Daughter of Venice

by Donna Jo Napoli

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Venezia 1592

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Author’s Note

  Other books by Donna Jo Napoli

  Copyright Page

  To the spirit of Elena Lucrezia Cornaro Piscopia—

  scholar, musician, artist

  ***

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks go to my family, particularly Barry, Eva, Robert, and Noëlle. I also thank Piero Brunello, Luisa Corbetta, Silvia Gasparini (legal historian extraordinaire), Giulio Lepschy, Susan Proctor, Diana Wright, Alvise Zorzi, Rosella Mamoli Zorzi, the librarians at the Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, the archivists at the Palazzo Ducale and at the Archivio di Stato, and my editorial team—Mara Bergman, Kate Harris, Jodi Kreitzman, Alison Root, Jamie Weiss, Jennifer Wingertzahn, and Jane Winterbotham. Finally, I am so grateful to Wendy Lamb, my editor.

  ***

  CHAPTER ONE

  MORNING LIGHT

  A big fruit boat passes, rocking our gondola hard. Paolina tumbles against me with a laugh. I put my arm around her waist and hug her.

  Paolina squirms free. “It’s too hot, Donata.” She pulls on one of my ringlets and laughs again.

  Yes, it’s hot, but it’s a wonderful morning. The Canal Grande is busy. That’s nothing new to us. From our bedchamber balcony my sisters and I watch the daily activity. Our palazzo stands on the Canal Grande and our rooms are three flights up, so we have a perfect view. But down here in the gondola, with the noise from the boats, and the smell of the sea, and the glare of the sun on the water, not even the thin gauze of my veil can mute the bold lines of this delightful chaos.

  Our Venice, called La Serenissima, “The Most Serene,” is frenzied today.

  My feet start to tap in excitement, but, of course, they can’t, because of my shoes. Whenever I go on an outing, I wear these shoes. They have wooden bottoms thicker than the width of my palm; I have to practice before venturing out, or I’ll fall. And even then, I go at Uncle Umberto’s pace—a blind man’s pace. I look in envy at Paolina’s zoccoli, her sandals with thin wooden bottoms. Paolina is only nine and she hasn’t been subjected to high shoes and tight corsets yet.

  “Can I take my shoes off, Mother? Just for the boat ride, I mean.”

  “Of course not, Donata.”

  “But I hate these shoes. They keep me from doing what I want.”

  “That’s exactly why you should wear them.” Mother reaches across Paolina’s lap and gives a little yank to my wide skirt so that it lies flat over my lap. “High shoes make sure young ladies behave properly.”

  “Because we’re afraid of falling? But you always say proper behavior comes from proper thoughts.”

  “Keep your shoes on, Donata. And don’t make remarks like that when we arrive.” Mother sits tall herself. “We’re almost there now. Be perfect ladies, all of you.”

  Laura, my twin, sits facing me, with our big sister Andriana beside her. Laura stretches out her right foot so that her shoe tip clunks against mine. She’s grinning under the white veil that hides her face, I’m sure of that. The very idea of my being a perfect lady is absurd. I grin back, though, of course, Laura cannot see my face, either.

  Andriana’s hands are in her lap, the fingers of one squeezed in the other so hard that her knuckles stand out like white beads. Mother’s words make her throw her shoulders back and stretch her neck long. Underneath Andriana’s veil, she is far from laughter; I bet her lips are pressed together hard.

  Mother grew up the daughter of a wealthy artisan—a citizen, not a noble. There are three kinds of Venetians: plain people, who cannot vote; citizens, who vote but cannot hold office; and nobles. Mother was lucky to marry into Father’s noble family. We all know that, but Andriana is the one who worries about it. She worries that our questionable breeding casts doubt on her worthiness as a bride. But she needn’t. Andriana is sixteen, two years older than Laura and I. She’s ready for a husband. And she’ll get one easily. The oldest daughter in any noble family marries, even if she’s ugly. And Andriana, with her wide-set, hazel eyes and delicate, pointed chin, is stunning. The mothers at the garden party today will all want her as a daughter-in-law.

  If Andriana is lucky, she’ll marry someone young and handsome. How I wish that for her. There are too many old widowers around looking for brides. The breath of decrepit Messer Corner, his exaggerated limp, the gray hair from his ears pollute my thoughts. That can’t happen to Andriana. Father would never choose poorly for her, no matter how rich a suitor was. Andriana will marry someone vigorous, most certainly. She will have children.

  Children. The youngest in our family is Giovanni—already three years old. There are twelve of us: Francesco, who is twenty-two; Piero, twenty; Antonio, seventeen; Andriana, sixteen; Vincenzo, fifteen; Laura and I, fourteen; Paolina, nine; Bortolo, six; Nicola, five; Maria, four; and Giovanni, three.

  Giovanni is Mother’s last child. That’s what Mother says, at least. Father likes to say, “Things happen,” and he winks. But I’m old enough to understand that Mother is probably right about this. Giovanni is our only brother who still sleeps on the same floor of the house as the girls, and I adore him. We all do. He’ll probably move down to the small boys’ floor soon. I miss having a baby in the house.

  My heart squeezes. I want to take Laura’s hand, but she’s sitting too far from me. Laura and I have to be careful today—as careful as we can. The perfect ladies Mother wants us to be. For we, too, hope to marry someday. Both of us.

  We’ve never voiced that hope to anyone else—it’s a whisper between us in the dark. We know very well that if we hadn’t been born twins, one of us would be the third sister and unmarriageable, for a nobleman is lucky to marry off one daughter and blessed to marry off two—he cannot hope to marry off more than two. But twins should be a special case—it’s impossible to think of one of us marrying but not the other.

  I place my feet primly together and sit up tall like Mother and Andriana.

  The gondola veers into a side canal and the water is instantly calm and quiet. And smelly. This small canal is shallower than most, so the filth people throw into it can stink for days before it’s finally washed out to the open waters of the lagoon. Hot weather brings the most foul odors.

  The gondoliere in the front leaps onto the step and offers his hand to us, while the gondoliere in the back steadies the boat against the docking pole. I stand and hold on to one of the supports of the tent we’ve been riding under in the center of the gondola. Sweat rolls down my thigh. It’s hot for late spring. I’d like to lift my skirts high and let a breeze tickle my bottom. But that’s exactly the sort of behavior I must avoid today. I raise my skirts only high enough to allow me to step out of the boat.

  We open our parasols immediately, for the sun must not darken our skins. Girls with alabaster complexions are more highly prized. Mother nods at us in approval, and leads us through the gate into the walled garden.

  We’re among t
he last to arrive, naturally. It is fitting that others await us. We are not only a noble family, but one of the wealthiest in all Venice. Only 105 families declare their fortunes to be greater than ours. And, while Father is but an ordinary member of the Senate, his brothers hold some of the most prestigious government offices. Everyone respects the Mocenigo family.

  We take off our veils ceremoniously. Some girls and women hardly ever wear veils, except in church. We wear them wherever we go because Father insists. But even Father allows us to go without them in the company of women. And the men servants here don’t matter.

  Signora Brandolini, the hostess, rushes up to greet Mother, then kisses each of us girls. With a scoop of her arm, she sweeps Mother and Andriana away. In an instant, they are surrounded by the women who matter—the mothers of eligible sons.

  We are left to our own devices, Laura and Paolina and I.

  Laura takes my hand. “Let’s see who’s here.”

  I reach for Paolina with my other hand. “Come on.”

  Paolina backs away. “The Brandolini family’s magnolias are in full blossom,” she says. “They came all the way from the New World. I have to touch them.” And she’s gone.

  My eyes follow her.

  “People first,” says Laura in my ear. “Magnolias later.”

  Laura’s right. What a funny little sister we have, who prefers plants to humans. But, then, that’s why Mother allowed her to come along today, even though she’s too young—the Brandolini family has one of the most wonderful gardens in Venice and Paolina begged so sincerely. Mother has a soft spot for gardens herself. She grew up on the island of Murano and I heard her speak once of her childhood garden.

  Laura leads me by the hand around the groups of women to the girls our age, clustered by the food table. The smell of sardines under vinegar prickles my nose. Onions and olives and pine nuts fill the bowls. Thin strands of dried horsemeat swirl to a peak on a platter. Roasted blackbirds from Perugia and cold strips of spiced tripe from Treviso and stuffed peacocks from Lombardia, and oh! Beyond all the meats a gigantic bowl surrounded by cut flowers brims over with early strawberries, the tiny kind that grow on the island of Torcello.

  A pang of longing for our summer home makes me blink. In late June we’ll go to the Colli Euganei, on the mainland. Paolina and I will climb the hills and gather blueberries and raspberries. Paolina has made that her special job and, of course, I help; I’d never give up the chance to climb those hills.

  Uncle Umberto accompanies us everywhere in the country. He says it’s only right; he says that even in the countryside a girl’s reputation needs to be guarded. But I know it’s because he loves the freedom that the countryside offers his blindness—the freedom of walking without fear of falling into canals—just as I love the freedom of walking outside without my awful high shoes. Sometimes the two of us run hand in hand for the pure joy of it.

  If the weather is good, Paolina and I take along our younger brothers Bortolo and Nicola. This year we can take baby Giovanni as well, for he’s become a little wild man and he’ll need to run free. And, most fun of all, we often take our cousins: Elena and Eva and Michele and Nicola and Roberto. All five of them are the children of Father’s sister Aunt Rosella. They’re younger than us because Aunt Rosella is much younger than Father. She had two older sisters—but they died in infancy. Aunt Rosella married into a family in Padua and we don’t get to see her most of the year—so we spend almost every summer day with her and her children.

  I stop dreaming and look back to the bowl of small berries. Are they as good as our hill berries? I go around the table and stuff a handful of them into my mouth.

  “Glutton.” Cristina Brandolini is beside me, her hands on her hips. Teresa Lando leans out from behind her, looking equally scornful. “If all the girls did that,” says Cristina, “the women wouldn’t get any at all.”

  I swallow and flush with embarrassment. “I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry.”

  Cristina bursts into a grin. “The kitchen is full of them.”

  Teresa laughs.

  I should have known. Cristina loves to tease.

  Cristina’s braided hair is pinned up in a cone shape, like that of the older girls. She wears a tiara with a red stone at the center. The bodice of Teresa’s dress is cut so low, her breasts are half-exposed. I brush my own ringlets over my shoulder and smile, but I feel suddenly childish beside these girls, though we’ve played together for years.

  Cristina hooks her arm in mine and whispers, “There’s cream, too. Mother decided not to put it out because of the heat. Teresa and I are off to plunder the kitchen. Want to come?”

  Ah, this is the Cristina I know, after all. I search the groups for Laura. She’s surrounded by friends, busy and happy. She won’t mind if I’m gone.

  The three of us walk swiftly with our eyes down. When we enter the shade of the ground floor of the palazzo, we close our parasols and lean them by the doorway. I follow Cristina and Teresa up the stairs to the first-floor hall that runs the full length of the home, with windows that open to the canal on one end and windows that open to the alley on the other. The hall has doors on each side. I can guess what lies behind them—a library, a map room, an uncle or two’s bedchamber, a music room—much the same as in our own palazzo.

  The girls go straight to the kitchen, where the door is open. But there’s another open door along the way.

  I peek in. It’s a map room. In the center of the floor, beside the mosaic with the Brandolini family crest, rests an enormous globe on a wooden stand. Piero, my second oldest brother, has spoken of the two globes in the Palazzo Ducale—the Doge’s Palace. Piero is a true scholar; he races off to see whatever new inventions come to town. But our family doesn’t have a globe. And I’ve never seen one before. In fact, I’ve only looked at maps in passing; a map room is man’s territory, and ours is often used for tutorials, so I can’t sneak in.

  I take a silent step into the empty room. The globe is covered with the constellations—a celestial globe. Winged horses and tiny cupids and mythical creatures float through the clouds. I circle it, enchanted.

  And now I see the morning light shines bright on the wall beside the door; it shines on a very different sort of map. A map cluttered with homes and canals and bridges. I rush to it. In the bottom corner is the signature of the mapmaker—but I can’t read, so I cannot learn his name. Still, I know this mapmaker is a master, for he has painted Venice, my dear Venice, as seen from above, through the eye of an angel.

  My own eyes travel the Canal Grande. I’ve been along much of it in our gondola, going to parties. And once Laura and I got to go to a festival in the great Piazza San Marco. Father is stricter than most of my friends’ fathers, many of whom take their daughters to all sorts of celebrations—but at least he allowed that. Mother dressed us like princesses to show us off to the world.

  Still, the gondola took us from our home doorstep to the piazza, with no stops along the way. That’s how it always is: we girls go from doorstep to doorstep. I’ve never walked on the paths between the canals, except to follow the little one out our back door, down the alley and across one bridge, to the church of San Marcuola.

  There are so many alleys on this map. Why, there must be hundreds. And what Francesco, our oldest brother, has told us girls is true: the alleys don’t go in one direction for very long. They cut across each other all helter-skelter, and some end abruptly in canals. I can see why the boys talk about getting lost in Venice. I imagine it.

  It dawns on me that I don’t recognize a single alley or street on this map. I can’t even be sure which palazzo is ours, which church is San Marcuola. It’s almost as though I’m a stranger in my own city.

  I go cold with the odd sensation of being lost and alone. I know hundreds of facts about Venice. Thousands, probably. But I know them from memorizing what others say. I know almost nothing from my own experience. I’ve seen almost nothing with my own eyes. I hug myself and rock from side to side.
<
br />   “There you are.” Cristina stands in the doorway. “What are you doing in this stuffy room? Is something wrong?”

  I shake my head.

  “Then come along, goose. You’re missing the fun.” She holds out a strawberry covered with cream.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WORK

  So?” says Laura, giggling in anticipation. “Did anything momentous happen at yesterday’s garden party?”

  We older girls are sitting in a circle on the floor of the workroom, just the three of us. This is my favorite kind of talk—when no parent and no little one is near—and we can speak freely.

  Andriana shakes her head and tries to look nonchalant. “No one’s description of her son overwhelms me with passion yet.”

  I pinch her arm teasingly. “Or maybe everyone’s does?”

  Andriana blushes. “Anyway, Mother warns me I mustn’t get carried away by what the women say. I am allowed to make suggestions—but in the end, Father will choose wisely for me. Being picky is a mistake.”

  “Maritar o monacar,” whispers Laura—marry or enter a convent—an old Venetian motto. “Tiziana Erizzo was picky.”

  Tiziana is a few years older than Andriana. She refused the man her father chose, so her younger sister, who was about to enter a convent, married him instead, and it was Tiziana who got whisked off to the convent. The last time we saw her, when she was visiting her family for a party, she told Andriana she’s better off in a convent than in a miserable marriage, like her good friend Anna. It is rumored that Anna’s husband brutalizes her. Still, Tiziana admits she hates it in the convent. The company of pious women stifles her.

  Unless I marry, a convent lies ahead for me, too. As it is, probably my dear Paolina will be pressed to enter a convent within the next two years. And little Maria, who is only four, will do the same when she comes of age. Thus far Laura and I have escaped such a fate merely because of the accident of our birth order—because a second daughter just might, with luck, get a marriage offer.