the Tintoretto people seemed to know what he was talking about – distressed him further. ‘Measuring instead of pleasuring,’ he said. ‘All our excitement we reserve for matter. We are only interested in things . All of us here … If you measured a corpse do you think you would learn more about death? We’re all pygmies, that’s the trouble. One of Tintoretto’s working days would have flattened you,’ he said, looking at Barfield. ‘And he kept it up for years . Me too,’ he added hastily, ‘it would have flattened me.’
Nobody said anything. ‘Well,’ Raikes said heavily, ‘I’ll be getting along.’ He left silence behind him. Going back across the campo he lingered some moments before the Palazzo Dorvin. This was one of the houses he could see from his cubicle and the details of the façade were now familiar enough to act as a sort of visual incantation, soothing and reassuring: the Donatellesque relief of Virgin and Child above the doorway, the round-headed windows, the clear carving of the foliation surmounting the pilasters, the porphyry discs so exquisitely placed. Late Quattrocento – same period as the church, more or less. Nothing special about it, in this city of exquisite houses …
A mystery all the same, Raikes thought. Calm descended on him. The proportions of this house, the passion that drove Tintoretto, the presence of death. That’s what I was trying to say, that is what I meant.
3
HE WENT STRAIGHT into the church, eager to see the contents of the cupboards which the sacristan had been obliged to move. But it was evident at once that this would not be possible, at least not then: there were too many people about. The floor was being taken up, not in the perilous fashion the Tintoretto people, with their relish for crisis, had described, but a double row of marble slabs on the north side had been lifted out, there were planks across, and a number of workmen stood around in the main body of the church, with a young man in charge of them. Raikes stopped to pass the time of day and the young man introduced himself. He was an architect employed by the Commune and his name was Benedetti. There were a number of other people in different parts of the church who seemed to have no business there other than to observe the progress of the restoration. To crown everything, the sacristan himself was in attendance, hanging around the chancel with his inflamed nose and bad-tempered expression.
A direct request to this man to be allowed to go through the papers might well be refused, Raikes thought: the sacristan gave that impression of morose self-importance often found in persons of small office; he might put obstacles in the way, insist on some time-consuming official procedure. It was not worth the risk.
He sauntered up the south aisle past the two enormous canvases of Tintoretto resting against the wall and fenced off by chairs. It was a strange experience to find oneself on the same footing as these, eye to eye with the naked couple on the wrong side of the gates, and Cain aghast at what he had done. He paused beside the marble group of the Pietà at the entrance to the sacristy and looked inside. The floor was cluttered with various objects that seemed to have been dumped in the course of the restoration work, some planks of wood, metal buckets, a step-ladder, boxes. Down the centre was a long trestle table with an array of tubes, bottles, brushes of various shapes and sizes, a pile of what looked like metal brackets. This stuff belonged to the Tintoretto people presumably. The usual inhabitants of the sacristy surveyed the unsightly clutter from on high: the Virgin and Three Saints by Sebastiano del Piombo above the altar; the large canvas of the Visitation attributed to Palma il Giovane; the panels of women saints and martyrs. No sign at all of what he was looking for. Except the boxes …
Picking his way, he advanced across the floor. But the boxes contained only chipped terracotta
Nobody said anything. ‘Well,’ Raikes said heavily, ‘I’ll be getting along.’ He left silence behind him. Going back across the campo he lingered some moments before the Palazzo Dorvin. This was one of the houses he could see from his cubicle and the details of the façade were now familiar enough to act as a sort of visual incantation, soothing and reassuring: the Donatellesque relief of Virgin and Child above the doorway, the round-headed windows, the clear carving of the foliation surmounting the pilasters, the porphyry discs so exquisitely placed. Late Quattrocento – same period as the church, more or less. Nothing special about it, in this city of exquisite houses …
A mystery all the same, Raikes thought. Calm descended on him. The proportions of this house, the passion that drove Tintoretto, the presence of death. That’s what I was trying to say, that is what I meant.
3
HE WENT STRAIGHT into the church, eager to see the contents of the cupboards which the sacristan had been obliged to move. But it was evident at once that this would not be possible, at least not then: there were too many people about. The floor was being taken up, not in the perilous fashion the Tintoretto people, with their relish for crisis, had described, but a double row of marble slabs on the north side had been lifted out, there were planks across, and a number of workmen stood around in the main body of the church, with a young man in charge of them. Raikes stopped to pass the time of day and the young man introduced himself. He was an architect employed by the Commune and his name was Benedetti. There were a number of other people in different parts of the church who seemed to have no business there other than to observe the progress of the restoration. To crown everything, the sacristan himself was in attendance, hanging around the chancel with his inflamed nose and bad-tempered expression.
A direct request to this man to be allowed to go through the papers might well be refused, Raikes thought: the sacristan gave that impression of morose self-importance often found in persons of small office; he might put obstacles in the way, insist on some time-consuming official procedure. It was not worth the risk.
He sauntered up the south aisle past the two enormous canvases of Tintoretto resting against the wall and fenced off by chairs. It was a strange experience to find oneself on the same footing as these, eye to eye with the naked couple on the wrong side of the gates, and Cain aghast at what he had done. He paused beside the marble group of the Pietà at the entrance to the sacristy and looked inside. The floor was cluttered with various objects that seemed to have been dumped in the course of the restoration work, some planks of wood, metal buckets, a step-ladder, boxes. Down the centre was a long trestle table with an array of tubes, bottles, brushes of various shapes and sizes, a pile of what looked like metal brackets. This stuff belonged to the Tintoretto people presumably. The usual inhabitants of the sacristy surveyed the unsightly clutter from on high: the Virgin and Three Saints by Sebastiano del Piombo above the altar; the large canvas of the Visitation attributed to Palma il Giovane; the panels of women saints and martyrs. No sign at all of what he was looking for. Except the boxes …
Picking his way, he advanced across the floor. But the boxes contained only chipped terracotta
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