‘But observe their situation carefully. Look beyond the resentment of relative poverty. Forget the comparison with the nobili in their gilded gondolas and you will realize that in a mercantile city such as this, there are always opportunities for those willing to work. Have you noticed how few beggars there are on the streets of Venice? Now remember the streets of London we have both left behind. Every gutter was crawling with beggars, mainly evicted from their land in the countryside in favour of sheep enclosures, but finding that the streets of London were not paved with gold as they expected.’

  It was true I had seen very few beggars since I had arrived in Venice, but there were still aspects of the city that made no sense. The nuns, for example.

  ‘There is another thing which I should like to ask you about, John. As I walk around the city I perceive it to be very religious, with more churches than perhaps any city I have ever visited. I am also aware of many monasteries – the city was not subjected to the dissolution we experienced in England – and beside them, a veritable host of convents.’

  Neville raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah, it’s the convents, then, not the plight of the poor. Is that your interest?’

  I had hoped to creep up on the subject a little more gently than this, and was caught out. ‘Yes, in a way, it is. I have noticed a number of convents, yet nearly every one of them seems to be run on lines which, to say the least, differ from my understanding of the life of pious nuns.’

  John smiled and nodded his understanding. ‘You mean why are the nuns not correctly attired? Why are they allowed to wear expensive gowns and jewellery?’

  So he did know.

  ‘Exactly, and also, why do the nuns appear
to be allowed such loose and – what shall I say? – social contact with the outside world? Their manner appears almost flirtatious.’

  John Neville stood up and started to pace the room. I could see he was preparing himself to give me a lecture and I sat back to receive it.

  ‘Society in Venice is organized on very strict lines. At the top are the nobili, the two hundred clans who formed the core of the city in 1297, and whose family names are enshrined in the Libro d’Oro. Only members of the nobili are allowed to become members of the Great Council, or Maggior Consiglio, and only they can be voted to become Doge.

  ‘Below them are the cittadini, which include nobles who arrived after the list was compiled and, in particular, merchants who have made money and risen high in society. These people have a strong grip on the city’s affairs as they monopolize the Doge’s chancery. Whilst they may not be rulers, and are not able to make diplomatic policy, they are experienced businessmen and they control most of the money

  ‘Finally there are the popolani, a surprisingly acquiescent lower class who are the skilled workers and tradesmen, and, as you might expect, they do most of the hard work. Some of them are born Venetians, but many more have drifted here, seeking an easy life. In that, most of them are disappointed. Nevertheless, they do find work if they are willing.

  ‘As the city has grown in wealth and in size, it has become more and more difficult to maintain this historical structure; as a result, tightly-enforced codes of behaviour have been introduced. Foremost amongst these, as I have mentioned, is the Libro d’Oro, or Golden Book, a register of all noble marriages, drawn up in 1506, although referring to the original families of 1297. In order to maintain the purity of the nobili, it is strictly forbidden for anyone – man or woman – from the nobili to marry outside the Golden Book. Those that try to do so are likely to be disowned by their family and banished from the Venetian Empire. Since most of the opportunities to make money exist within the empire, that is a high cost to accept for love, and few are willing to pay it.’