The Lover's Path: An Illustrated Novella of Venice

by Kris Waldherr

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter I - Grace

  Chapter II - Fortune

  Chapter III - Desire

  Chapter IV - Deception

  Chapter V - Awakening

  Chapter VI - Passion

  Chapter VII - Love

  About the Museo

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Books and Apps by Kris Waldherr

  Copyright

  INTRODUCTION

  Sixteenth-century Venice was a rich mélange of cultural influences arising from the steady interaction of intellectuals, artists, diplomats, travelers, and merchants. Yet this liberal world offered women few roles to aspire to outside of wife, mother, and nun. Those able to transcend conventional boundaries succeeded only as a result of extraordinary talent, beauty, or wealth.

  This book was written by one such woman—a woman brave enough to let her voice resound at a time when most of her gender lived silent, restricted lives. It is dedicated to another woman, a generous and powerful patroness who had won the author’s trust. And now it is offered to you.

  We at the Museo di Palazzo Filomela are pleased to present the first English language publication of The Lover’s Path (La Via dell’Amante), written in 1543 by the Palazzo’s most noted resident, the musician Filamena Ziani.

  Filamena Ziani (1510–1567) sang at a time when ensembles of professional female singers, called concerto della donne, would begin to gain favor at courts throughout Italy. She had the good fortune to live in Venice, which by the mid-sixteenth century ranked as the most important musical city in Europe. In acknowledgement of her musical gifts, Ziani was known to her contemporaries as La Filomela; filomela is the Italian poetic word for nightingale.

  Ziani dedicated The Lover’s Path to her patroness Felicita Lando, the daughter of the Doge of Venice. Sumptuary laws enacted in 1543 contributed to Ziani’s decision to publish The Lover’s Path in 1544. Some of these laws prohibited women who chose unconventional lives from wearing pearls and other luxury items in public, thus condemning them as prostitutes. This situation made it urgent for Ziani, as a female performer, to protect herself and her livelihood by definitely establishing her role as a respected musician in Venetian society. Written partly in response to gossip about the author’s past, The Lover’s Path takes the form of an extended confession recounting the fiaba, or fairy tale, of a young woman’s forbidden love. Woven within Ziani’s narrative are illustrations of famous lovers, their archetypal stories serving as allegorical commentary upon her personal experiences.

  Because of its sensitive subject matter, The Lover’s Path was quickly suppressed upon publication. Despite this, the book protected Ziani’s reputation as a musician; her fame grew beyond her native city. A German traveler wrote in a 1547 letter, “The fashion in Venice is to brag of how one wept upon hearing La Filomela sing. Some believe this is a sign of a pure heart.” Ziani’s talents accrued her enough wealth to purchase the building comprising the Palazzo Filomela, where she resided until her death in 1567.

  The Lover’s Path achieved wider recognition in the mid-nineteenth century, when the Palazzo Filomela was opened to the public as a museum and Ziani’s book, along with many of her personal artifacts, were exhibited for the first time. John Ruskin visited the Palazzo Filomela during an extended stay in Venice while writing The Stones of Venice, and was inspired by the woman who wrote and sung so persuasively of lost love. The opera composer Richard Wagner, who lived in the nearby Palazzi Giustinian as he worked on the second act of Tristan and Isolde, was intrigued by Ziani’s invocation of that story in The Lover’s Path.

  Despite this resurgence of interest, Ziani’s name has suffered the fate of many female artists of the Italian Renaissance. She has been forgotten, and her work neglected, except by those who chance upon her former home at the Museo di Palazzo Filomela.

  The theme of love transcends time. This has made our work of adapting The Lover’s Path for modern audiences an uncomplicated and joyful labor.

  The book design for this edition was inspired by the 1544 publication. Several illustrations have been adapted from tarot cards in the Museo’s collection. Others were inspired by the frescoes adorning the interior of the Museo di Palazzo Filomela, which Ziani commissioned for the main hall. These illustrations replace the woodcuts used in the original edition. Other art was adapted from a travel journal reputed to have been one of Ziani’s favorite possessions. A partial museum catalog appears at the end of this volume.

  It is our hope that this new edition of The Lover’s Path will free the nightingale from her cage to sing for a new generation.

  —MARINA ROSSETTI

  Curator, Museo di Palazzo Filomela

  Dorsoduro, Venice

  HERE BEGINS THE LOVER’S PATH

  IN WHICH JOY AND SORROW

  ARE JOINED AS

  ONE.

  LIFE IMPRISONS ME. I YEARN FOR FREEDOM.

  A caged nightingale witnessed an angel’s flight upon the lover’s path. Desperate for escape, the nightingale promised to love him forever if would free her. Beguiled by her song, the angel unlocked her cage. Together they flew into the heavens, the nightingale’s music coaxing the angel ever higher. Alas, the angel did not notice when he drew too close to the sun, and his wings caught fire. Unable to save himself, he plunged into the sea. But not all was lost: the nightingale flew away, captive no more.

  Dedication to

  my Revered Patroness Felicita Lando

  upon the occasion of her marriage on January 15, 1543

  by her Loyal Musician

  Filamena Ziani.

  Most Esteemed Lady, I offer you this book in honor of the gracious consideration and infinite generosity you have shown me for these many years. Within these pages, you will find at last revealed the fiaba of the lover’s path, which so many have spoken of as the story of the nightingale and the angel. I pray, modest as my tale may be, that it will express my gratitude for the kindnesses you have shown me, as well as my joy in your new union. I also hope it will reveal that which I know to be true: to truly love another, you must follow the lover’s path wherever it may take you.

  THE GRACE OF LOVE REVEALS THE PATH

  Beatrice was only nine years old the first time the poet Dante saw her, he slightly older. As they grew into adulthood, he often sought out Beatrice, too stricken by love to do anything beyond stare at her from afar. But one night as he slept, he dreamt of a walled garden surrounded by water. Within this garden, Amor, the fiery god of love, appeared to Dante holding Beatrice wrapped in a red cloak. Inspired by this vision, Dante resolved to spend the remainder of his life honoring his beloved with deeds and poems.

  The fiaba of the lover’s path begins almost two decades ago as the story of two sisters, alike as doves in appearance, but different as water and wine in temperament and experience.

  At that time, dear Patroness, I was only a girl of sixteen. For as long as I could remember, my sister Tullia and I lived in a palazzo set in Venice, a labyrinth of a city where we heard the sea murmur its music day and night. This palazzo was furnished by my sister through her extraordinary talents and beauty. It glittered with golden mosaics, and was graced with sumptuous paintings and intricate tapestries. Within this palazzo we were aided by servants who felt genuine affection for us. Among them were Caterina, who was Tullia’s ruffiana—her procuress and confidant—and Caterina’s daughter Laura, who was my playmate as well as my maid. And it was there in this palazzo that I bent to my sister’s rule, a sapling recognizing the sun’s sovereignty.

  As I write of Tullia, I will try not t
o be harsh. I know many have called her a mysterious beauty, cool in the use of her considerable intelligence and allure. In all honesty, my sister was as elusive to me as she was to others. Nonetheless, I hope time has bestowed upon me a measure of wisdom as I remind myself of her unavoidable influence upon me. After all, Tullia was my first vision in this life. My earliest memory is of her bending over to soothe me as I sobbed the inconsolable tears of childhood, her blonde hair a dazzle of light around a divinity. Unlike most children, my first word was not madre or padre. It was sorella, sister, in honor of Tullia, for our parents had drowned a year after my birth, leaving my sister as the elder of us by fourteen years to raise and provide for me.

  Despite her reputation as the most illustrious courtesan in Venice, Tullia shielded my eyes from the carnal nature of love; I saw little that would make a nun blush. But she educated me in other ways. She taught me to read and write in Italian and Latin, a priceless gift bestowed upon few women, for which I am forever grateful. She also tutored me in the art of music, for which I quickly showed love and aptitude. My precocious talents soon won me the affectionate soprannome, or nickname, of la filomela—the nightingale.

  If it was because of my sister that I had an active mind, a voice to sing, food to eat, and a roof over my head, it was also because of my sister I was made to stay inside my home after I turned twelve. Noting that I was of an age where men might approach me because of her profession, Tullia did not allow me to leave the palazzo unless I was dressed plainly and accompanied by an elder servant. These occasions arose less and less frequently as time passed. No matter how much I begged for freedom, Tullia ignored my pleas. She would explain to me in patient tones that my isolation was necessary. It was her hope that, in time, people would see me as a gentlewoman separate from her, rather than as the sister of a courtesan. This was small consolation, for the loneliness that colored my hours felt unending. At sixteen, I was of an age when most young women had already married and borne children, or entered a convent to do God’s work. For myself there was nothing—only an abstract promise that might be fulfilled in the future if my sister willed it so.

  When I think of this period in my life, I give praise to music. Music helped me survive then, just as it does now, thanks to the generosity of you, my esteemed Patroness.

  What else do I remember about my life at that time? Sometimes when I was alone in my room, I would drop a feather from my window into the wind. I’d watch it float away into the sea for as long as it remained visible, imagining the places it might reach—faraway lands I wished I could visit one day, unnamed countries I could only imagine.

  I also recall the brightness of gold ducats and of my sister’s hair. The insistent chatter of baby sparrows clustered about my feet as I sang inside the walled garden behind our palazzo. The precious show of sun upon my face. The spicy perfume of oranges from our garden. The briny smell of the sea on warm summer afternoons. The starched linen of my plain brown cloak against my young, tender skin—the cloak that hid me from others’ eyes on the increasingly rare occasions when I ventured into the world. Most of all, I remember the confusion of innocence, gratitude, anger, and guilt that infused my emotions toward the sister I loved so deeply yet resented.

  Now as I look back, I think Tullia truly wished our fiaba of two sisters to remain as it was forever—to divert time like water from its path. But this, of course, was impossible. To preserve my innocence, a courtesan such as my sister would have had to layer restriction upon restriction as if they were blankets upon a winter bed. While she may have thought she was protecting me from the bitter cold, she only made the snow outside my window look all the more enticing.

  I began to think of escape.

  In the May of 1526, I celebrated my sixteenth birthday, still trapped within my home by my sister’s will. By then, it had been over three months since I’d last set foot outside our palazzo beyond the walled garden. Shortly after my birthday came La Sensa, the annual celebration marking the marriage of Venice to the sea. Despite the deadly illness that had taken so many lives earlier that spring, my sister still held her infamous feast. Many considered this unseemly, but Tulla’s La Sensa celebration was necessary to solidify her standing and desirability in society. It was for this event that she would compose a poem praising the powers of love and set it to music; I would perform this song to the accompaniment of her lute.

  I looked forward to these recitals as a prisoner yearns to glimpse the first anemones of spring from her jail window. I loved the intense study involved in mastering new music as much as I loved the transfixed attention of my sister’s guests as I sang for them. While I did not otherwise participate in Tullia’s entertainments—she would not allow me, for by morning’s wake these celebrations often disintegrated into private ones of a more sensual sort—after I finished singing, I would watch from the back of the musicians’ gallery, set high on the wall of the great hall. I was careful not to let the candlelight reveal me as I eagerly spied upon the world forbidden to me.

  However, by the spring of my sixteenth year, my joy in music was tempered with steely resolve: I would use my music to free myself from my sister.

  Though over two decades have passed since this night, I still remember how I sat inside my chamber the evening of the feast, trying with little success to calm my trilling nerves. Caterina had confided that a great cardinal was coming to La Sensa, one reputed to especially love music. I would perform for him and more than one hundred guests. He would hear me sing. Perhaps I could gain his favor, like so many musicians before me. He could champion my art, bring me to court. I would become a virtuosa, a great musician, and make my way in the world.

  As I prepared for La Sensa, I felt the weight of the hopes I dared not express to anyone but myself. My maid, Laura, helped me dress. I braided my hair. As I twisted it into a knot upon my neck, a sinuous perfume curled about me. Lilies, roses, vanilla....

  “Like two doves are we,” Tullia announced softly, standing behind me as I stared at myself in the mirror. “Both light and serene.”

  I exhaled her perfume and looked up. The mirror reflected two golden-haired sisters with grey eyes. One wore a simple gown the color of cream, her braided hair bare of ornaments; the other, red brocade embroidered with silver thread, the full sleeves of her dress slashed with silver ribbon, her curls woven with pearls. I felt as plain as Tullia was beautiful. A sparrow next to a bird of paradise.

  “I know you’ll sing your loveliest tonight, my sweet nightingale,” she said. “Though I remain uncertain how wise it is to allow you....”

  I couldn’t bear to answer; I feared any protest would invite attention to what I most desired. My heart sped as my sister curved her long neck, so much like mine, to rest her soft cool cheek against my shoulder. Could she guess my thoughts? Apparently not, for she only smiled at our reflections in the mirror.

  “Shall we?” she asked after smoothing my hair. “The hour is late.”

  Tullia took my hand to lead me to the musicians’ gallery, where I was to remain unseen though not unheard. I followed her, cold with desperation.

  Once I was settled in my perch above the great hall, I looked down onto the celebration already underway. I stared at the cardinal, resplendent in his scarlet robes as he held court before my sister’s guests, willing his eyes toward mine. Though the hall was full, there were fewer guests than usual, no doubt because of the sickness that still lingered in Venice; this illness cruelly struck the rich and poor, as well as the young and old, without discrimination. Some wore large-nosed masks of gold and silver, as if they could deceive death by hiding their identities. Others, their faces bared, were less cautious. Dressed in costly silks and velvets, they milled about the large wood and marble table set in the center of the great hall. Gracing the table were some of the voluptuous offerings for which my sister’s celebrations were famed: platters of fowl and fish and bread, with rose petals arranged like a ruddy snowfall around each dish; rare fruits preserved in cordial, nuts gli
stening in honey, and numerous silver flasks of wine.

  Upon my sister’s cue, servants extinguished half the candles, plunging the room into a golden dusk. Everyone fell silent with anticipation.

  Tullia rose and greeted her guests with a graceful speech. Then she looked up at me, hidden in the musician’s gallery, and nodded.

  As she plucked the strings of her lute, my voice soared forth. Though I sang of love, I did not think of love. How little I understood of it then! Instead, I stared toward the cardinal, and tried to remember all my sister had taught: how to sing with a tremble in my throat; to clasp my hands and tilt my head in such a way to mimic rapture. Soon I felt the joy that music brought me, a freedom I could not find any other way in my life at that time.

  Yet, as I sang, my gaze locked with the dark eyes of a young man unknown to me. He was seated beside the cardinal, his expression unreadable. Despite the dimness of the room, it seemed as though light clung to him. Although he was not the youngest of the company present that night, he was certainly not past twenty years of age. As I took him in, time seemed to slow and the air turn to water. I had the sense I’d been split into two: one part of me singing, the other examining his form. He was tall and slim, his long limbs still careless with youth. Wavy hair as dark as his eyes reached the shoulder of his deep crimson doublet, framing his wide forehead like a tarnished halo. His face, while not quite what some would consider handsome, expressed an intelligence far more compelling than beauty, and a yearning intensity accompanied by an anger I recognized too well in myself.

  I still do not know how I shaped each note with my lips. His sharp gaze burned like salt water on a wound. To escape it, I turned from him, back toward the cardinal upon whom all my hopes were centered.