“Is everything grist for your mill?”
He blinked. “You don’t approve?”
She looked away, over the rolling hills. “My family is buried in the Lazaretto.”
He sat up, reached for her. She didn’t turn, and he let his hand fall.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know… . How did you escape their fate? ”
“I was visiting my cousins in Mantua. Afterward, my aunt and uncle there took care of me.”
He reached for her again, and this time she leaned into his touch.
“I also lost my father,” he said. “He was poisoned by a man who wanted his property.”
She turned to face him.
“Your father was murdered? How you must have suffered?”
“You suffered, too.” He took her hand.
“I’ve never met a man like you,” she said. “I know businessmen who are single-minded about their work and artists who are dreamy-eyed. But you’re driven as well as dreamy—the best of both.”
“You understand me after such a short time,” he said. “You’re right—my work is everything.” He held her gaze. “Almost everything.”
He longed to say more—that he loved her, that she filled and fulfilled him, that he wanted her to come back to England with him—but she knew he had a wife. He had so much to tell and was afraid to lose her in the telling.
“Come,” she said. “It’s time we moved on.”
They sat in the waiting room outside Leone de Sommi’s studiolo in Mantua, drinking wine and waiting. The assistant to the academy’s director said Leone was in a rehearsal and couldn’t be disturbed.
Since the picnic, they’d ridden in silence. For years he’d brooded about his father’s death—now, for the first time, he thought about how others had suffered, just as much and perhaps more than he had. He vowed to be a better observer—if he couldn’t empathize with others, how could he hope to infuse his plays with feeling?
“Virginia,” he said, “what did your aunt and uncle say when you told them you intended to be a courtesan?”
“They were pleased. The alternative was worse—I wanted to be an actress.” She shrugged. “They had no money for a dowry and actors make next to nothing. As a courtesan I had a chance to be independent, even rich.”
“Do you regret not becoming an actress?”
“Wait till you meet Leone.” She smiled. “Then you tell me.”
“Women aren’t even allowed to act in England,” he said. “Boys play the female roles.”
She laughed. “No wonder your Puritans are agitated.”
He was laughing, too, when the clerk returned.
“The duke will be here tomorrow, milord. I would give you a tour of his art but he insists on showing it to visiting noblemen himself. He’s very proud of his family’s acquisitions. ”
Virginia smiled. “He hides the best ones in his bedroom.”
Edward glanced at her, frowning.
“Signor Leone won’t be much longer, milord,” the clerk said. “He hasn’t eaten since breakfast.”
As soon as the clerk left, Edward took Virginia’s hand. “I’m sorry I was so gauche about the Lazaretto.”
“You didn’t know.”
He was making notes when Leone de Sommi arrived in the waiting room, white hair flying, black robes swirling, script pages flapping.
“Milord, my deepest apologies,” he said in English. “Did my assistant explain?”
“Yes, and I fully understand, signor.” Edward rose. “I believe you know Signorina Padoanna.”
Leone kissed her on the forehead. “Virginia’s like a daughter to me. When she declined a life on the stage, I lost the privilege of training a great actress.”
She smiled. “How are you, Leone?”
“As well as an old man of fifty can be. And you are more lovely every time I see you, which is not often enough. How are things in Venice?”
“Very busy.”
Of course she’d be busy.
“And Veronica, and my friend Vernier?” Leone said.
“Worried—the Inquisition has Veronica in its clutches. Jealous writers stop at nothing to preserve their position.”
“Don’t despair, Vernier will protect her.” Leone wiped his brow. “It’s very warm. Shall we take the juice of the lemon tree?”
They followed Leone into his office, a large room illuminated by windows that overlooked one of the lakes. The tables were laden with scripts and books, the walls lined with more books.
Leone collapsed in the leather armchair behind his desk, propped his slippered feet on a stack of scripts, and waved them toward an overstuffed sofa along the wall. Edward took a seat, and Virginia settled in close beside him.
Leone poured lemon juice from an earthenware pitcher into goblets made of Venetian glass and set the glasses on the table between them.
“Help yourselves, please. It’s sweetened.”
“Signor, I understand you wrote the play you’re rehearsing. What’s it about?”
“It’s my newest, milord. I call it Gli Sconoscinti, which means—”
“ ‘The unknown.’ ”
“You speak Italian?”
“I do.”
“Thank God! Now I won’t have to break my teeth speaking English. Hebrew’s my mother tongue, Italian I’ve acquired. Two languages are enough for one old man.”
“Leone, don’t call yourself old.” Virginia leaned across the desk and touched his hand. Edward wished she weren’t so free with her touches, and then he stopped the thought. He loved her generosity of spirit, which naturally made her physically affectionate.
“Milord, the doge’s representative in Paris wrote me he attended a reading of The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth. How clever to alternate comedy and history scenes. I must try that.”
Edward smiled. “I’ve been hearing about the interesting things you do here, signor. I’d like to see a performance or two of plays that use the commedia dell’arte technique. We have nothing like it in London.”
“It’s not so original as you might think, milord. In Siena, a stained glass window in the duomo depicts the seven ages of man: the infant, the schoolboy, the soldier, the old man, and so forth. That’s probably where we got the idea.”
Leone reached across the desk and patted Virginia’s hand. “This young lady would have been the heroine in all my commedia dell’arte plays. What a future she had.”
“Leone, please. I made my choice.”
“You can always change your mind, my dear. Your Leone waits for you, arms wide.”
“Thank you, but my place is with Veronica.”
“What a woman our Virginia is!” He shook his head. “It’s not enough she must make her way alone in a harsh world—she must also fight for all women.”
“Signor, a woman rules my country, but she receives no respect unless she plays the virgin.”
Leone laughed—a genuine from-the-belly laugh.
“Your Elizabeth is a greater actress than my Virginia.”
Edward felt the heat in his face. He turned from them and glanced around the room. “Signor, how long has your academy been in existence?”
“Thirteen years, milord. Almost every town of size has some sort of theatrical academy now, but Mantua’s was the first. Federico’s father, Don Cesare Gonzaga, founded ours—he fancied himself a playwright. He’s in heaven now and has thankfully left the writing of plays to others more suited to the challenge, but his Academy of the Enamored grows from strength to strength.”
“Signor, forgive me if I offend, but something’s been troubling me.” He paused. “I thought Jews had to wear a badge, yet you seem to be exempt.”
“The duke protects me. He did try to have me formally exempted, but too many objected. So I told him, ‘Federico, I can live with insult so long as I have your personal dispensation.’ And I do.”
“Please tell me more about the academy.”
“We have a master of dance, Isacchino Mass
arano, and a Flemish composer who is our master of musical instruments. Their presence leaves me free to write—comedies, tragedies, a poem in defense of women. But closest to my heart is my book, Dialogues of the Theater.”
“I’d love to read it. I was saddened to hear it remains unpublished.”
“I’m afraid the cost of printing fifty volumes is too great. I could ask the duke, but I don’t like to go to the well too often. I’d rather he save his money for the academy.”
“I’d love to see one of your plays as well.”
“Of course! Tomorrow night my students are performing The Three Sisters of Mantua, a tragedy about a marquis’s daughters that’s based on a true story.”
“How long has your family been in Mantua?” Edward said.
“Seventy-five years, milord. Those who didn’t burn in the fires of the Spanish Inquisition were expelled by King Fernando and Queen Isabella. The Duke of Mantua welcomed two hundred of us. Today, we are two thousand.”
At dinner Edward couldn’t take his eyes off Virginia. The black gown she wore made her hair shine like the plumage of some exquisite bird. Still, the most wondrous thing about her was her smile. He felt he could watch her smile for hours.
He took her to bed immediately upon reaching their room. He was so passionate he had no control over himself and worried at first that he might offend her, but she only matched his enthusiasm. There was no end to the things she showed him—she made Romano’s book of love sketches seem like a primer.
Afterward, she put her head on his shoulder as she had that first night in Venice.
“Edward, tell me about your queen.”
He stroked her hair. “Before my one night with her, I’d never been with a woman. I was twenty-two, married a year, and hadn’t even slept with my wife. Nan and I grew up together—she was like a sister to me.”
“I understand.”
If she really did, she was the first.
“A year after the wedding, the queen invited me to a country house,” he said. “Before I knew it she’d got me in bed with her. It wasn’t … what I would have chosen, but I’ll admit there’s something about her. Something seductive.”
“Did you ever sleep with her again?”
“Never.” He sighed. “I even thought we might marry—she said as much—for a brief time. But her interests are … changeable.”
With each answer he gave, he felt as if a weight were being lifted from his shoulders. “The queen’s condition for granting me permission to travel to Italy was that I bed my wife to produce an heir. I’ve never slept with anyone else—until you.”
She kissed him. Her lips were like balm.
“Now do you see why I want to stay with you forever, buy a palazzo in Venice, and write?”
“Yet the queen has control of your lands and money,” she said.
“But she doesn’t have control of me.”
For two weeks, he attended rehearsals of commedia dell’arte performances. He also read Leone’s Dialogues and absorbed his disquisitions on playwriting. He spent every morning writing, every evening in Virginia’s arms.
Duke Federico arrived—young, bright, obsessed with his art collection. He began by showing them the frescoes on the walls of his former stables, remodeled by a mistress into galleries.
“Here we are.” The tall dark duke spread his arms. “This is my Salon de Troia. The frescoes are by the great Raphael, his students and colleagues. They depict the chaos, the cruelty, the waste and terror of war. I never forget the lessons of my frescoes. I always work for peace.”
Edward found the frescoes remarkable. Unlike the religious art that decorated Italian noblemen’s every wall, these secular works were physical, sensual. Horses reared, eyes flashing, mouths agape. Giants plundered. Achilles shook his spear as a Greek soldier clutched the corpse of Patroclus, who was stripped of the armor he’d borrowed from his lover Achilles.
As always, he made notes. He thought of the Northern Rebellion. Perhaps he could write another long poem, one that described his vision of the Trojan War—not just its madness and cruelty but its abuse of women. That should please Virginia.
Federico took his arm. “Milord, permit me to show you sculptures of Giulio Romano and his students and colleagues, the disciples of Raphael. Romano designed my palaces as well as many of my gardens—he even designed my plates and silverware. But my favorites are his sculptures. He covered them with paint and gold he purchased from Tiziano, applied wax and lac, and in doing so he made them come alive.” The duke pointed to one of the statues. “You see, milord? It looks like human skin.”
Edward stood in awe of the warm lifelike tones. “Vasari didn’t mention Romano was a sculptor.”
“Take pity on the poor scholar, milord. They’re only human, and humans make mistakes.” The duke smiled.
“It’s wonderful to be here. I’m afraid England’s devotion to the arts is somewhat lacking.”
“Of course, milord. We capture our emotions through art, and in the process we help others to express theirs.”
“I hope to do the same in my writing.”
“I wonder,” Virginia said, “whether the written word might not be even more valuable than a fresco or a monument. Monuments may crumble and paintings fade over time. Words don’t.”
Just when he thought he couldn’t love her more.
“You are very wise, signorina.”
If Raphael and Romano could train and inspire students of painting and sculpture, he must inspire students to write. He’d find the most promising ones at the universities, provide them with room and board, and try to hone their creativity. Another reason to preserve his money, assuming he could. He’d start a movement. At last, England would have a writing community worthy of the Renaissance. Sir Thomas would be so pleased, as would the queen.
Most evenings they dined with the duke. Leone did not join them—he observed Jewish laws regarding meals—but on one occasion he invited them to his table, where he introduced them to a colleague.
“This is Samuel Archivolti,” Leone said. “Virginia was quite excited by his writing. I think you will be too, milord.”
Archivolti, perhaps forty-five years old, was the thinnest man Edward had ever seen.
“What’s your subject, Samuel?”
“Desire, milord. I write about its various aspects—hope, joy, suffering, despair—and urge suitors to marry and stay married, even if it’s difficult.”
“A noble endeavor. What forms do you use?”
“Letters and other prose, milord, though lately I’ve found the sensitivity and grace of the sonnet well-suited to the subject of desire.”
“My uncle Surrey was the first in England to write sonnets in the Italian style. I think I’d like to try it myself at some point.”
That night, their last in Mantua, Federico was called away to settle a dispute in a village and Leone was in Ferrara introducing actors to the duke. After dinner, Edward went to their room and wrote all night.
In the morning he was still at it—sweaty, tired, content. The plays were taking shape.
Virginia looked over his shoulder.
“You write like an Italian.”
“I let the clerks print their records in secretary script.” He got up and stretched. “Shall we take a bath together? Then we’re off to Venice, where I promise I’ll write even more.”
“But first we must stop in Padua.”
“I know—there are a few books I’d like to pick up.”
He bought out nearly every bookstore in Padua.
“I already have a copy of I Suppositi back in England, but I need it for a play.”
She smiled. “Tell me about it?”
“It’s about a man who tames his wife with the skills a nobleman uses to tame his hawks,” he said. “I’ve had the idea ever since I lived with Sir Thomas. He treated his wife poorly, as did my father.”
Virginia rolled her eyes. “Hasn’t being with me caused you to feel any compassion for women?”
She’d never spoken to him in that tone of voice.
“But it’s an interesting idea,” he said. “And I must write for my audience.”
“You could try to elevate their taste.” She was glaring at him. “But why bother? First you’d have to elevate your own.” She walked out of the bookshop.
He moved to follow her but then glanced back at the shelves. Perhaps if he waited, her anger would subside.
He bought several more books: Veronica Franco’s poems, a novellino by Massachio Salemitano, Fiorentino’s Il Pecorone, and Gesta Romanorum. He’d need them all.
Arms filled with his purchases, he hastened to find Virginia.
Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself
And trust no agent.
Shakespeare
Much Ado About Nothing
When he returned to Venice, a letter from Cecil was waiting for him.
He was a father!
The child was a girl, but Edward didn’t mind one bit. He’d never expected to feel like this when the baby was born: proud, exhilarated, tender.
Again Cecil pleaded with him to return. Edward fired off a reply congratulating Cecil on becoming a grandfather and asked him to send more funds. He hadn’t realized when he rented the palazzo that the entire nine months’ rent was due in advance. And his credit was no good here—only the booksellers accepted his promise to pay “soon.” Baxter and Russell managed to locate Baptista Negroni, who promised to contact his brother in London. With any luck, he’d persuade Cecil that more money was needed—and soon.
Now, he was on his way to the French embassy. Lewyn had asked to meet him there, and the tone of his brief note was solemn. Virginia offered to accompany him on the walk. He didn’t tell her he was worried about the meeting. He was just grateful for her company.
It was near autumn, and the weather was still warm and windy, like summer in London. He unbuttoned his doublet and enjoyed the passing breeze.
The Shakespeare Mask Page 14
