Daughter of Venice
Page 2
I fold my arms across my chest and shudder. “I’d die in a convent.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Donata. If that’s where we end up, we’ll make the best of it.” Laura turns her head away and plays with the end of a yarn strand from the giant spool in the center of the room. Her face is hidden from us, but she can’t hide the tremble in her voice. “Neither of us will die.”
“Maybe both of you will marry,” Andriana says brightly.
Laura quickly looks at Andriana, then at me. I share her shock at hearing our secret hope spoken so baldly.
When we don’t answer, Andriana takes each of us by the hand. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean to make light of what I know lies too heavy on you. I’m sorry.” She squeezes our hands. “Maybe you can both be like Aunt Angela, and live here to take care of Francesco’s children when he marries. We can go to him together, the three of us, and ask him.”
Aunt Angela is Father’s youngest sister, and, though I love her, I can’t help pitying her. I pull my hand back. “Laura can do that, if she wants. She loves anybody’s children. But I couldn’t bear a life like Aunt Angela’s. Always trying not to be a burden. Tiptoeing around the house and never speaking my mind. It would drive me crazy.”
“You couldn’t keep from speaking your mind anyway,” says Laura flatly. “Francesco’s wife, whoever she turns out to be, would strangle you within a year of her first baby’s birth.”
It’s so true that I laugh in spite of myself.
Laura purses her lips. Then she laughs, too.
“Not a convent, and not a life like Aunt Angela’s,” says Andriana slowly. “What other choice are you thinking of, Donata?” She leans toward me. “Nothing else is mentionable.”
She’s talking about becoming a courtesan. The houses of prostitution are filled with the daughters of failing merchants and poor men. No noble daughter would choose that wretched trade.
I stand up and pace.
Paolina comes in, breathless. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had to dress Maria because Aunt Angela isn’t feeling well.” She stops and blinks. “You haven’t even started the work yet? What’s the matter?”
Andriana gets to her feet. “All this yarn.” She runs her hand along the giant spool. “We’re supposed to get all of this onto the bobbins in a single morning?”
“We’ve done a full spool in a morning before,” Laura says, ever the obedient one. She’s standing now, too, with the end of a yarn strand still in one hand. “The weavers depend on us.”
I look toward the window, where the noises from the busy canal outside come spilling in. I’d rather sit on our upstairs balcony and watch the world. “The weavers can wait. Who wears wool in this weather anyway?”
“Are you complaining, Donata?” Mother walks in. “Summer is Venice’s best trading time. I’m surprised you don’t know that. Your sisters obviously do.” This is my typical luck: Mother didn’t hear Andriana complaining, only me.
“Other girls from noble families don’t have to do guild work,” I mutter.
“You’d be surprised the work that goes on behind doors.” Mother picks up a bobbin. “Yesterday morning spoiled you. We can’t go to parties every day. The storerooms still hold ten giant spools from the early spring wool, and all of them have to be transferred to bobbins for the looms before we leave for the hills in two months.” Mother loosens a strand at the top of the giant spool and walks around it slowly, winding the yarn onto the bobbin with just the right tightness to keep it free of snags, yet just the right looseness not to strain it. I imagine her at my age doing the same. And at ten and eight and maybe even six. Mother’s been an expert at this probably as long as she can remember.
Laura picks up a bobbin and works from the center of the giant spool. Paolina and I follow. We aren’t as expert as Mother, but we’re good at it.
The business of producing woolen goods is not ours, naturally. Nobles are not even allowed to be members of guilds. Nobles run the government—that’s their duty. Most of my friends consider crafts beneath their dignity. They’d never guess that a noble, and a girl at that, had passed so many mornings doing this sort of work. Just yesterday, upon taking my hand, Teresa exclaimed at how soft it was. People say that to Andriana and Laura and Paolina, too, even to Mother. The lanolin in the wool nurtures our skin.
Uncle Alvise, Mother’s brother, inherited his wool business from Mother’s father, who died before I was born, like all my grandparents. Uncle Alvise is the chief officer of the huge wool-weavers’ guild—1,541 members. The only guild with more members is that of the boatmen—1,741 members.
I know these wonderful numbers because I am a master eavesdropper. I eavesdrop when Father gathers my older brothers to discuss business. And I eavesdrop outside the library when my brothers are having their afternoon tutorials—if I’m lucky enough to slip out of my music lessons, that is.
Father talks a lot about the wool industry, because woolen cloth is what our family sells. That, and pepper. While nobles cannot make goods, they can trade them. That’s how Father met Mother; she was the daughter of his major supplier of woolen cloth.
Mother had to do this work when she was a girl, but she doesn’t have to anymore. She does it because she wants to stay within the tradition of her childhood family.
I duck past Laura and Mother as I walk around the giant spool. We don’t do this work nearly as often as Mother did it when she was a child. Still, we do it too much. “The wool industry is a bore,” I say.
“This part of it, perhaps.” Mother winds steadily.
“This is the only part of it I know,” says Paolina.
“Tell her the details, Mother,” I say, “like you told us when we were Paolina’s age.”
Mother keeps winding, but she looks at me thoughtfully. “There are the beaters and the carders and the combers and the spinners and the weavers. And, finally, the sellers, like your father. It’s a wonderful industry. The weaving, especially. Learn to appreciate it, for it’s your heritage.”
“Have you actually seen weaving?” asks Paolina.
“Of course.”
Of course? This is something I haven’t heard before. My step quickens. “When?”
“My family’s factory is across the Canal Grande, on the waters of the Rio Marin in Santa Croce. Most of the wool industry is there. Because I lived on the island of Murano, I couldn’t just walk into the factory anytime I pleased. But now and then I’d beg my father, and he’d take me along.”
“Describe it to us,” says Paolina.
My head buzzes. Mother’s father took her places. And the way she’s talking, it sounds as if she had the freedom to walk around Murano. How different must the childhood of a citizen be from that of a noble. I wish Mother would tell us all about her childhood. We’ve asked many times, but she rarely offers details.
“The apprentices warp the looms. Then they operate the pulley strings that control the heddles that raise or lower the threads of the wool. That’s all they do. All day long. My brothers were apprentices when they were young and they’d complain about cramps in their shoulders.
“The journeymen often operate the pulley strings too, because it takes two men—one to each side of the loom. But sometimes the master lets the journeymen actually weave. That’s where the skill comes in—the weaver is responsible for gauging the tightness and ensuring the evenness. And that’s where the artistry comes in, too. For it’s the weaver who chooses the colors and their arrangements. A master weaver sees the fabric that lies dormant in the waiting yarn, so that his cloths please the eye as well as the skin.”
We are silent, caught up in Mother’s description. I realize I’ve never before heard Mother say so many words without stopping.
“You know so much,” says Laura finally. “I don’t even recognize some of the words you said.”
Mother gives a laugh. “Nothing’s difficult about it. Nothing’s mysterious.”
“Everything’s mysterious if you haven’t seen it,” I say.
“Me too,” says Paolina.
When I’m a woman. Maybe. Does that mean when my reputation no longer matters? When I’ve entered a convent and am beyond scrutiny?
“Talk about the colors,” says Laura.
“What?”
“You said the artistry of weaving is in choosing the colors. Tell us about that,” says Laura.
“Actually, I was talking more about my own little ideas than about what happens.”
“What do you mean?” asks Laura.
“The colors of the wools are muted. I always thought that if I were a boy, I’d break tradition and tell the dyers to make the wools as vivid as silk threads or blown glass.”
Venice’s silk is famous for its colors, especially scarlets and crimsons. So is the blown glass. We have blown glass chandeliers in splendid colors.
“Have you seen glass blown, too?” asks Paolina.
Mother nods. “The Gritti family factory is on Murano. Every child in Murano has seen glass blown.”
“Even noble daughters?” I ask quickly.
“Some of them, maybe. Not all,” says Mother. Her tone is a warning. She’s not in the mood to hear me complain about Father’s strictness. But I have no intention of complaining now. I don’t want to do anything to stop Mother from talking to us like this.
“I know something about the Gritti factory,” says Paolina.
“Is that so?” Mother laughs. “Do tell.”
“It used to be here in Venice, but they moved it out to Murano because of the danger of fire. Glass factories have hot hot fires, and it’s too dangerous to have them near homes. Giulia’s mother talked about it once.”
“That’s true,” says Mother. “But it’s not the only reason, or even the most important one. They moved the factory because the dyes in the Gritti factory are the best of all the Venetian Empire—it’s important to our economy to keep those dyes a secret. It’s easier to protect the factory from spies if it’s isolated out on Murano.”
Spies. Mother makes the business of Venice sound alluring. I want her to talk and talk and talk.
“Mother?”
We all look over at Andriana. She’s sitting on a stool by the door. She hasn’t been working with us at all. I’m immediately curious. Andriana is not as scrupulously obedient as Laura, that’s true, but she’s also never been a rebel.
Mother stops circling the spool, so we all do. “What is it, Andriana?”
“Yesterday, at the party, Signora Lando remarked on how dark my hair is.” Andriana curls a lock of her hair around one finger. “I was wondering if I should bleach it this morning. What do you think, Mother?”
Signora Lando is Teresa’s mother. And Teresa’s oldest brother is several years older than she is. He must be thinking of marriage by now.
Mother’s face is quiet, but I can guess she’s made the same calculation I have, for she puts down her bobbin. “I’ll go ask Cook to gather the herbs. You find the widest-brimmed hat in the house.”
Andriana stands with a smile. “Thank you, Mother. And ask Cook for lemons, no? I’ve heard lemons make the herbs work better.”
“Get to work, you three,” Mother says distractedly to the rest of us.
The world of Mother’s childhood has been swept away. But that’s all right, because I’d like to know about the present, too. Some of my friends bleach their hair, it’s true, but I’ve never been there when anyone did it. “Can’t we see first?” I ask. “We could help Andriana find the right hat, at least.”
“All right. Go help your sister.” Mother rushes to the kitchen.
We girls race upstairs to the piano nobile—the noble floor—where our parents’ bedchamber and all the girls’ bedchambers are. It turns out that Andriana secretly chose the hat last night. And she already cut a hole in the top of it with a knife she snatched from the kitchen after dinner. Everything about the way she acts now is strange—sure and independent. The authority in her voice excites me as she explains what we each have to do.
Andriana dips her hair into the large bowl of fresh bathwater sitting on the floor in her room. Paolina holds the hat upside down, at the ready. Now Andriana stands and bends over the hat, letting her hair fall loose in front of her. Laura and I tuck and carefully pull Andriana’s hair through the hole in the hat.
“It’s all in,” I say.
“Stand back.” Andriana straightens up, flinging her hair, so that it flops over the edges of the hat. She goes to the balcony and sits with her back to the sun, her face and neck shaded by that wide brim.
Paolina spreads Andriana’s hair evenly in every direction.
Mother comes out holding a bowl of fragrant herb paste. She has on a wide-brimmed hat herself. “Don’t stand in the sun without a parasol,” she says to no one in particular.
We get our parasols and run back to the balcony.
Mother smears the herb paste along the locks of Andriana’s hair, moving from the scalp to the tips. It glistens green and bright yellow. I sniff several times. Ginger, I think. And juniper? Perhaps that brassy yellow is Spanish saffron. Translucent blobs of lemon pulp cling to Andriana’s hair here and there like tiny baubles.
The assurance in Mother’s actions surprises me, just like Andriana’s assurance in having the hat ready. No one has ever bleached their hair in this house, so far as I know. Yet Mother clearly has experience in this task. Did she and her sisters do this when they were girls?
Mother had only two sisters, and both of them died in the smallpox outbreak that left Uncle Umberto blind. It happened at their summer home in Treviso. Mother and her other brothers were lucky enough not to have joined the others at Treviso yet. I watch Mother now for signs of sad memories. But her face shows nothing but concentration on the job.
Andriana’s hair isn’t really dark. It’s light brown. Nowhere near as dark as Laura’s and mine. Paolina’s hair is even darker—the color of summer nights. This paste would never work on any of us, I bet.
“You’ve seen all there is to see.” Mother gestures toward the inside of the room. “Go on back to work. The three of you can do at least half the spool.”
We go back to the workroom slowly. Even Laura takes her time. We pick up the bobbins and walk round and round the giant spool.
“Francesco? Is that you?” calls Paolina. She was the one to call out, but we all heard the footsteps.
Francesco comes into the room. “Working, my lovelies?” He smiles. “Where’s your big sister?”
“Getting herself beautiful,” says Paolina.
“Is the Lando son looking for a wife?” asks Laura.
Francesco shrugs. “I don’t know.” He turns to leave.
“Tell us a story before you go.” I drop my bobbin. It rolls across the room, undoing almost all my winding. But I don’t care. Francesco’s stories are how my sisters and I learn about the Venice we never see—the Venice my brothers are part of. I rush to block his way. “You were out late last night, weren’t you?”
“I’m always out late.” Francesco grins. “That’s the fun of being young and male.” Francesco is twenty-two years old, old enough to take a wife. But so far he’s shown no interest in settling down. Instead, he enjoys the company of many women. And sometimes, though I’m not supposed to know this, he sneaks a woman into his room.
My cheeks heat up at Francesco’s words, but I’m so hungry for news that I persist, even at the risk that his tale will be bawdy. “So what did you see?”
Laura and Paolina put down their bobbins and come over to us now. “Tell us,” says Paolina.
“What is this? First Bortolo, now you girls. Does everyone need amusement today?”
“What do you mean, ‘first Bortolo’?” asks Paolina in a loud whisper. Her eyes brighten. “Did you hold his arms while he stood on the balcony railing again?”
&n
bsp; “I’d never tell.” Francesco raises his eyebrows and smiles mysteriously. Standing on the balcony railing is expressly forbidden. And it’s something Bortolo loves. Francesco is the only one of us who dares to let Bortolo do it.
“Well, no matter what you did with Bortolo, telling stories to us is not simple amusement. It’s edification,” I say firmly. “And you hardly ever spend time with us anymore. Please, Francesco.”
“I did see something wonderful, and it has a great story behind it.” Francesco sits on the floor and we sit before him, like believers before a priest. He looks at each of us slowly, reveling in his power.
I pinch him on the leg. “Speak.”
“I saw a painting by Paolo Veronese.”
“A painting?” Laura’s face falls. “Just a painting?”
“No, not just a painting. A very special painting. It was entitled ‘The Last Supper of Christ.’ ”
I’m puzzled. None of my brothers is particularly pious, least of all Francesco. Nor does Francesco have a strong love of the arts. “What’s special about the painting?”
“The apostles use forks to pick their teeth; the soldiers hold mugs of wine; the servants have bloody noses; silly people stand around in the background with parrots on their shoulders.” Francesco’s hands paint the scene in the air as he talks.
“It sounds raucous,” I say.
“That’s precisely what the representatives of the Inquisition said.”
I draw closer in confusion. The Inquisition is the church tribunal that seeks out and punishes heresy.
“The Convent of Santissimi Giovanni e Paolo commissioned the painting, then the Inquisition denounced Veronese for it.” Francesco’s voice rises and his words quicken. “They said it was an offense to the eucharist and they demanded that everything that made the painting so vital and exciting be changed.”
The painter was denounced—my heart pounds. What terrible punishment did he receive?
Paolina turns to me, her eyes big. “Father doesn’t like the Inquisition telling Venice what to do. He’s said that before, many times.”
But Francesco laughs. “No one really tells Venice what to do. Or, rather, Venice never listens.”