The Four Seasons: A Novel of Vivaldi's Venice

by Laurel Corona

  Chiaretta snuggled up next to Claudio in the misty air of the spring night. “What do her parents think of that?” she asked him.

  “Her parents? He’s singing to the woman of the house.”

  Chiaretta turned to look at him, astonished.

  “It’s nothing really, just flattery. He’ll probably come around tomorrow to get his thank-you for the serenade. He’ll bring the flowers, wilted a little, and recite a poem he’s written about how they are as downtrodden as his heart because she won’t have him.”

  “And then what?”

  “Nothing. Though he might hope she’ll eventually say yes, she won’t. As long as she teases him, he’ll come around, but it would be a big mistake for her to let it get out of hand.”

  “What does her husband think?”

  “He doesn’t mind. In fact, as long as everyone follows the rules, he’s glad for it. It makes his wife happy.” He pulled her closer to him. “She probably has more than one cavaliere servente. You will too.” He pressed his mouth into her hair. “I’ll even help you choose your first one, someone who won’t take advantage of you.”

  He turned to her. “Why the sad look? You need to have friends. You need to have admirers. It’s just the way it is. I don’t mind.” He pulled away. “Shall we go inside?”

  An hour or so later, as Chiaretta lay in her bed, she heard Zuana’s voice in the portego saying good night to Claudio. His boots clicked as he crossed the marble floor, the sound disappearing as he went down the stairs to the dock.

  The following morning, for the first time since her marriage, Chiaretta did not look to see whether Claudio was in his quarters. Instead, she sat at her dressing table with her jewelry chest, holding up this earring, that comb, this pendant, tipping her head from side to side and smiling as if at an admirer.

  She called for Zuana, who arranged her hair, put on her pearl necklace, laced her corset, and helped her into one of her prettiest dresses. She would have to wear a veil, but underneath it, she would have powdered skin and beauty spots, and if she should meet someone to flirt with, she was going to do it.

  “I want to visit my sister,” she told the gondolier. “Take me to the Pietà.” What she needed to learn to do could not be practiced at a cloister full of virgins, but she could think of no other place to go. Setting out alone was enough of a start.

  Despite the fact that she had grown up there, as a married woman Chiaretta was not allowed to be anywhere in the Pietà except the parlatorio. In her beautiful dresses and her coiffed hair, she felt deep discomfort on the other side of the grille, corseted and painted into something she was not, and separated from the girls in their red and white dresses because she had permitted a man to lie between her legs. I don’t belong anywhere anymore, she thought as she waited for her sister to come downstairs.

  Maddalena looked more serene than she had ever seen her, and Chiaretta had the odd sensation that she was the one on the captive side of the grille. Her beauty spots and makeup might have impressed the other figlie, but Maddalena saw right through them.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. Though Chiaretta denied and blustered through the first few minutes of their time, they soon had drawn to one corner and bent their heads together.

  Chiaretta could think of nothing to say. Where could she start? Maddalena reached through the grille, and Chiaretta laced her fingers through her sister’s. Minutes passed in silence while she dabbed at her eyes to keep her makeup from spotting.

  “Shall I go get the sketchbook so you can write?” Maddalena’s voice was gentle, with just enough teasing in it to make Chiaretta manage a smile.

  “No. I just want to sit here with you, if that’s all right.”

  Maddalena squeezed her hand. “Of course.”

  They sat without speaking for a while longer, until Maddalena broke the silence. “You know Vivaldi is leaving. He will finish up Carnevale and go to Mantua.”

  “Claudio told me. Are you all right?”

  “It isn’t like last time,” Maddalena said. “I’m a grown woman, a sotto maestra. I know who I am now.”

  Chiaretta searched her sister’s face for signs it wasn’t true, and found nothing.

  “I mean it,” Maddalena said. “I don’t need him anymore.”

  * * *

  Antonia’s baby was a boy named Alexandro, after Piero’s father. In the Venetian custom, during the days after the birth, Antonia was propped up on pillows as a steady stream of wellwishers passed through her bedroom. The baby was sent to a wet nurse, who brought him to Antonia for daily visits while she tended to the more important task of regaining her figure.

  Months later, laced into a tighter corset, Antonia was making up for having missed all of Carnevale the year before, as well as the other spring festivals. Piero had made good on her new wardrobe, and on the feast day of Saint Mark in April, she stood with Chiaretta in front of the great mirrors of the portego in Palazzo Morosini admiring herself as they finished getting ready for the celebration.

  Chiaretta’s first anniversary had come and gone, and her pearls had been put away, but she had waited until Antonia was ready to go out in public again to begin putting in motion her plan for a life independent of Claudio. Antonia had been right that he would spend little time with her at her second Carnevale, and if it were not for a night at the opera with Bernardo and a few parties with Antonia’s friends at small private casinos, she would have seen nothing of Carnevale that could not have been observed from her balcony. Now she was ready to set foot outside again.

  Claudio and Piero had announced several weeks earlier that they would be on a barge with investors in the Teatro Sant’Angelo, watching the regatta that was the highlight of the festival. Because they were not taking their wives, they suggested that Antonia and Chiaretta go out together to see the gondoliers in their annual race across the lagoon.

  Before Claudio left, he presented Chiaretta with the traditional gift for Saint Mark’s Day, a red rosebud known as a bocolo that men gave to the women they loved. He had kissed her and wished her a wonderful time with Antonia before donning his bauta and leaving the house. Chiaretta broke the stem of the bocolo and tucked the flower into the bodice of her dress, shrugging off a twinge of guilt that she would be using it to accentuate her breasts for someone else. Not only did Claudio know what she was doing, but he had had a discussion with Piero about it. His wife needed a companion, Claudio had said. She spent too much time alone, and she would be happier if she wasn’t missing out on so much. Piero passed on this information to Antonia not as a broken confidence but as a way for Chiaretta to know her husband’s thoughts without the need for an awkward conversation.

  Antonia had invited two others to join them on a burchiello she hired for the day so her own gondolier could be part of the race. They were bringing sparkling wine, and Antonia was supplying the lunch. The two guests were the men among Piero’s cousins Antonia thought most suitable for practice at flirtation.

  “Luca and Andrea know who you are,” Antonia said as the two women walked down the broad stairs from Chiaretta’s quarters. “They heard you sing at the Pietà. Andrea plays the harpsichord and has a very nice voice, but he hardly ever lets anyone hear him. He practically has to be dragged out to play at parties.”

  They passed the piano nobile, and Antonia barely broke stride to look in the door. “Good. My mother’s not here. I don’t have to say hello.”

  She resumed her chatter as they walked down the remaining stairs to the dock. “Luca is one of those people whose best talent is being easy to be around. You’ll like him. Everybody does.”

  Chiaretta wasn’t listening, still pondering the last words Antonia had said as they left her room. “Claudio thinks our plan for the day is perfect,” she had said. If it’s perfect for him, Chiaretta vowed, I’ll make it perfect for me too.

  “Did you hear me?” Antonia asked as they paused in the damp and musty boathouse under the palazzo. “Anyone who’s heard you sing is ready to be in love,
especially after they lay eyes on you. Just remember two things. Don’t let my cousins kiss you on the mouth, even if they try to make it seem casual, and not even a note from that pretty little throat. Anything they want, they should have to beg years for.”

  The men stood on the dock with their hoods on, holding the masks and hats of their baute in their hands. Luca Barberigo was short and round in the middle, with a hairline that was beginning to recede even though he was still under thirty. A guileless quality about his face put Chiaretta at ease. Andrea Corner was tall and solemn, with gray-blue eyes and features so angular they suggested scars that were not actually there. His hair was thick and almost black, without a hint of the gold or red found in many Venetians.

  They sat in the sunlight with the women as the boat crept out among the hundreds heading toward the lagoon. Luca opened a bottle of wine from the Veneto and handed a small glass to each of them. “To the tragedy of marriage,” he said. “It has taken away two more of the beautiful women of Venice.”

  Antonia grimaced at Luca’s awkward attempt at charm, but Luca was unfazed. He picked up Chiaretta’s hand and kissed it. Chiaretta let his hand linger, giving him a coquettish smile.

  Luca poured wine before their glasses were even empty, and Chiaretta made a joke of hiding hers so he wouldn’t give her any more. Soon shouts rose up from the far end of the lagoon to signal that the race was on. She watched as dozens of gondolas decked with flowers and banners approached. Antonia lifted her mask and peered into the distance, trying to spot the banners of Piero’s family and her own. As the gondolas streaked toward them, she picked out the Morosini banner among the boats in the lead and called to Chiaretta to watch.

  The crowd was screaming as the boats passed by, and by the time the first ones reached Chiaretta, the Morosini gondola had a small lead. As the gondolas passed, a man cheering from a barge on the other side of the racecourse pulled up his mask and bent over the woman at his side. A red rosebud fell from her hand as he kissed her before covering his face again. One glimpse was enough. Chiaretta felt her heart slam into her stomach. It was Claudio.

  When the regatta was over, Chiaretta pleaded a headache, and much to Antonia’s disappointment, she asked to be taken home. When Claudio returned that night, she heard his footsteps in the portego with dread. What can I say to him? she wondered, but he went to bed without stopping in to say good night.

  By the time Chiaretta got up the next day, Zuana had left a note from Luca on a tray in her dressing room. He thanked her for her company and asked if he could be her escort the next time she went out, wherever she wished to go.

  Luca was nice and easy to be with, but Andrea interested her more. He had a sense of himself that emanated from every pore, an intensity that shot into Chiaretta’s bones when she f irst saw him. He didn’t speak much, leaving Luca to do most of the socializing, but the entire time on the boat she had been wishing he would nudge Luca aside and focus on her alone.

  Zuana knocked on her door and brought in another note in a sealed envelope and a red rosebud.

  “A day late, but sincerely felt,” Andrea had written in a bold hand.

  “Is there anything Madonna wishes?” Zuana asked.

  Chiaretta’s heart was pounding. “Yes,” she said. “I am feeling much better. I’ll be going out this morning.” Antonia would know what she should do next.

  Antonia’s advice was simple: encourage them both. Luca would be the ideal cavaliere servente—obedient, convenient, and not prone to let his adoration get out of hand. He would be a good escort for the theater and the opera and would cover her losing hands at the casinos as if it were a pleasure to have his pocket emptied. As for Andrea, hadn’t Chiaretta noticed how he couldn’t take his eyes off her?

  “Even better than Luca,” Antonia said. “For that little extra...” She imitated a shiver of erotic excitement. “It’s better than sex,” she said. “Not to have it, I mean, and wonder about it the whole time you’re with someone, don’t you think?” She looked at Chiaretta’s uncomprehending face. “No, I guess you don’t,” she said. “You’re still in love with your husband.”

  Later, Chiaretta sat on the balcony of Palazzo Morosini reading the two notes again. What was it that Antonia had said? Life in Venice is meaningless without risk. She went inside and rang the bell for Zuana. Marriage is what gives you the freedom to amuse yourself in this world, that’s all. “Bring me some writing paper and two envelopes,” she told the maid.

  SEVENTEEN

  The endless revelry of venice was something to be endured as far as Maddalena was concerned. Especially during the main Carnevale season, several times a week groups of the figlie di coro were sent off to perform in the mansions, churches, and other institutions of the city. Inattentive the few days before, impossible on the day of, and silly with giggles afterward, the figlie made rehearsals a nightmare for all their teachers. Every year Maddalena looked forward to the start of Lent, and her only hope until then was that her duties might from time to time be light enough to allow her a few moments in a quiet practice room with her violin.

  When Ash Wednesday brought an abrupt end to the festivities, the Pietà settled back, like a reveler sinking into a familiar chair after a long night out. The mood in the sala dal violino was calmer, offering palpable relief to the figlie, who whether they would admit it or not, had seen enough of the outside world for a while. Even the iniziate, who shared in the excitement although as a rule were not invited out, calmed down when their fantasies were no longer fueled by new gossip.

  This particular Lent, however, Maddalena was not expecting many chances to relax. Anna Maria had been promoted to maestra dal violino a few months earlier, when Prudenzia had become one of the two maestre di coro—the highest position among the women of the coro, second only to the male director and, among the women, to the priora herself. Maddalena, now twenty-eight, had long been one of two sotto maestre dal violino, but she was by herself for the time being. Soon another one would be appointed and Maddalena would become the supervisor only of the attive in the string section, but at the moment she was trying to do the tasks of two.

  Despite the work involved, the beginning students brought something precious to her life. They were so small and thin that sometimes she wanted to pull them under her cloak and let them hold her until they felt like coming back out into the world. Some of them scowled with the intensity of warriors as they battled against what their hands would not let them do. Others spent much of their lessons sighing and drooping their shoulders as their teachers, figlie barely older than themselves, explained something for the third or fourth time. Left alone for a few minutes, some of them, particularly the youngest ones, would fall asleep, clutching their violins while the bows clattered to the floor.

  That’s me, Maddalena would think, watching one of them, and there’s Chiaretta, there’s Anna Maria, as she moved through the room beaming at something done well, or putting a hand on the shoulder of a child crying from frustration or exhaustion. But one ghost from her past she had vowed to banish. In her sala, there would be no Luciana.

  Within a few months of becoming a sotto maestra, she had seen a little girl reduced to tears by her teacher, a thirteen-year-old named Gerita. Her first reaction had been to scold Gerita, but she pulled herself back. They’re all little girls, she told herself. After the lesson, she pulled her aside.

  “Why were you scolding Cornelia?”

  “Because she did it wrong. I told her what to do and she didn’t do it.”

  “Do you think she was trying?”

  Gerita stopped for a moment to think. “I guess so. She was doing it over and over again.”

  “Did scolding her help?”

  “No,” Gerita growled with annoyance. “Maybe she’s just not very good.”

  “But if she learned how to do it, she would be good, especially for someone who can’t have been playing even a year,” Maddalena replied. “So what do you think we should do?”

  “I don’t kn
ow. Maybe just let her keep practicing?”

  “Why don’t you give that a try? And if she still doesn’t improve, let me know, and we’ll think of something together.” Maddalena reached up and straightened Gerita’s hood, although it hadn’t needed it. “But try not to let Cornelia know you’re disappointed. t won’t really help.”

  They just do it the way they’ve been shown, she thought as she watched Gerita leave the practice room. All of it. How to hold the bow, how to finger, how to scold.

  In her second year as a sotto maestra, Maddalena’s turn came to rehearse the orchestra for a concert. The weather had been gloomy and cold for weeks on end, and many of the figlie were weak with chills and coughs. The music was some that Vivaldi had written, patched together from several works the coro had already performed. The first movement was light, with an infectious rhythm, but the figlie were dragging through it. Frustrated, Maddalena was about to send them off to practice on their own when an idea occurred to her.

  “Girls!” She tapped her bow on the music stand. “I want to ask you something.” She looked at them each in turn. “It’s a simple question. What makes you happy?”

  Some of them screwed up their faces, but others sat looking stupefied.

  “What do you mean?” one of them said.

  “Just what I said,” she replied. “Kittens in the courtyard? Meat for dinner? What makes your heart jump up and say, ‘Now this is a good day!’ ”

  Gerita, now a pretty sixteen-year-old, sat up straight. “I know! I’m happy when they throw flowers at us on the quay.”

  Another girl giggled. “I’m happy when they give us wine at the parties.”

  “I’m happy when my blanket is warm enough.” The voice was almost inaudible. Several of them turned to look at Benedetta, a tiny, dark-haired viola d’amore player with a cleft palate that made her so self-conscious she rarely spoke.