The Four Seasons: A Novel of Vivaldi's Venice

by Laurel Corona

  Donata made an event of fluffing Maddalena’s pillows and turning them to their cool undersides. One day, while Maddalena was sleeping, Donata’s fingers touched a small bag under one of the pillows, and she pulled it out. “What’s this?” she whispered to her mother.

  Chiaretta removed the pieces of comb and gave them to Donata to hold. “It’s just something pretty that got broken. I wanted to put it there.”

  “The little flowers are so perfect,” Donata said, stroking her fingers over them just as Chiaretta had when she saw them the first time.

  “She doesn’t know it’s under her pillow,” Chiaretta said. “Let’s keep it a secret. Our mother and daughter secret.”

  When Donata and Maffeo moved back into their own beds, a week or two later, Chiaretta was able for the first time to be alone. She had sent word to Andrea that she did not want to see him for a while. Much as she longed to be held in a man’s strong arms, she wanted those arms to be Claudio’s, and since they could not be, she would honor him by remaining uncomforted.

  When the day came to read Claudio’s will, Antonia and Piero picked her up in their gondola and took her to the solicitor’s office. Giustina had died not too long after her husband, Claudio’s other sister was in a convent, and his older brother had permanently relocated in Antwerp, so the group hearing the will would include only the three of them. Piero and Antonia could barely sit down for the ride. They shifted in their seats and worried in clipped, spiky voices about Claudio’s assets, and what it would mean if he had followed convention and left his brother, whom none but Antonia even knew, in control of them.

  In his office, the solicitor pulled out the thick vellum document. Antonia was the first to be provided for. Piero relaxed when he heard that his wife would receive a small annual allowance, but his face went grim as the solicitor read on. No one but Antonia could draw the money, and the commissare of his estate was to ensure it went to meeting her personal needs and running the household. The insult was clear. Piero was not to be trusted.

  His cloistered sister would have continued to receive her current annual stipend until her death, but Claudio added a small amount to it. She would live out her days in her well-furnished room at the convent of San Zaccaria, with money to host parties, buy perfume and other luxuries, and remain fashionably dressed.

  Claudio left nothing to his brother, declaring that their patrimony had been allocated fairly by their father and each was free to dispose of his portion as he wished. His decision, he said, was to leave it all to his family. Astonished, Chiaretta listened as Claudio’s words were read aloud.

  “To my beloved wife, Chiaretta, who has been the great pleasure of my life, I leave my entire estate, and I appoint her commissare over it. I direct her to ensure that our children receive equitable patrimonies of suff icient worth to allow my daughters, Donata and Bianca Maria, to make their own decisions when they reach adulthood as to whether they will marry or enter convents. Likewise, my sons, Maffeo and Tomà, are to be provided with patrimonies suff icient to enable them both to marry, to carry on the family businesses, to enter new ventures as they see fit, and to fulf ill their obligations to the republic. May my beloved sons be as fortunate as I have been in having loving and capable spouses by their sides, and to my daughters, if they marry, I hope for the same.

  “As to my wife’s handling of my businesses, it is my strong suggestion that she accept the assistance I am sure will be forthcoming from Luca Barberigo and Andrea Corner. They are excellent businessmen whom I trust always to have the best interests of my wife and children at heart.”

  The solicitor was still talking, but Chiaretta could not take in anything more. Claudio had left it all—the houses, the partnership in the opera house, the veduta workshop, all of it—to her. And he had invited her to keep Andrea in her life.

  Did he know?

  The solicitor went on, but Chiaretta heard nothing more. As he folded and put away the will, Antonia and her husband got to their feet.

  “Will you be coming back with us?” Piero’s voice was hollow and stiff.

  The solicitor answered for her. “We need to talk alone for a while,” he said. “I’ll see that she gets home.”

  When they had left, the solicitor pulled out another piece of paper. “There was a codicil to the will,” he said. “It didn’t involve anyone else, so I thought I would share it with you privately. There is one more bequest, this one to the Pietà.”

  He took a deep breath before continuing. “Chiaretta, this is difficult to say. Your husband had another child, a daughter, by a courtesan who is well known here. She did not wish to raise the girl, so Claudio saw to her admission to the Pietà. He has watched over her as best he could, but her parentage has been kept a secret.”

  “How old is she?” Chiaretta whispered.

  “I believe she’s roughly the same age as your older daughter, perhaps a little older. I’m afraid I am not at liberty to tell you her name, or anything other than that she is a healthy girl, a figlia di commun.” He managed a brief smile. “Apparently not blessed with musical talent, but pretty enough. At any rate, the codicil provides an annual stipend for dowry enhancement, and you’ll need to see to the payment, since you are now the commissare.”

  He watched as Chiaretta sat staring at nothing. “I’m sorry, but I thought you needed to know.” He waited for her to speak, but she still did not respond. “Your husband was a remarkable man,” he went on, “perhaps a man of the future when it came to his confidence in you.” He picked up the codicil for emphasis. “He loved you. I hope the matter of the child doesn’t cause you to question that.”

  “No,” Chiaretta replied, coming back to the reality in the room. “No, it doesn’t. It’s just so strange to know there’s a girl at the Pietà who knows as little about where she came from as I do, and that I can’t tell her, or even know who she is.”

  “It’s the way he wished it. I’m sorry. I suppose if you insisted on looking at the records—”

  Chiaretta cut him off. “I intend to honor my husband. He has certainly honored me.”

  The solicitor’s face grew somber. “You’re going to need a great deal of help in many ways, not just now but for a long time. It isn’t easy for anyone to handle as much as Claudio did, and most of the people you’ll deal with are not used to listening to women.” He paused and then asked, “Do you plan to ask Andrea to help?”

  She noticed he mentioned only Andrea and not Luca. She searched for a delicate way to phrase what she wanted to ask. “Was my husband aware of... ?”

  Seeing her discomfort, the solicitor broke in. “Your relationship with Andrea?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I need to know before I decide whether to accept his assistance.”

  “He knew. And as much as a man can approve of such a thing, Claudio thought you had chosen well. I believe he was trying to say that to you in his will. And of course he also knew you would be learning a difficult secret about him.”

  He leaned forward. “Chiaretta, if you ever wonder if you were a good wife, or if any other woman competed for his heart, remember what he did for you today. You changed him. I think if he had married anyone else, it would be his brother stepping in to manage not only his estate but the rest of his wife’s and children’s lives as well. Instead, as of today, you are one of the most powerful women in Venice.”

  He let it sink in. “It isn’t going to be easy, but if you need me...”

  She had buried her face in her hands, mourning for her husband, for the season, the time, the hour, the moment, the beautiful country, and the place that had brought her such blessings and such pain.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  In spite of her failing condition, maddalena tried her best to pull herself out of bed to help Chiaretta, but even the simplest aspects of caring for the children and seeing to the household were too much for her. Her bones hurt so much she could not take a step without crying out, and even breathing had become difficult. She went back to her bed, ashamed
at the additional burden she was placing on her sister, and wishing death would come faster, to relieve them both.

  Chiaretta was so exhausted she was becoming frantic. Claudio’s associates came through the sala d’oro in a near steady stream, and though she had asked Luca to spend a good part of the day meeting with them to assess their concerns and to learn about Claudio’s business ventures, even his summaries at the end of the day required more attention than she had to give. Chiaretta had not only two children grieving for their father but twins less than one year old as well, whom she was determined to make as much a focus of her life as Donata and Maffeo had been. And on top of it, she was spending what she knew would be her last weeks with her sister.

  I can’t do it, Chiaretta thought. She cried every night, her tears soaking into her pillow. But every morning she got up and spoke pleasantly as Zuana did her hair and helped her into her dress.

  Over the years, Chiaretta had come to love Zuana, who was herself beginning to show the encroachment of age. Chiaretta then went in to see her sister. When Maddalena felt well enough, Chiaretta ordered a light breakfast for both of them, and while they waited she brushed her sister’s hair, fluffed her pillows, and helped her change her nightdress.

  After breakfast Chiaretta went to the nursery to find her twins. She talked and played with them for a while before going into the library to check on Donata and Maffeo, who were working with their tutor. Time for a pat on the shoulder and a kiss on the cheek was, more often than not, all she had before going off to spend the rest of the day attending meetings of the investors in the Teatro Sant’Angelo, the supervisors of the painting workshop, and others with whom her husband had done business.

  The evenings were for Donata and Maffeo, and after Chiaretta ate supper with them, they gathered in Maddalena’s room to play games and make music while Maddalena watched. Chiaretta sent the gondola to fetch Anna Maria at least once a week, but she always came alone. She had suggested bringing Benedetta and some of the other figlie, but Maddalena refused. Much as she would have loved to bask in their presence and their music one last time, Maddalena preferred that they not be burdened with a sad memory that might crowd out other happier ones.

  Chiaretta had still not resumed her relationship with Andrea. Her grief was too fresh for that. From time to time, Chiaretta invited Luca and Andrea to a family dinner, both out of gratitude for their support and because she wanted Maffeo to see the way noblemen acted. Both men had promised they would take Maffeo under their wings when he was a little older, to teach him what he could not learn at home—how to hunt, how to win at cards, and how to treat the women who were sure to fawn over him.

  As a woman, Chiaretta was not allowed to become a member of the Grand Council. Anything more to do and I would die, she thought, recognizing even more clearly how hard Claudio’s work had been. But she had one desire that would honor his memory as well as Maddalena’s: She wished to take Claudio’s place on the Congregazione of the Pietà. The priora at first sputtered at the thought. Although women ran the institution on a daily basis, the only woman who ever served on the board was the priora herself, and she was there more to be directed than to direct.

  Slowly, though, she warmed to what she came to see was a remarkable idea—a figlia di coro, now the head of one of the oldest noble families, returning to provide her unique perspective to the board. Though the Congregazione might squirm, the priora was now determined to see it happen. And so a compromise was struck. For many generations the Morosini family had contributed both large sums of money and service as directors of the institution. Maffeo was still too young to begin his involvement, and Chiaretta would serve as his representative until he reached his majority.

  “And by the time that happens,” the priora said in a private moment with Chiaretta, “who can tell?” Venetian attitudes were changing so fast that perhaps she would be invited to stay in her own right and Maffeo could find another cause. “Just as long as it isn’t the Mendicanti,” the priora added with a sly grin.

  Only one task remained unfinished, and as Maddalena slipped closer to death, Chiaretta knew she could not wait much longer. She ruined piece after piece of writing paper as she debated how to phrase the letter. And then one morning Maddalena was difficult to rouse, and Chiaretta saw a smear of blood on her pillow. No time remained to search for words. Chiaretta took the pen and wrote: “Come quickly. Maddalena is dying.”

  The letter reached Vivaldi in Mantua, where he was working on a new opera. Within a few days, he was standing in the portego of Ca’ Morosini.

  “Am I too late?” he asked.

  “No,” she told him. “But it won’t be much longer.”

  Vivaldi looked tired, beyond what might be expected of a middle-aged man after an unexpected and uncomfortable journey. Chiaretta heard his characteristic wheeze and asked, “Did you bring what you need if you are taken ill?”

  He pointed to a valise on the floor, next to his violin case. “Paolina packed what is required.”

  He saw a coldness come over Chiaretta’s face at the mention of Paolina Girò’s name. “It’s not true what they say about me,” he said, a bitter edge in his voice. “Rumormongers, all of them! They think nothing of ruining a man.”

  He inhaled and winced as if he were in pain. “I am a sick man. I need a nurse. Anna, on the other hand—” He shook his head and snorted. “Anna is a mistake I can’t seem to rid myself of.”

  Chiaretta stared at him, wanting to tell him how little she cared at the moment about his problems but not wishing to use the energy it would take to do so. She reached for his hand. “Thank you for coming,” she said.

  “I came straight here from the coach station. If you are concerned about your reputation, I can stay elsewhere.”

  Despite the tone of self-pity in his voice, Chiaretta looked again at the aging, vulnerable, unhappy man in front of her, and years of annoyance and anger lifted from her in a surge of memories so strong they overtook everything else she thought about him.

  “Let people talk,” she said. “You are an old friend.” Motioning to the servant to take his things, she hooked her arm in his and walked with him to the staircase.

  Though Vivaldi was a priest without a parish, he had been on hand from time to time to give the last rites to the dying. Even so, he recoiled in shock when he saw Maddalena, shrunk to almost nothing in the middle of the huge bed. She seemed to be sleeping, but when he moved across the room, she sensed the presence of someone and opened her eyes.

  Seeing Vivaldi as if through a thick mist, she murmured, “Did the bell ring? Am I late for my lesson?” She struggled to sit up. “I don’t have my violin! Chiaretta!”

  Chiaretta rushed to her sister’s side. “I’m here. Look who’s come to visit you!” She helped Maddalena sit up and brushed her hair out of her eyes. “It’s Don Vivaldi. He’s come from Mantua.”

  “Susana’s taken my bow. And I’m too sick to play.” Maddalena’s voice was barely audible even in the quiet room.

  “He hasn’t come for that. He’s here to visit you.”

  Vivaldi had moved closer to the bed. “Maddalena? Maddalena Rossa? It’s me.”

  “Maestro,” she murmured, then shut her eyes again and appeared to have fallen asleep.

  Chiaretta motioned Vivaldi to an empty chair in the corner, and after arranging Maddalena’s covers, she went to sit beside him.

  “She sleeps for hours from the laudanum. If you’d like to rest, I can show you to your room and call you later.”

  “Will you play something for me?” The request from the bed was so soft neither of them heard it the first time. Maddalena turned her head in the direction of their voices. “Play something.”

  Chiaretta hurried to the door to summon a servant to bring the violin from Vivaldi’s room. When it arrived, he pulled it out of its case and began playing the first bars he ever wrote for her.

  “Do you remember this?” he asked. “You were the third violinist, and the others were so an
gry.”

  A smile flitted across her lips.

  “And then there was this,” he said, launching into another piece he had written for her, twirling and pirouetting on the high strings before sliding down to the sad, low ones. “I remember them all,” he said, in a deep, choked voice.

  Maddalena’s eyes were shut again. “Do you want me to play something else?” Vivaldi asked.

  “Not now,” she murmured. “I need to sleep.”

  Vivaldi was exhausted as well, and both he and Chiaretta slept until early afternoon. She was woken by the nurse, who came in to tell her that Maddalena’s breathing was close to imperceptible and she was unresponsive even when shaken. Chiaretta sent word to Vivaldi, who arrived within minutes with a small bag and a breviary.

  “I brought what I needed to give her the last rites,” he said.

  Chiaretta looked at her sister, lying motionless in the bed.

  “You’d better start now.”

  Vivaldi crossed himself, and Chiaretta followed suit. “Pax huic domui,” he said.

  “Peace to this house and all in it,” Chiaretta replied.

  Vivaldi ran his finger over a few pages before continuing. “Lord, I am not worthy,” he began, “that thou shouldst come under my roof; but say the word only, and my soul shall be healed.” Hearing the familiar phrase, Maddalena stirred and opened her eyes.

  Vivaldi went to her. “Are you strong enough for the Eucharist?” She nodded, and he placed a piece of wafer between her lips. Then he pulled out a small vial of oil and anointed Maddalena’s eyelids, ears, nostrils, lips, and hands, saying a prayer over each. After he was done, he asked Chiaretta to help him pull the blanket from her feet, and he anointed each of them as well.