Daughters of the Doge (49 page)

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:

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.

C
HAPTER
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?’