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The Republic of Venice, 1566
The bells of the Campanile sang their morning song to those rushing along Saint Mark's Square. Glistening in the early sun, the mosaics on the facade of the Basilica smiled at Francesco. With a canvas tucked beneath his arm, he scurried past those gathered. His heart beat as swiftly as his feet moved, quickening at the thought of Elena. The docks of the Arsenal had been busy this morning when he procured the canvas and packet of aromatic pepper from the merchant. Each day a new culinary delight, presented as an exotic spice, seemed to debut on the shores of the canals. Now that the Ottoman Empire traded with the Venetian Republic these past six years, a whole new market opened to those such as Francesco that had set their dreams among the scintillating delights of the east. When Marco Polo journeyed to China two centuries prior, the seduction of the west by the enticing Orient had begun.
The intricacies of the architecture surrounding him attested to this subsequent mingling of all that lay familiar in the west and all that stretched provocatively to the east. Bronze horses captured in Constantinople proudly adorned the high walls of the Basilica. Its alabaster beauty perfectly offset the pale pink of the Doge's Palace that stood adjacent to it, the way that Elena's cheeks and lips were drawn out by the creaminess of her skin. From the blue above, wispy clouds caressed the scene, the way that Elena's hair fell across her body.
As he rounded the corner a woman, dressed in the most fashionable silks with her hair piled high in thick tresses, perched atop a gondola. A man who exuded luxury and whose clothes were arranged so perfectly that the elbows of the jacket did not even show a crease from bending over a table, the way a merchant's did when he settled his accounts, sat beside her. He mentally mixed the pigment that would best depict their finery of dress. Francesco became so mesmerized in watching them that he missed seeing the gap in the pavement and tripped. The canvas dislodged from under his arm and flew to the ground. Embarrassed, he stooped down to retrieve it and glanced at the couple to see if they had noticed. Already they were sailing away from him though, as the gondolier struck his long pole into the lagoon and pushed off from the mud flats below, propelling the black-painted gondola on its way. Flecks of dirt marred one corner of the roll of canvas from where he had dropped it. Blowing it off, he chided himself for being so careless. If he had been a step closer to the edge, the costly material could have been lost entirely. Having tarried too long already, he continued on his way to the workshop.
All day as he worked over the vats of color, dying materials for the citizens and for export, his mind wandered to Elena. Knowing that any piece he labored over might soon drape her body as a stylish new dress focused his hand on the perfect distribution of pigment on material. Elena had first entered his life when her father came to him one day, saying he had heard that Francesco charged a fair price and had excellent craftsmanship. A quick perusal of the tiny shop tucked behind the baker's convinced him that what others said was true.
“I won't buy anything today. Elena will come with me to pick out what she wants tomorrow.”
Francesco had nodded, bidding the gentleman adieu. He thought nothing of it at the time. Men had returned with women before, to have their opinion included in what materials would be sewn into the family's fashion or what silks would line the walls. Francesco's silks were renowned for gleaming beautifully in the candlelight of the chandeliers crafted of the delicately fashioned colored glass made on the nearby island of Murano. The following day the man had returned as he said he would, but the woman he brought with him came as an unexpected delight for Francesco. This Elena, whom he had assumed would be the man's wife, was his daughter. As daughters went, Francesco decided she was the loveliest of the species.
“Here Elena, you will find something to your liking, I am sure, and if not then I'm sure that—”
He was looking at Francesco, waiting for his name to be supplied.
“Francesco,” he said quickly, glancing up at Elena as he did.
“I'm sure that Francesco will be happy to dye something to your liking.”
“Oh yes, sir,” he answered, hoping he did not sound overly eager.
“I am Ludveccio,” the man said to Francesco, as he bent over the table to thumb through some of his samples.
“It is very nice to become acquainted with you, sir,” Francesco had said over his back. And then, it happened. Behind her father's back, Elena smiled at him. Whether out of politeness or if she had been stirred by him as well he could not know, but her smile gave him hope. He lived on that hope each day after, praying that Ludveccio's pretty daughter might be in need of something new from his shop.
His workday was drawing to an end and, though his ledgers recorded considerable business for today, the balance of his heart had not been settled and he felt a decidedly poorer man than he was as he closed shop that evening. To cheer himself, he walked beside the newly built Scula di San Rocco. The door was open as he passed and he tried desperately to get close enough to peer inside. He knew that Tintoretto and his students had been busy painting within these walls the past two years. If only he could catch a glimpse inside!
The door, though open, did not allow significant light inside for him to see. Maybe, if he were very quiet, he might be able to slip inside and just catch a glance at what was being done. Francesco looked both ways and tentatively stepped inside with one foot.
“You there!”
Francesco froze, startled at being addressed. He slowly turned.
“Yes?” he asked the man who stood before him, splattered in paint.
“We don't want any trouble. We're doing serious work and can't have people standing about causing mischief.”
“Me?” he asked, confused.
The man stared at him, as if he were crazy.
“What's wrong with you? Don't you understand me? Are you not from here or something? Are you a spy?”
“A spy? No! I understand you and I am a proud citizen of Venice. I only wanted to catch a glimpse at the work inside.”
He smiled slowly, hoping the other man might oblige him. Instead, he shook his head.
“That's not possible. Only painters are allowed inside.”
“But, I am a painter,” Francesco said, suddenly.
“You're a painter?” The man eyed him suspiciously, his glance lingering on the color that had seeped into Francesco's hands from the vat of dye.
“You look more like a dyer.”
“I am. That is to say, I am a dyer but I want to be a painter. I paint now sometimes. I'm really rather good.”
“Oh you are, are you?” The tone of the man had grown condescending, obviously believing himself far superior to a lowly dyer.
“We paint with brushes, not our hands,” he said in one final jab, before beginning to shut the door on Francesco.
“But, I really can paint. If only your master could see.”
“Sure, you do that. Paint something and bring it for my master to see. Maybe we'll work on the next series together,” he said, laughing sarcastically as he shut the door, leaving Francesco alone.
He clenched his fist, breathed in, then out, and opened it again.
“I'll do it. I'll bring Tintoretto my painting,” he said, through gritted teeth and then he turned and hurried home.
***
“HELLO, FRANCESCO,” Ludveccio greeted him warmly the next morning. Hearing his voice Francesco looked up expectantly, hoping to see Elena beside him. His eyes were disappointed though, as only Ludveccio, slightly stout of belly but plumper still of heart, stood before him. He summoned a smile to his face, dutifully playing the part of cheery merchant.
“Next week is Elena's birthday.”
His interest piqued, Francesco no longer had to pretend to smile.
“I would like something special for her. She's a dear girl. Her mother has been departed from us for many years now, but I know she would be proud of her little Elena and pleased at how beautiful and kind she has become. Oh excuse me, I do love to talk on her and can become carried away in all my prattle.”
“Oh really, it's quite all right,” Francesco replied.
“You see Francesco, that is why I like you. You sell superior merchandise and afford a man his stories.”
“Well, thank you, sir,” Francesco said and then continued, “Am I right to think that you would like my help in deciding on the gift?”
“Yes. What is your suggestion?”
Francesco's mind flew to the blue silks and red velvets, any of which would perfectly frame Elena's beauty, but what he said came as a surprise even to himself.
“I have many fine materials that would be most becoming on her, but might I suggest something different. What about a portrait?”
“A portrait?”
“Yes, something to commemorate her as she is now, that she will be able to keep for years to come.”
“A portrait,” Ludveccio repeated again, this time warming to the suggestion.
“Francesco, my boy, I think that is an excellent idea. And would you happen to know of an artist who would be willing to do such a thing?”
“Me, sir.”
“You paint?” Ludveccio asked, a look of amusement passing over his face. For a moment Francesco feared that Ludveccio would laugh away his aspirations, as the painter had last night and the chance would disintegrate. Instead, though, he looked Francesco in the eye and said,
“Can you start tomorrow?”
***
HE ARRIVED AT ELENA's house early. Unsure of whether to go inside now or wait until the appointed time, when the bells had chimed, he looked up at the palatial grandeur. The evening sun bathed the loggio in its glow, transforming the stone walls into a dazzling encrusted jewel case. Angular windows boasted the Venetian style that so seamlessly incorporated not only east and west, but also the more ancient with all that was new. The saltiness of the sea gathered at his nose, as he gazed at the beauty. He knew they were moneyed, but until he stood there before their home he did not realize just how rich they were. The well-dressed man and woman in the gondola yesterday morning could easily feel like paupers in such grandness as this.
His knees wobbled beneath him and he began to wonder if his ideas had been ill-founded. What was he doing here, painting the portrait of a beautiful woman in attempts of swaying her heart toward the successful but far poorer dye merchant, while capturing the perfect painting to show to Tintoretto? It all seemed ludicrous, when he thought of it now. Perhaps, he better just go. The door swung open and Ludveccio stood there.
“Oh Francesco, hello! Good, good, come in.”
It was too late for second thoughts or to turn and leave. Ludveccio opened the door wide and Francesco had no choice but to follow him inside. Elena was waiting for him, seated on a chair in front of a window that was dressed in velvet curtains. They were drawn to one side and the early evening light streamed in across the room.
“Hello,” she greeted him, with a shy smile, “Will the light be all right here?”
“Oh yes, it will work just fine. Have you ever had your portrait painted?”
“Yes, when I was young, but never by someone so—”
She paused and he clung to the silence, wondering at what she would say. She seemed to change her mind and concluded,
“Such as yourself.”
He looked at her, puzzled.
“I mean, I was very young.”
Elena seemed uncomfortable with the words and he desired to put her at ease, first because it is difficult to paint someone who is not but more importantly, because he yearned for her to relax in his company. As he began to paint her, pushing the pigment gingerly onto the canvas, swirling the strokes, she seemed to grant his wish. Painting her gave him open license to stare at her and he felt slightly guilty at what he had arranged. The larger part of him, though, congratulated himself on the master plan he had concocted. When the light began to fade too much to accurately capture her likeness, he packed away the supplies and walked home, fancying himself the cleverest man in all of Venice.
Each day, Francesco hurried his hands in the dying and nearly skipped toward Elena's home at the close of the business day. He found himself slowing in his work, as he reached completion of her portrait to prolong his daily visits to her any way that he could. He purposefully did not bring enough umber one day, so that he would be forced to complete that section on the next day. As the painting developed, so did their friendship. Long gone was Elena's uneasiness of that first afternoon. Freely, she discussed her life with him and even spoke of her dreams of journeying east, to see for herself the lands where the spices she relished abound in their natural habitats. His paintbrush caressed her delicate neck and angelic face as she spoke, acting as some substitute for his hands that desperately wanted to linger on her cheek with their warmth and flesh instead of the bristles of the brush. Try as he might to lengthen their time together, a small portrait could not be the work of endless days. He allowed himself to trace her portrait with a dry brush, the paint already applied in all of its needed places, one last time as she spoke. Her voice sounded like a tinkling bell in the evening's breeze. He knew it was her birthday, on this evening that he finished, and he had brought a present of his own for her. Francesco reached into his pocket for the small wrapped package. Elena's eyes grew wide at the sight of the gift and she looked at him eagerly, as if to ask if it were for her.
“Yes, the gift is for you,” he said, with that smile she had lit his face with on the first day that he had seen her. He handed it to her and she unwrapped the silken ribbon, delighted at the present.
“Your father's present is also finished.”
“The painting is finished?” she said, looking up excitedly from the ribbon.
“Yes, but I have to set it in a frame still.”
“Oh, let me see it,” she said pleadingly, her eyes fawning at him. It took all of his resolve to turn down her request, but he wanted her to see the work completed.
For one last evening, Francesco packed away his paints and brushes and prepared to walk home. He would be kept company by the luminescence of moonlight dancing on the canal. Even the heavens would celebrate Elena's birthday. Though he had been delaying this occasion as long as possible, he now felt a surge of hope. Long into the hours of last night, he had gone through his account records. He had been so distracted since meeting Elena two months prior that the steady stream of accumulating business, and its lining of his coffers, had slipped past him largely unnoticed. Could it be true? Had he really amassed so much? He did not trust the good fortune of his figures and reworked them again and again, until he had no choice but to accept this news of his burgeoning wealth.
His stomach tangled in anticipation. Before walking home, he would speak with Ludveccio and put forth his case. He had ingratiated himself to father and daughter. Both had warmed to him and invited him openly into their home and lives. He was certain now that Elena felt as he did for her and Ludvecio, who cared so deeply for his daughter, surely would wish to see her blissful in marriage. Though he could not provide every luxury that her father could, he would offer her a good life, a happy life, and a wealth that was sure to accumulate through his business and painting.
Ludveccio sat behind his desk, rifling through a stack of papers. Francesco still did not know exactly what he had made his fortune in or if his wealth were inherited. He waited until Ludveccio was finished and then spoke to him,
“I have finished the painting.”
A smile burst forth over Ludveccio's face, the way that the waters rushed over the squares during the flooding.
“Oh, that's marvelous! What did Elena think of it?”
“I've not yet shown her. I'm going to frame it this evening and bring it back tomorrow, if that is all right?”
“Oh yes, of course. Splendid! Splendid! Now, about the matter of payment—”
He paused mid-sentence, to rummage in the drawer of his desk and produced a hefty bag of coins. Francesco waited for him to retrieve a coin or, if he were feeling especially generous, two. Ludveccio took nothing from the bag, though, and instead offered it entirely to Francesco, who was so taken aback that he nearly forgot what he had intended to say.
“Thank you very much, but I do not wish to take the payment. I hoped instead that I might discuss something with you.”
Ludveccio's face showed his surprise, but his words remained level, as he said,
“Yes, of course, what is it?”
“I have come to ask for Elena's hand in marriage. My business is thriving and I have every confidence that time will only serve as a catalyst to greater wealth. I believe that I can make her happy and give her a good life.”
Ludveccio studied the man before him, so young but so infused with passion. He was brimming now from the curve of the smile on his face, which Francesco was obviously trying to suppress, as he awaited the answer.
“Francesco,” he said, with a patient smile, “I've no doubt that you have honorable intentions toward Elena, that your business is in good order, and you are talented, that is sure. But my boy, Elena is to be betrothed.”
“She— I— I didn't know,” Francesco stammered.
“Rodrigo comes from a strong family with important connections to the doge. It is an honor that he has sought out Elena. I'm sure you will find someone else. Venice is full of beautiful women; they're good inspiration for a painter, no?”
“Yes, of course,” he said quietly, realizing that Ludveccio had not merely told him of Elena's unavailability, but had also informed him that he was good enough to paint his daughter, but not to marry her.
“I will bring the painting back tomorrow,” he said, turning to leave.
“Here Francesco, take this,” Ludveccio said, pushing the money into his hand.
“Really, you don't have to,” Francesco protested.
“Your request has not been granted. It is the least I can do.”
With no other choice, Francesco took the money and departed with a heart heavier than the bells of the Campanile.
***
FRANCESCO UNWRAPPED the painting, not wishing to prolong the moment. He knew it would be difficult to gaze upon the likeness of the woman, who had transformed him into a spurned lover. He lifted the frame, which he had lovingly carved and secured the portrait within it. Through his open window, he heard the gentle sloshing of the moorings. The moon, which he was sure would be in celebration tonight, shone with a melancholy hue. Feeling dejected and more alone than ever, he took one final look at the love that was not to be. As he reached for the cloth to wrap the painting again, a solitary hot tear slipped down his cheek and stung his wind-blown skin with its saltiness. Annoyed, he lifted his hand to brush it aside, but it was too late and it landed on the canvas, right on Elena's cheek.
“How very sympathetic of you. You are the one crying for me,” he said in a whisper and then hastily covered the painting, unable to face it any longer.
***
Ten Years Later, 1576, Venice
LUDVECCIO SAT AT THE desk, his head in his hands in grief.
“How could you take her from me?” he hurled into the emptiness of his house, which now seemed far too large for comfort.
“My beautiful Elena, my Elena.” He choked on the words, collapsing into sobs.
Her portrait, returned to this house by Rodrigo as an offering of solace, taunted him now. How could she be gone?
“How can you be gone?” he roared at the painting.
If only things had been different. If he had accepted— oh what was his name?— Francesco's proposition, then perhaps none of this would have happened. He had heard that Francesco left Venice not long after that night ten years ago. Rumor held that he had sailed east to broaden his business ventures. He could have taken her away with him and she could still be alive today. Ludveccio knew that this latest terrible plague cursed the lands beyond Venice, but it was the only thought he could cling to. It was good for that merchant and painter, Francesco, that he left, Ludveccio decided. Francesco was the lucky one. Had he stayed, he would have faced the sorrow of losing Elena. The sickness that claimed his Elena had taken that painter whom Ludveccio thought Francesco's work vaguely resembled, Titian, as well. Mustering all the bravery he could, he looked to Elena's portrait. Her beauty was perfectly captured. Francesco really had loved her; it was evident in every shadow and swirl. She looked at him now, smiling, happy, and he knew that his own heart would never know joy again.
“Nicholi,” he called to his servant.
“Yes, sir?”
“Take the painting from here.”
“You wish for me to move it, sir?”
“I wish for you to get rid of it.”
“Sir?”
“Sell it or something. Give it away. I don't care. Just be gone with it. I never want to see it again!”