Daughters of the Doge (Richard Stocker)

by Edward Charles

  She shrugged again. ‘Perhaps, of sorts, but you do not need to marry her to meet any expectations she may have from you. On the contrary, that would probably not be possible.’

  Again she had lost me. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Richard, she already has a lover to whom she is deeply committed.’

  Now I was really shocked, and offended. ‘Who? What is his name?’

  She shook her head, smiling. ‘Not his name – her name. It is Felicità.’

  The name was familiar and I searched my mind. ‘The young conversa with the big brown eyes? I have seen her. She can only be sixteen. You mean she . . . they . . .? Are you sure? How do you know?’

  ‘There are things women tell to men, and others they only tell to women. Trust me.’

  Immediately, I felt irritated. I had taken my lead in all good faith from Veronica and now she was changing her position. ‘But you told me she was in love with me.’

  Veronica shook her head. ‘I said the ingredients were there, and it is true she is very grateful to you. But this time I admit I was wrong.’

  Felicità had been present when last we had met but I had not picked up any indications. ‘I didn’t realize.’

  This time it was Veronica who looked over her shoulder to ensure we were alone. ‘There is a lot you don’t realize, young man. Take Yasmeen, for example.’

  Suddenly I felt defensive. ‘What about her? What do I not realize about Yasmeen?’

  ‘That she is not only in love with you but she is desperate for you to ask her to marry you.’

  This didn’t make sense. ‘But we have hardly spoken – of personal matters, that is. We have shown affection, yes, that is true, but we have never really had a private conversation.’

  She looked at me with her big, expressive eyes and waited. ‘It matters not, I can tell. A woman knows these things. She has loved you almost from your first visit. I have seen her picking up drawings which you have left uncompleted, studying them closely, and then holding them to her breast.’

  ‘Then what should I do?’

  She sat back in her chair, as if distancing herself from me. ‘I cannot tell you how to live your life, or what to do or not to do, but I can tell you what a woman might respond to.’

  I sat forward, all ears. If she could conjure up a solution that allowed me to marry Yasmeen and somehow still meet the promises I had made to Faustina, so many of the complications in my life would be resolved.

  CHAPTER 63

  June the 25th 1556 – Fondamenta dei Mori

  Tintoretto bowed slightly and took Thomas’s hand, smiling as he did so. ‘So. Dottor Thomas Marwood. We meet at last. I have heard much about you from Richard. I believe we may have you to blame?’

  Thomas was not caught out by Jacopo’s sense of humour for a moment. He smiled back at the maestro.

  ‘Probably I usually take the blame. To which particular weakness in his character are you referring today?’

  A gleam appeared in Jacopo’s eye. ‘I believe we are stuck with him in our drawing classes simply because you fired his enthusiasm for the subject? Did you not tell him, many years ago, to “observe, interpret, draw and attach notes”? Those are, I believe, the words you used?’

  ‘No. I do not recall that use of words at all. You are sure of the exact words?’

  Tintoretto looked across at me, a suspicious look in his eye. He knew he was being led on, and was, I could see, confident in his starting position, yet this little game was not going in the direction he had expected. ‘Those are the words, are they not? The exact words?’

  I decided to take Thomas’s side as he was the guest and Jacopo was on home ground. ‘No. Not the exact words. Close, but not exact.’

  Thomas helped him out. ‘The words to which you refer were, if I recall, delivered to us on or about Christmas Day last, at the University of Tübingen, by one Professor Leonhard Fuchs. Am I right, Richard?’

  I nodded, trying to look serious. Jacopo knew the game was up; he now had to extricate himself as best he could.

  ‘I see. And your original words, Dr Marwood, were – how shall I say – similar?’

  Thomas bowed. ‘Indeed, sir, but my words were simpler: “Observe, draw, attach notes.” I am a man of few words, sir.’

  Jacopo knew he was bettered and howled with laughter.

  ‘Well done, Dr Marwood. May I call you Thomas? You have the edge on us, indeed.’

  Thomas inclined his head to the request to use his first name. ‘You were correct in spirit, Signor Tintoretto. My original words were improved upon in conversation with Professor Fuchs. Perhaps one day I may bring you my copy of his book, which includes the most wonderfully observed etchings of plant life. I believe this bottega has progressed even further, however, for do you not say, “Observe, analyse, draw, interpret and make notes.”?’

  Jacopo gave a slow and exaggerated Italian shrug. ‘You know our reputation? Italians and Venetians? We are wordy. Why use one word when three can be found?’

  We all grinned and Jacopo led us across the studio. ‘Actually, we did choose the extra words with care and reason. Gentile! Would you like to demonstrate while I explain? Richard can be our model.’

  I sat in the big modelling chair and looked at Gentile. Already his eyes had taken on an appraising look. He indicated that I should turn my head a little, until the light fell as he wanted it, and then he began to look closely at me. I saw the curve of his wrist and knew immediately what he was doing. Jacopo interpreted the movement.

  ‘You saw the first observation. With Gentile it is quick, with others much slower. Then the small frown, perhaps? He was analysing the head. Not the outline, you understand, but the form, the roundness, the mass. From the first mark we are trying to feel for the mass of the object and express it.’

  Gentile repeated the motion once more, this time making a mark on the paper. Then he lifted his wrist and made a similar movement, but horizontally. Deftly, he indicated the shape of my head around these first lines.

  ‘The crossed lines follow the contours of the head vertically and horizontally. From this we deduce mass. It also gives us important reference lines from which to measure. Note, for example, that Richard has his head tilted slightly to the right, and how this is expressed by the slight rise in the line of the eyebrows which Gentile has made. Now the eye sockets. At this stage, do not draw the eye itself, but concentrate on the eye socket as an area formed of shadow.’

  Gentile made his marks and used the tip of his finger to rub the lines into shading.

  ‘The nose is not vertical in either plane from this angle.’

  I saw Gentile make a wedge-shaped mark, then use his fingertip again.

  ‘He has drawn the outline, but how do we express the fact that the lower part of the nose is closer to us than the bridge? Here we interpret the drawing we have, look at the way the shapes and tones recede or jump forward at us, and amend them by more drawing and by shading tonal differences.’

  Gentile emphasized the wedge of the nose, then picked up a piece of white chalk and lightened the tip of the nose, rubbing it away into the dark shadows above. As soon as he did so, I saw Thomas smile. He nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Yes, I see. It is as if you talk to the drawing, have a conversation with it.’

  Gentile nodded and turned to face Thomas. ‘I look at the drawing and feel for the differences between the real head and my memory of it, then try to eliminate them. Do you want to try?’

  Thomas jumped back. ‘No, Gentile. I know a master when I see one. I am more than content to watch you. It is fascinating and has already taught me a great deal. No wonder Richard spends so much of his time here.’

  As he spoke, the door behind him opened and a familiar outline slid privately into the room.

  Jacopo interrupted. ‘Don’t let him tell you it is his love of drawing that brings him here every day. If this young lady were not here, Richard’s interest in art would disappear like the morning mist. Dr Thomas Marwood, m
ay I introduce Yasmeen Ahmed, who turns our fumbling efforts at painting into a profitable business.’

  Yasmeen dipped her head to Thomas with her usual shy reserve, and then nodded to me. ‘It is not true. He is an excellent student.’

  Thomas reached for her hand, bowed and kissed it on the knuckles. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you. I thought Richard must be exaggerating your beauty, but he was not.’

  Yasmeen squirmed with embarrassment and turned to Jacopo. ‘Maestro, I have the money we expected. I must put it away safely.’ She turned to leave the room, then shot me a farewell glance.

  Thomas looked at me as she left the room. He said nothing, but his approving smile told me all I needed to know.

  As the demonstration came to an end, Thomas patted Gentile on the shoulder and thanked him. Leaving his hand on Gentile’s shoulder, he turned to Tintoretto. ‘Apart from the sheer joy of seeing such masterly work, this has explained so much to me about some of the drawings I have seen before, especially the anatomical studies of Leonardo da Vinci. They have a number of them now in the Department of Medicine at the University in Padua.’

  Gentile looked at me once more. ‘Of course, the model was a poor one – ugly angles, poor proportions, and he never sits still, but what can you expect?’

  I warmed at his remarks. Among this group of men there was little stronger evidence of friendship than being publicly abused in front of an important visitor.

  CHAPTER 64

  June the 30th 1556 – Island of Murano

  ‘First date?’

  The gondolier winked at me as I helped Yasmeen into the gondola. She was treading carefully, though whether from a general nervousness with boats or because she was wearing her best clothes was not clear.

  ‘Picnics are always popular, sir: plenty of time to talk, and private too.’

  I looked at him, at the small boat, and back to him. Somehow I saw little room for privacy. He winked again.

  ‘I am deaf and blind. It is part of our training. It’s a miracle we find our way round the city and across the lagoon. Murano?’

  I nodded. It was far enough to make a nice evening trip, and although parts of the island were filthy with the waste from the glassmakers, every gondolier was skilled at ensuring his passengers enjoyed a civilized arrival and departure, preferably clutching an expensive glass object made by his ‘cousin’.

  Yasmeen settled into the wide seat and I sat next to her. She seemed as nervous as I was, and as we set off across the lagoon we both realized we had left as much space as possible between us. I leaned towards her. ‘Shall we both move in a bit? If we stay like this, we will have to shout, but if either of us alone moves, we may tip the boatman out, and neither of us is dressed for rowing.’

  She giggled and we moved together. As we did so, I took the opportunity of putting my arm along the ridge of the seat, and when she didn’t object, I gently wrapped it around her shoulder. She shivered for a moment, and then snuggled against me.

  ‘It may be cool out on the lagoon. The blankets are in front of you.’Yes, this gondolier really did know the routine. I removed my arm, leaned forward for the large waterproof blanket and covered us, my arm quietly returning to its position. It was a perfect, tranquil June evening, the sun still above the horizon, hot and orange, but we left the blanket in place as, no doubt, all lovers did.

  The movement of the boat was soporific and we soon forgot the presence of the boatman behind us and began to relax. ‘I told my father I was visiting a friend. It is not easy to get away; he is very protective,’Yasmeen confided. ‘Have you been out here for a picnic many times?’

  I could sense the uncertainty in her voice. ‘With other girls, do you mean? No.’

  I felt her relax a little more. ‘This is my first time also.’

  I looked down at her. Tintoretto had told me her mother had died some years before and that her father was very protective towards her. The maestro had been a neighbour of the family since he had first established his bottega on the Fondamenta dei Mori and had given Yasmeen part-time work there when she was only fourteen. He had taken her under his wing, made sure she was safe and that the apprentices did not take advantage of her, and she had grown with the business, steadily becoming an essential part of its smooth operation.

  True to her name, tonight she had jasmine flowers in her hair, and the scent was intoxicating. With the sun shining on her hair, I could see a dozen of the colours we used in the studio: from the shadows, now glowing a deep burnt sienna, to the highlights, ranging from yellow ochre to Venetian red, and shining like a fresh new nut the moment it is first opened. She was quite the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life.

  ‘What was your life like before you came to Venice?’ The voice floated gently up to me, mingling with her scent.

  ‘I was brought up on a farm, the second son, with a younger sister also. I always knew my elder brother John would eventually inherit the family farm, so I set out at the age of fourteen to find employment. I worked in a small manor house, called Shute House, one of several properties belonging to a wealthy and powerful lord. One day he and his three daughters visited our manor house and there was a great storm. I managed to save the daughters from drowning and he gave me employment. The marquess, as he then was, became the Duke of Suffolk, and I became his personal secretary and travelled to the English Court with him.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’ The small voice floated up again.

  ‘When King Edward died, a number of the lords of the realm made his eldest daughter, Lady Jane Grey, Queen of England because she was a Protestant. But there was a successful revolt against her, and she was imprisoned. I stayed with her in that prison for seven months, until they executed her. Two weeks later her father, my employer, was also executed. From that moment, I had little reason to remain at Court and returned to the country in Devon, where I have been studying medicine under Dr Marwood.’

  ‘How long will you stay here?’

  ‘To some extent, that depends on the earl. Until September, I feel a sense of obligation towards Edward Courtenay, but from then on, I will make my own decisions.’

  She looked at me intently. ‘We are similar. My life, too, is determined by another. My father, having lost my mother to illness, is very protective and clings to me, as his only daughter and only close friend. It is understandable. His life has been difficult – his grandfather had to leave Granada when our people were pushed out of Spain sixty-five years ago. My ancestors used to live in the Alhambra Palace itself, but they had to leave everything behind. Since then, the family has been endlessly on the move, trying to make a living from the spice trade, first in Lisbon, then in Sicily and now here in Venice. He makes the joke that the family arrived here from Lisbon just as the centre of the spice trade was moving in the opposite direction. He works hard, but he is getting older and is very tired.’

  I tried to reassure her. ‘But you have your freedom. You now work for Jacopo Tintoretto and play an important part in managing his business for him. He would be lost without you.’

  She returned her head to my shoulder before replying. ‘As the only child of a widower father, I am tied. My father would like me to marry a Muslim boy and continue to live with him and look after him in his old age. But Muslims are constrained in this society, especially while the wars with Turkey and the Byzantine Empire keep smouldering. There are few eligible Muslim boys here. And since he would not want me to go abroad, I am left in limbo. I live in two worlds, the painters’ world and my father’s world, but I have no world of my own.’

  This was a subject I had strong feelings about. ‘You have to make a world of your own.’

  I felt her shaking her head. ‘But if I am placed in an arranged marriage, I will simply be moved from one man’s world to another man’s world.’

  This was something Lady Jane and I had debated many times. ‘The conundrum is whether getting married necessarily means entering somebody else’s world or whether it can mean creating yo
ur world with somebody else. My view is that a woman is not a chattel, but someone in her own right. The understanding which forms the basis of a marriage should first and foremost recognize that each of the parties should create a world of their own.’

  She sat up again. ‘It is an enlightened view, Richard, but what happens the first time you disagree? The man tells the woman what to do. That is how it works, is it not?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘It need not be so. When issues arise that create conflict between the separate worlds of a husband and wife, decisions about those issues should be made jointly.’

  ‘What issues do you mean?’ I could feel her stiffen, perhaps in apprehension, and I looked away over the water, to soften my reply. ‘For example, if I was deciding whether to study painting here in Venice, or medicine in Padua.’

  She remained very still, listening hard. ‘Not in England?’

  Now I guessed the true source of her apprehension and it encouraged me. ‘At this stage, no, not in England. England is not a safe country for me, just as your people were driven from Spain, so religion forms a barrier between people in England, and those who believe in my Protestant Church are distrusted there and hounded by the Catholics. I have no plans to return to England at the moment.’

  I felt her relax, and for some minutes she remained quiet. I did not dare hope she was thinking what I was thinking, but if she was, the last thing I wanted to do was to break her train of thought. Finally, after many minutes’ silence, she asked the question I had hoped she would ask. ‘Are you also considering marriage as part of this decision about your future?’

  I answered as lightly as I could. ‘Yes, I would like to get married, to the right person, if she would have me, and I would try to approach that relationship using the principles of equality I have just described. But in a sense, it seems unfair to consider marriage before I have decided what future I desire for myself I felt her pull away from me, as if my words had put distance between us. ‘When will you decide your terms?’ She nodded for emphasis. ‘For this bargain?’