The Shakespeare Mask

by Newton Frohlich

  Lewyn returned a little past nine. Edward dressed, and together they walked to 6129 Campo Santa Maria Formosa, the palazzo of Domenico Venier, a senator, poet, and leader of the Venetian aristocracy.

  “How did you get the clothes so fast?”

  “From tailors in the Jewish ghetto,” Lewyn said. “This soiree is important, Edward. Venier’s hostess is his courtesan, Veronica Franco. To win France’s support in resisting the Moslem attack, the doge asked her to sleep with Henri on his way to his coronation. She obliged, and the next morning Henri agreed to contribute French boats. Veronica Franco is Venice’s heroine.”

  Edward was still laughing when they approached Venier’s palazzo. In front of the palazzo was a café, across the square Santa Maria Formosa. The voices of the choir drifted out of the open church door.

  “Lewyn, let’s rest here a moment, take some wine and enjoy the music.” He sat down. “What other stories have you gathered regarding our charming hostess?” He signaled the waiter for wine.

  “After Veronica Franco separated from her husband, she listed herself in the directory of Venice’s courtesans. It contains her address, her fee, and instructions to make all payments to her mother.”

  Edward chuckled. “A novel approach to prostitution.”

  “That’s because she’s not really a prostitute—at least, nothing like what we have in England, which here they call cortegiana di lume. She’s a courtesana onesta, or honest courtesan who is educated and musical as well as skilled in the art of love. Veronica Franco is the author of a volume of poetry and she’s founded a charity for courtesans and their children. It’s important that you treat her with the utmost respect.”

  “I can’t wait to meet her.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Lewyn hesitated. “Edward, Venetian custom requires Senator Venier to provide you with your own courtesan, not only for this evening but for the rest of your stay in Italy. He won’t know you don’t engage in extramarital relations, so you’ll have to make that clear to him.”

  Edward looked across the square.

  “Isn’t the tenor in that choir remarkable?”

  “Santa Maria Formosa’s a Catholic church, Edward. Did you hear what I said?”

  “Don’t worry, Lewyn.” He stood and clapped him on the back. “Let’s go inside.”

  Venier’s palazzo was small compared with English palaces. In the salon on the second floor, fifty guests assembled to greet the senator. Edward took his place at the end of the line.

  Venier, gray-haired and ailing, stood at the other end of the room, leaning on the arm of a woman with closely cropped brown hair tipped with gold. Veronica Franco, Edward assumed.

  Then he saw the young woman beside her.

  She didn’t look older than nineteen. She had lush black hair, sparkling dark eyes, and ivory skin. She was smiling, her eyes lighted like candles. He lost himself in the curve of her shoulders, the full breasts and hips, the small waist.

  Before he knew it, he was facing her.

  “Milord Oxford, may I present Virginia Padoanna?”

  “Pleased to meet you, signorina.” He felt Lewyn’s gaze burn on his neck. What did he want him to do, dismiss her? “Your family name suggests you’re from Padua. Am I correct?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “You say my lord as if I were a king.”

  That smile again. “I’ll address you any way you wish.”

  “How about Edward?”

  “Hello, Edward.”

  “Hello, Virginia.”

  Hearing Lewyn cough behind him, he quickly greeted Venier and Veronica Franco. Venier lifted a glass of wine and proposed a toast to his courtesan Veronica Franco and her new book of poems, one of which she recited in a clear voice at his request. Edward thought it rather a good poem—certainly the audience did, applauding enthusiastically—but he had trouble concentrating on it, his head was full of Virginia. She had drifted closer, standing just a few feet away—close enough for him to smell her scent and hear the rustle of her gown.

  “Sei bella,” he said.

  “Thank you, but Veronica’s the beautiful one. Tintoretto painted her portrait, not mine.”

  “Only because you’re young. Soon, there won’t be a painter in Venice who’ll be able to resist you.”

  A waiter passed by with hors d’oeuvres. They each took a shrimp.

  “I understand the theater season hasn’t yet concluded,” Edward said. “I’m eager to observe commedia dell’arte.”

  “For that, you must go to Mantua—Leone de Sommi’s academy is the center of commedia dell’arte. Venice’s theater is mostly masques and carnival for the masses.”

  “Is Mantua far?”

  “After Padua, you take the canal to Verona. Mantua’s just a short ride south from there.”

  “I’m a stranger to this area,” he said. “I don’t suppose—”

  She smiled. “I’d be pleased to guide you.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  Later that evening, he told Lewyn he intended to escort Virginia home.

  “Not a good idea, my friend.”

  “Lewyn, the streets are dark. I have no choice.”

  “Venice has night police!”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said. “Tell Baxter and Russell I expect to hear good news about a palazzo. I’ll need one for at least a year.”

  “A year?”

  “I have much to do in Italy. Venice will be my base.” He patted Lewyn on the back and walked away.

  Virginia was waiting for him at the door. She’d removed her shoes—very high heels and soles were the fashion—and put on clogs. He offered her his arm and they strolled across the square.

  “Do you live far?”

  “By the Canale di Cannaregio at Campo San Geremia.”

  As they walked, he savored the silence. Normally he felt compelled to fill such a void with conversation, which he found tiresome. This was a comfortable silence, one that filled itself with the quiet sounds of their footsteps.

  She stopped in front of a narrow four-story house. Across the square stood a large structure, perhaps an old factory.

  “This is where I live.”

  “What’s that over there?”

  “The ghetto. Only Jews live there—the gates are locked at sunset and aren’t opened until sunrise.”

  “They lock them up like prisoners?”

  “Most cities don’t allow Jews to live within their walls. Venice only granted them permission sixty years ago. At first they weren’t forced to live anywhere, they only had to limit their occupations. It was lending money that caused them to be confined.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Christians believed lending money was a sin, but when they needed money, they borrowed it from Jews. Soon Christians decided to lend money, too—and to minimize competition, they made the Jews live in the ghetto.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about them.”

  “Their situation’s similar to a woman’s. Veronica Franco wrote about that, and the male writers complained to the Inquisition.”

  “They sound like our Puritan zealots.” He smiled and then hesitated. “Virginia, … may I kiss you?”

  “Outside? Of course not.”

  His face fell.

  She smiled and unlocked her door. “But inside, yes.”

  What followed was a night he would never—could never—forget.

  It was as if he discovered what a man and a woman were intended for. Why had it taken it taken him so long to find out? The closest his mother had come to affection was to place him in the arms of a governess. The only other times he’d known a woman’s touch had been that afternoon with his queen and the one devastating night with his wife.

  He’d never known that sensuality like this existed.

  Virginia’s body yielded. Her smile warmed. She was passionate, tender, playful. Afterward, when they were lying in her bed, her head on his shoulder, her hair on his chest, it was
as if she’d always been there.

  The next morning they ate breakfast in the kitchen downstairs, next to a salon where somebody was playing a virginal. She said the doge granted her the top two floors of the building.

  While a maid cleared the dishes and put fresh linens on the bed, he took Virginia aside and offered to pay.

  “Last night wasn’t business.”

  His heart skipped. “What was it, then?”

  “I’m not sure.” She touched his cheek. “You’re a writer and so am I. Let’s call it a writers’ meeting.”

  He laughed.

  “I saw you looking at Tintoretto and Veronese,” she said. “I’m sorry I didn’t know them well enough to introduce you, but I do know Tiziano. Would you like to meet him?”

  “How do you know Titian?”

  “He loves only three things besides painting: books, and food, and women.”

  He clenched his fists and then forced himself to relax. He’d no right to be jealous. “Would you take me to him?”

  “I’ll send him a message. He doesn’t live far.” She kissed his cheek and walked him to the door. “If he can’t receive us, I’ll send you a note. Otherwise, please collect me at five.”

  He returned to the embassy to learn that Baxter and Russell had found a palazzo.

  “On Vicus Sagittarius!” Baxter said.

  “The owners of the palazzo fled the plague?” Edward said.

  “They died. The lawyer says he’ll have it scrubbed. And it’s half a block—”

  “From San Marco Square?” Edward said.

  “How’d you know?”

  “Everything seems to be.” He grinned. “I’m going to Mantua tomorrow, but I’ll be back in a few weeks. As soon as I return we’ll move in. Tell the lawyer we’ll need it for at least a year—”

  “Sorry, old man,” Russell said. “You can only have it till March. There’s a buyer already lined up.”

  He’d been here only a day and already he never wanted to leave. Of course, there was still his mission to Greece and Constantinople.

  “No matter. Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I have another request. Please find a banker named Baptista Negrone. I’m told his brother is his correspondent banker in London. I must borrow five hundred crowns. I don’t know how much that palazzo costs, but after paying the rent and traveling, I’ll need money.”

  “Delighted.” Baxter turned to Russell. “Aren’t we, William?”

  “Indeed. Edward, Nathaniel and I want you to know how much we appreciate your taking us along. We’ve fallen in love with Venice.”

  “So have I, gentlemen.”

  He looked around, but Lewyn was nowhere to be seen.

  Edward got lost in the winding streets on the way to Virginia’s house. But helpful passersby directed him, and eventually he found Campo Germenia.

  There she was, seated just inside the open door, reading a book.

  “I was beginning to worry,” she said. “I’ll leave my clogs here—we’ll go faster without them.”

  When they reached Titian’s house, the painter answered the door himself.

  Edward liked him at once. His long, narrow nose and bushy white beard reminded him of Sir Thomas.

  Titian greeted Virginia with a quick kiss.

  Edward decided his beard was absurd.

  Titian led them to his atelier, two stories high with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Grand Canal. The artist was a rich man—not surprising considering all the portraits he’d painted of the world’s rulers. But hanging on one wall he saw a different kind of painting.

  It seemed to depict the affair of Venus and Adonis, but the woman was nothing like the Venus of classical Greece. Titian had depicted her as older, aggressive, and lusty, reaching for an adolescent Adonis in a hunter’s bonnet. Adonis held a javelin, twisting away from Venus’ grasp while Cupid looked on sadly from a corner of the painting.

  Tiziano returned, carrying a tray with a carafe of wine, three glasses, and a bowl of olives. He glanced at the painting, then at Edward.

  “You like?”

  “Very much.”

  “I painted five or six of Venus and Adonis,” he said. “This is the only one that varies from Ovid’s version of the myth.”

  “Why did you alter it?”

  “King Philip of Spain commissioned the painting after he wed Bloody Mary. When he returned to Spain, he took it with him. It’s here for—how do you say?—a touch-up.”

  Walking back to Virginia’s house, they held hands—she said she felt shy in the daylight, but now it was dark.

  “Edward, are you sure you want me to travel with you to Mantua?”

  He’d been expecting her to tell him she’d changed her mind. “Of course I want you with me,” he said. “I’m going to Mantua to learn commedia dell’arte from the master, and I want to go there with the most beautiful, intelligent woman I’ve ever met.”

  “When you return to Venice, you’ll write plays about everything you see, from the beaches on the Adriatic to the temples in Sicily to the magic of the Aeloian Islands.”

  “You’ll be my guide through all those places?”

  “As long as you promise to write about them.”

  “I promise.” He looked up to the night sky. “And I’ll finally write my version of Venus and Adonis. Thanks to Titian, I now know what to say.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will when I have the courage to tell you.”

  After they parted, he walked back to the embassy. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but not that Titian in painting Venus and Adonis had depicted the Queen of England and her subject Edward de Vere.

  All the world’s a stage,

  And all the men and women merely players:

  They have their exits and their entrances;

  And one man in his time plays many parts.

  Shakespeare

  As You Like It

  Before they reached Mantua, they had to survive Verona.

  Edward and Virginia were sitting on a bench by the canal that ran from Verona to Milan, waiting for the next passenger boat. Edward wondered if he should have rented fresh horses for the last leg of the trip instead of purchasing them.

  “I spend too freely,” he said. “Before Italy I never cared about money—now there are so many things I want to do with it.”

  “Travel makes us see things in a different light.”

  “I think I’d like to buy a palazzo,” he said. “I could live here, write …” He glanced at her. “But the queen controls my lands. Until I buy them back, I could never afford it.”

  “You’re a creature of England,” she said. “Won’t you miss it? All your work is inspired by England’s history.”

  “I am writing plays about England’s history, but I also want to write about Italy. I saw some things in Verona that inspired me.”

  “Such as?”

  “Remember that girl brushing her hair in front of the window? I’ll add that. Little details give a play verisimilitude.”

  “Plutarch’s rule.”

  “You know it?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d also like to write a play set in Venice, something about the Jews. We Englishmen know so little of them.”

  “Would that interest people?”

  “I think so, but even if it doesn’t, they ought to learn. And, well, I should be able to make any character interesting, whatever the background.”

  In Mantua, he spied a grove of trees. Virginia unpacked the lunch he’d bought in Verona while he stretched out on the grass and made notes.

  “Lewyn didn’t approve of my going with you,” he said.

  She raised a brow. “Because I’m a cortegiana onesta?”

  “He disapproves of all infidelity.”

  “How will you manage him?”

  “I won’t even try—I respect him too much.” Edward tossed aside his notes and stretched out. “Besides, he’ll get over it. He always does. And he gave
me an idea for a play.”

  “About what?”

  “Two best friends fall in love with two women, then become angry with each other for being disloyal. To preserve their friendship, one offers to give his woman to the other.”

  She turned back to their lunch and set out some plates. “You’d treat women like chattel?”

  “Of course I wouldn’t, but it happens all the time—and it’s not just women, you know. Men treat each other that way, too.” He shook his head. “England’s raw.”

  “So is Italy.”

  He looked up. There was a tightness in her voice.

  “Edward, a rich father in Venice keeps his wealth intact by investing only in the dowry of his eldest daughter. The others are forced to enter a convent or become a courtesan onesta. There are thousands of courtesans in Venice.” She looked away. “A man has many options.”

  “One day, my plays will be performed at court,” he said. “Maybe they’ll strike a chord, encourage people to think differently. My uncle’s the Lord Chamberlain, in charge of the queen’s entertainment, so they’re sure to be seen.”

  “Venier said you were the Lord Chamberlain.”

  “No. I’m the Lord High Chamberlain. It’s a ceremonial position—I carry the canopy over the queen’s head on state occasions.”

  She shrugged.

  This was harder than he’d imagined. He thought she’d be pleased. Perhaps if he bought her something? He adored Virginia even more than Italy itself.

  The silence stretched out.

  “Didn’t you love walking in the footsteps of da Vinci?” he said. “He was born just outside Verona, you know.”

  “I was born in Verona.”

  Stupid—she didn’t need a lecture from him. He cast about for something else.

  “What haunts me, even more than the Roman arena, is the Lazaretto. Imagine if your parents were diagnosed with the plague—your whole family quarantined in that compound by San Lorenzo’s Well and left to die. That mass grave must be the largest in Italy.” He reached for his pen. “I think I’ll write about that as well.”