Daughters of the Doge (20 page)

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.’

I indicated my understanding. This was promising: Neville was clear and forthright.

‘Now, consider the position of a noble family with four sons and four daughters. Only one of the sons can inherit the family fortune, for dividing it would weaken the family name to everyone’s disadvantage. The other sons are therefore discouraged from marrying and instead live in
fmtellanza,
or male communities, and devote their lives to government and diplomacy. Meanwhile, the one son who inherits makes sure he uses his position to improve the power and wealth of the family by demanding a huge dowry when he marries.

‘That leaves the problem of the daughters. One or perhaps two will certainly marry into another noble family, paying those huge dowries, but the rest, especially the youngest, the less beautiful, the lame or those disadvantaged in other ways, have no marriage prospects. It would not be seemly for them to remain unmarried and to go into trade or commerce – everyone would believe they were prostitutes in disguise – so the only place for them is the convent. And in view of the competition, the best convents – those which almost exclusively take the daughters of the
nobili –
also demand a marriage dowry of sorts, which they call a “conventual dowry”.

‘That is the source of the problem. Many daughters of noble families are not allowed to marry outside the Golden Book and their families cannot afford for them to marry inside it. The nunnery is the only alternative. What you may have heard of, perhaps even seen, are nuns from noble families who have effectively been saved from themselves. What is the alternative? To have them running around doing what they like? That would cause mayhem.

‘Young women are difficult to control, as anyone knows. Some knuckle under with the influence of a good husband, but for the others? They need to be locked up and put under the control of a good priest. It’s the only way. And if we are forced to do that, we have to allow them a little laxity; otherwise all hell might break loose. So what are a few parties, some nice clothes and the occasional accompanied visit in the parlour from their relations? It’s not too high a price to pay for contented daughters.’

I heard what he said, and thanked him for his clear explanation. Deep down, however, I was appalled that decent, able, noble women were effectively being imprisoned by their families for life, with no recourse. It was another aspect of Venetian society I found hard to accept.

C
HAPTER
23

February the 20th 1556 – Workshop of Tiziano Vecellio, Calle Larga dei Botteri

The house and workshop of Tiziano Vecellio, known to all as Titian, stood overlooking marshland and facing the sea. This time I found the building without difficulty. It was in a world of its own, almost secluded from the rest of the city and hidden away in a pocket of land along the Fondamente Nuove. It was a wooden structure, less impressive than I had imagined; having associated the painter with the nobility he painted, I had expected him to live in a
palazzo.

The house before me was not small – the generous space in the marshes around it must have made it easy to build a large house – but in style it was simple and plain. It had three storeys. The ground floor was clearly the studio, for men could be seen coming and going through the large doors, whilst the huge windows on the northern, seaward, side admitted an ideal light to work in.

Having finally found the house, I was unsure how to approach those within and found myself standing outside, just looking at it. I suddenly realized why Titian did not live in a
casa fondaco
alongside the Grand Canal: his trade had no need of a canal-front warehouse, or an impressive
piano nobile
within which to impress his would-be patrons. His showcases were the Doge’s palace and the many fine churches where his frescoes and altarpieces were now on display. All he had to do was to take potential patrons to see the work in situ and the association with power and wealth did the persuading for him. Suddenly I lost all confidence in the Plantagenet name and the prospect of making a ‘beneficial agreement’.

I was on the verge of walking away when an apprentice carrying a wooden frame across the yard saw me and called out.

‘Are you looking for the
maestro?

I nodded, walking towards him with regained confidence.

‘He is out at the moment, at the Palazzo Ducale, but his office manager is here. Shall I introduce you? What’s your name?’

I was led into a small but comfortable office and was quickly joined by a small wiry man with the face and manner of a terrier dog. His beady eyes flicked everywhere, taking in my clothes, which no doubt marked me down as a foreigner, and my muddy shoes, which might have indicated I had arrived on foot and was therefore probably living within the city.

‘
Buongiorno, Signore.
Claudio Manzi, at your service. I am sorry that the
maestro
cannot see you today.’