The maestro and Father had been the only two who never complimented my playing. Had my gender blinded Father the way it had my teacher? Even though Father was now considered one of the most enlightened men in Milan, he had doubted girls could learn the same subjects as boys—until Maria had proved it so.
It all started when she was six or seven. Unbeknownst to Father, Maria had listened in on Giovanni’s Latin lessons with Abbot Zanetti. She soon knew Latin better than our older brother did.
Somehow, Father found out. Instead of being angry, he let Maria study Latin, too. She did so well Father kept Abbot Zanetti on after Giovanni went away to boarding school. Mamma protested, saying Latin was not a suitable subject for a girl and that Maria should be schooled in a convent. But Father would not be swayed.
Thinking back on it now, I realized Maria’s gift for languages may have been what inspired Father to start hosting his academic meetings. I gazed down at the paved terrazzo in the garden below, the site of Maria’s speaking debut. If not for Maria’s success that day and her intervention on my behalf, Father would never have hired Maestro Tomassini to teach me to sing and play.
The joy suddenly drained from my heart. During these months of terrible sadness, I’d forgotten about the possibility of Father sending me off to a convent. Now that life was returning to normal, the threat seemed suddenly real again.
But if I became a successful composer, surely Father would keep me here, to help impress the guests of his academic meetings when they resumed.
Father’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “What are you doing out there, Daughter?”
I turned to see Father and Maestro Tomassini standing beside the harpsichord. The maestro still held my music in his hand, but the excitement was gone from his face.
Chapter Eleven: A Fellow Student
I hurried into the harpsichord salon. “Just getting a breath of air, Signor Padre.”
“Let us not waste the maestro’s time. He has asked my permission to extend your studies.” Father pointed at the harpsichord. “First I want to hear this piece you have composed.”
“Sì, Signor Padre.” I looked away to hide my surprise. It was unlike Father to question Maestro Tomassini’s opinion when it came to music.
I sat down at the keyboard and took a calming breath. I reminded myself of how impressed the maestro had been with Mamma’s Sonata. Surely Father would be, too.
But how would he react to the music’s feelings? In the weeks since I’d spoken to Father of Maria, he’d gradually returned to his former self. Yet sadness still lingered in his eyes. I feared my tribute to Mamma would rekindle his sorrow. At the same time, I hoped the music might help heal some of that sorrow, as it had my own.
The maestro set my sheet music before me on the harpsichord then took a seat. Father sat down beside him. He gestured for me to begin.
As I played the opening chords, I shut my eyes and focused again on expressing my feelings through my fingers.
Partway through the second movement, I heard a rustling and footsteps, but I kept my eyes shut. I didn’t open them again until after I’d played the ending coda.
The last notes of the sonata faded away. Then all was silent. Even the sparrows had stopped twittering.
Father stood at the fireplace with his back to me, his left hand on the mantle. The portrait of the cerulean Madonna hung just above his head, to his right. He seemed unaware of it. His eyes were fixed on the empty hearth.
What was Father thinking? Had my music hurt him, or helped?
He dropped his hand from the mantle and slowly turned around. His face showed no emotion. It was as though he wore a mask.
Father’s lips parted. I sat straighter, waiting for what he might say to me, but he addressed Maestro Tomassini instead. “You have my permission to teach my daughter music theory, as well as any other lessons she requires to compose properly.” He bowed to the maestro.
Maestro Tomassini bowed in return. “Grazie, Signor Salvini.”
My heart sang with joy—I was to study music theory with the maestro!
But when Father left without saying anything of my sonata, my shoulders sagged. Had he liked it? Had it touched him? I feared I’d never know.
“Come,” the maestro said. “You have much to learn, Signorina.”
My eyes widened in surprise. He’d never called me anything but “girl” before.
***
Spring brought new life in the flowers and the trees, but that didn’t keep me from missing Mamma. I was grateful to have new lessons to distract me.
Corresponding with Gabriella Riccardi provided another pleasant diversion. Gabriella had returned to her convent school soon after we’d met. The first time she’d written, it had been to express her condolences for Mamma’s death. Since then, a steady stream of letters had flowed back and forth between her school and our palazzo.
One warm, sunny morning, I took a break from my studies to read her latest letter. I carried it with me out to the garden and sat on my favorite bench under the shade of two tall cypress trees.
May 3, 1737
My Dearest Friend,
Do not blush at being addressed as my “dearest friend,” Emilia, for that is what you now are. The few friends I had here have either returned to their families or been married off. Father, however, insists I stay until the end of September when I turn sixteen. He says it is the best way to ensure my virtue, which is vital to attracting a suitable husband. (Why must I alone have such a cruel father?)
I do have some cause for hope, though. Father has formally announced the betrothal of my brother to Count Sormani’s eldest daughter. They will wed within the year. That means Father can now focus on my betrothal.
Mother has suggested to him the very match I mentioned to you on the Feast of Epiphany. I pray to Our Lady daily for her intercession that Father will consent. Dreaming of such a future is the only thing that makes my time here tolerable. How happy I will be to have a husband of noble birth who is both rich and handsome. What more could a girl want? …
Gabriella’s question gave me pause. Sorrow had so consumed me these past months that I’d given little thought to my future. From what I could tell, neither had Father. But it was only a matter of time before he did.
No doubt Father would wait until the formal mourning period had ended before resuming his academic meetings. I’d vowed to be an accomplished composer by then. I’d make myself such an excellent marriage match Father would never consider sending me to the convent.
I skimmed the rest of Gabriella’s letter then hurried back to the harpsichord salon.
***
I’d composed my first sonata to give vent to my feelings of loss and sadness. Now, under the maestro’s guidance, I studied counterpoint. I learned the finer nuances of figured bass and the rules of voice leading in formal composition—knowledge I needed to refine my craft.
In between my lessons, I spent every spare moment writing, studying, and creating music. By June, I was working on a sonata for three instruments: the harpsichord and two violins.
“It is time to hear your composition performed in full,” the maestro said one day. “I shall arrange for my nephew to join us at our next session.”
I nodded without answering. Antonio Bellini here, in our palazzo? For some reason, the thought unnerved me. I hadn’t seen him since January, when he’d surprised me by accompanying the maestro to Mamma’s funeral.
Later that day, my surprise increased when Bellini expressed his condolences to me, for he exhibited none of the stiffness or formality of our first meeting. In truth, his words of sympathy struck me as sincerer than anyone else’s. I later wrote of it to Gabriella. In her response, she wondered at his motives, saying Bellini had no social responsibility to attend Mamma’s funeral, given the lack of connection between our families. Gabriella suggested a personal reason for Bellini’s behavior—he was smitten with me.
I told her then, and still believed now, that the idea was ridiculous. Be
llini’s disappearance after my performance for Governor von Traun was all the proof I needed. If Bellini felt anything toward me, it was jealousy.
***
The day Antonio Bellini joined us, I was so absorbed in rehearsing my new sonata I didn’t hear him arrive. When I finally glanced up, I was startled to see him standing at the foot of the harpsichord.
His appearance had changed greatly since our first meeting. He now stood nearly as tall as his uncle. And, like the maestro, Bellini was wigless, with his brown hair tied back in a queue. The black suit he had on today was much more becoming than the dated one he’d worn for the governor’s reception. At the time, I’d guessed we were close in age. Since then I’d learned Bellini was three years my senior, which meant he was now sixteen.
He bowed and said only, “Signorina Salvini.”
“Signor Bellini,” I said. “Thank you for joining us. I am anxious to hear my composition played in full.”
Bellini gave me a somber look before averting his gaze. His eyes were as blue, or perhaps even bluer, than I remembered. And their effect just as powerful.
Gabriella’s suggestion came to mind. I felt my cheeks flush. He’s not smitten with me, I told myself. It’s obvious he doesn’t even want to be here. I tried to collect myself while Bellini and the maestro tuned their violins.
Still, I couldn’t keep from peeking over at Bellini as we played. Although my music sat on the stand before him, he didn’t need it. He played his part perfectly without it. I felt honored he’d taken time to memorize the piece.
Of course, that didn’t begin to match my thrill at hearing my composition performed in its entirety. The interplay between the harmony and melody sounded even better than I’d imagined. My sonata was by no means perfect—there were some places where the counterpoint lacked balance. But overall, I was quite pleased.
The maestro must have been as well, for he said only, “The second movement still needs work.”
“Sì, Maestro,” I replied, though I couldn’t keep from smiling.
Maestro Tomassini suggested several improvements for the troublesome measures. By the end of our session, I had worked out the changes, and we had played the revised sonata several times.
“A good day’s work,” the maestro said as he packed up his violin.
“Yes, Maestro.” To Bellini I said, “Thank you again for joining us.”
“I should thank you, Signorina,” Bellini said. “My uncle has been teaching me music theory also, but my compositions are naive compared to yours.” Despite his flattering words, Bellini kept his gaze averted. I wondered again if he might be jealous of my talent.
“Signorina,” the maestro said, “I have been thinking. Perhaps my nephew could join in your lessons. He would benefit from the regular exposure to your work. At the same time, he could provide assistance by accompanying us on the violin or the violoncello. He is quite adept at that instrument as well.”
Bellini’s posture stiffened ever so slightly. Wounded pride flickered in his eyes.
I suppressed a smile. He was jealous.
I said to the maestro, “I would welcome his assistance.”
“Eccellente,” Maestro said. “I will speak to your father.”
And thus began my rivalry with Antonio Bellini.
Chapter Twelve: Viola d’Amore
The rivalry kept us both sharp. Before Bellini joined my lessons, I’d been so focused on learning music theory that I’d grown careless at the keyboard. After realizing how much Bellini’s skill on the violin exceeded mine on the harpsichord, I put in extra practice time. Soon, my proficiency matched his. I could tell because Maestro Tomassini showed no partiality when he criticized our playing.
That was not the case with our composing. The maestro actually praised my work at times, but he only reproached Bellini’s. The rebukes obviously rankled my fellow student—he’d clench his jaw in a way that made the cleft in his chin even more pronounced.
I might have felt sorry for Bellini, if not for his pride. And his continued coldness. After playing together for several weeks, he still barely spoke to me. No doubt he thought himself socially superior because of his kinship to Marquis don Vittore Bellini. Well, I’d show Antonio Bellini! I’d prove myself his superior when it came to music.
I spent long hours studying our lessons and applying them to my compositions. My efforts were rewarded, for my work showed steady progress. Bellini’s, on the other hand, continued to disappoint. He was competent enough as a composer, but his music lacked feeling.
One sweltering summer afternoon, Maestro Tomassini was particularly vexed with his nephew. Beads of perspiration dotted the maestro’s brow as he said, “How many times must I tell you, Boy? If you wish to touch the hearts of your listeners, you must be willing to express your deepest emotions in your music, to expose your heart.” The maestro pointed a long finger at Bellini, as though aiming a pistol to his chest.
Sitting beside me at our work table, Bellini remained silent, his noble chin tilted upward as usual. I wanted to shake him and say, You have nothing to be proud of!
The maestro pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Perhaps it was a mistake to have you join in Signorina Salvini’s lessons. You showed such promise before. Now all the pieces you produce consist of plodding melodies underscored with trite chord progressions.”
“Please, Maestro,” Bellini said. “Give me another chance. I know I can do better.”
“Bah! I know it, too,” Maestro said, waving his handkerchief at Bellini, “or I wouldn’t be wasting my time on you.”
Maestro Tomassini tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket and began rummaging through the papers in his satchel. “Here it is!” He pulled out some sheet music. “I want you to study this piece as an example.” He handed the score to Bellini. My throat tightened when I saw the title, written in my own hand—Mamma’s Sonata.
Except for Father and Maestro Tomassini, no one else had ever seen or heard the piece. It was too personal, too revealing, to share. But now Bellini, of all people, held it in his hands.
Maestro nodded toward me. “Signorina Salvini composed this sonata with minimal training in music theory, yet she manages to exquisitely express a wide range of human emotions.” The maestro punctuated his next words by waving his right arm up and down as though conducting. “Study it. Play it. Imitate it. Do whatever you must to learn how to replicate what she has accomplished.”
“Sì, Maestro.”
“And remember, Boy.” The maestro bent his lanky body so far over his long, thin nose practically touched his nephew’s. “This is your last chance. If you fail again, your lessons with me will end.”
Bellini’s chin lowered almost imperceptibly. The sheet music trembled in his hands. “I will not fail.”
Heaven forgive me, but I hoped he would fail. Then I could be rid of him and his haughty attitude.
That evening, I wrote to Gabriella:
July 2, 1737
Dearest Gabriella,
My fellow student’s compositions continue to disappoint our teacher. The maestro is giving him one last chance. I confess, I hope Bellini fails. I am tired of his arrogance. He thinks himself superior simply because his great-uncle is a marquis. Well, he is definitely not superior to me when it comes to composing music.
Of course, his presence is useful for testing out my compositions. I must admit he is an excellent musician. But perhaps the maestro can find someone a bit more modest to take Bellini’s place.
Enough of Bellini. Have you had any word regarding your father’s marriage plans for you? Is there any chance you’ll be coming home sooner than September? I would so love to be able to speak with you in person again.
Your dearest friend,
Emilia Teresa Salvini
When Gabriella’s reply arrived, I read it in the garden, sitting on my favorite bench between the cypress trees.
July 9, 1737
My Dearest Emilia,
When I read your lett
er, I felt compelled to respond immediately. You must be mistaken, my friend, in your belief that your fellow student is haughty. I recently wrote my mother to ask about him (using the excuse of sharing a bit of gossip about how he’d become your fellow student). She informed me that, despite his great-uncle’s status, your young violinist is himself quite poor. He regularly hires himself out as a paid musician, as he did for the reception in honor of Governor von Traun. Did you not notice Bellini’s dated attire that evening? He must have borrowed or rented the suit for the occasion.
So, my friend, what you perceive as haughtiness must be a mask for some other emotion, perhaps shyness, or, as I have said all along, affection! I believe he is indeed smitten with you.
Hah, I can see you shaking your head as you read this. Before you take up your quill to deny it, ponder this: Could it be that Bellini’s aloofness is a shield to keep you from guessing his true feelings? I believe the answer is a resounding yes! And no wonder, given your callousness toward him. You are too cruel, my friend. But perhaps your cruelty hides your own feelings. I cannot believe your heart so impervious to his azure eyes and handsome countenance. Come, you can tell me the truth…
I stopped and re-read the first paragraph. I could hardly believe it—Bellini was poor? I’d never imagined he might have been paid to perform. I’d assumed he’d played as a favor to Count Riccardi, as I had.
I’d mistaken Bellini’s shyness for snobbery.
Or was it shyness? Could Gabriella be right, that Bellini’s apparent aloofness was, in truth, a disguise to hide his affection?
Feeling suddenly warm, I stood and fanned myself with the letter, but that only made me hotter still.
***
After the maestro’s ultimatum, Bellini’s attitude seemed changed. Or was I the one who’d changed?
Playing by Heart Page 7
