Playing by Heart

by Carmela Martino

Bellini now greeted me at the beginning of every lesson with a pleasant, “Buon giorno, Signorina.” He no longer stiffened when the maestro complimented me. And, surprisingly, Bellini actually praised my work himself at times.

  But my greatest surprise came in late July, on the day of our final lesson before the August holidays. While most everyone had already fled to the countryside or seashore to escape the summer heat, our family was staying in the city this year. Father didn’t say why, but I guessed he couldn’t bear returning to our country house without Mamma. She so enjoyed spending time there.

  Bellini arrived for our lesson carrying his violin case and a second case I didn’t recognize. The contents of that case remained a mystery until it came time for us to play his newest composition. Bellini handed the score to the maestro.

  “What’s this?” Maestro said as he scanned the music. “A sonata in D minor for harpsichord and viola d’amore?”

  “Sì, Maestro.” Bellini’s hand trembled ever so slightly as he handed a copy of the score to me. This was his last chance. If this composition didn’t live up to the maestro’s expectations, Bellini would no longer be my fellow student. My chest tightened. I wanted him to stay after all.

  “Grazie,” I said, taking the music from Bellini. He gave me a nervous smile, his blue eyes clouded with worry. I smiled in encouragement.

  The maestro sniffed once, twice, as he studied the score but said nothing.

  Instead of reading my part, I watched Bellini. He opened the second case he’d brought and carefully took out a viola d’amore. The instrument looks much like a violin, except for the carving of the blindfolded Cupid’s head where the scroll would be. But unlike its cousin, the viola d’amore has a second set of strings beneath those played with the bow. These secondary strings vibrate in response to the movement of the upper strings, extending their sound.

  “Interesting,” Maestro Tomassini said at last, looking up from the sheet music in his hand. “I can’t say I agree with your choice of instrument, Bellini. However, I am pleased you’ve finally had an original idea. We shall see how well you’ve executed it.”

  As Bellini tuned the viola d’amore, I practiced my part. For the entire first movement and much of the second, the harpsichord provided only the basso continuo, the bass harmony. At the end of the second, slower, movement I had a long rest while Bellini played a solo cadenza on the viola d’amore. Only in the third and final movement would we play a true duet.

  When Bellini had finally tuned the viola d’amore to his satisfaction, he stood and dried his forehead with his handkerchief. The room was warm, but it seemed to be affecting him much more than the maestro or me.

  “Ready?” Maestro asked.

  “Sì, Maestro.” Bellini raised the viola d’amore to his shoulder. I brought my hands to the harpsichord keys.

  Maestro Tomassini counted out the tempo of the moderately allegro first movement then signaled for us to begin.

  I was immediately struck by the energy of the opening. It was so unlike Bellini’s other compositions.

  As we played, I was entranced by the viola d’amore’s sweet sound, sweeter than a violin’s. The instrument’s secondary strings added depth to the music. How challenging it must have been for Bellini to allow for their resonance in his composition.

  The sonata slowed to an andante tempo for the second movement. During Bellini’s closing cadenza, I dropped my hands and watched him. The touch of his bow on the viola d’amore’s upper strings was gentle, like a caress. Yet, it produced an intense, rich tone.

  The sound resonated within me, just as it did in the secondary strings. A quivering sensation began in my fingertips, flowed like a river up my arms, into my chest, and through my body. I fought the urge to shut my eyes and submerge myself in the music.

  I regained my composure just in time to resume playing the basso continuo. The tempo quickened again when we began our duet. At first, our two instruments played in turns, the harpsichord echoing the viola d’amore, but in a lower register. Then the music changed. The instruments’ two voices melded together into a sequence of sweet, beautiful chords. I found myself smiling.

  The feeling of water flowing through me returned, more powerful this time, threatening to sweep me away.

  Finally, the duet ended, and the music changed once more, back to separate strands of melody and harmony, as in the first movement. And then the sonata was over.

  Not until I dropped my hands to my lap did I realize how profusely I’d been perspiring. I glanced up to see Bellini watching me. His forehead glistened with sweat. Beneath his brow, a look of expectation, or perhaps hope, shone in his brilliant blue eyes.

  Feeling suddenly shy, I lowered my gaze and found myself staring at the face of the blindfolded Cupid.

  “At last,” the maestro said. “You’ve written something with true heart, Bellini.”

  And in doing so, he’d captured mine.

  Chapter Thirteen: Change in Season

  To my great relief, Maestro Tomassini decided Bellini’s sonata was good enough for him to continue as my fellow student. At the end of our session, the maestro assigned us enough work to fill the break in our lessons. But in the weeks that followed, every time I sat down at the keyboard, my first thought was of Bellini’s sonata.

  I couldn’t resist practicing the harpsichord part every day. Each time I came to the extended rest for the viola d’amore cadenza, I shut my eyes and remembered how Bellini had played it—the caressing touch of his bow on the upper strings, the rich, resonant tones of the secondary strings. Just thinking of it set my fingertips to quivering.

  I put off responding to Gabriella’s last letter. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone of my feelings for Bellini. First, I had to find out if he really did have similar feelings toward me. But with our lessons suspended, I couldn’t think of any way to do so.

  When I finally wrote to Gabriella, I conceded I’d been wrong about Bellini—what I’d perceived as aloofness really must have been shyness. I told her, too, how his shyness seemed to be wearing off a bit. But that was all.

  She replied:

  August 12, 1737

  My Dearest Emilia,

  Your letter took so long in arriving that I’d begun to fear you were angry with me for scolding you regarding your treatment of your fellow student. I’m glad you admit misjudging him. But you say little more. Surely with your music lessons suspended for the month you have plenty of time to write your poor, imprisoned friend.

  I’ll forgive your brevity this time for I have some delicious news. In just over a month I will finally quit this place for good. Thanks be to God! I will spend my sixteenth birthday in my own home. And what a wonderful homecoming I shall have—Mother and Father are planning a ball in my honor shortly after my return. Of course, you will be invited, as will a certain rich and handsome don. I hope Father will share an announcement about my future that evening. If so, it will be an answer to my prayers.

  I am counting the days until then!

  Your dearest friend,

  Lady Gabriella Maria Angiola Riccardi

  I smiled, not only at Gabriella’s good news but also at her continued resolve regarding Lord Lodovico Volpi, “the rich and handsome don” of her letter. Perhaps I would finally meet him at her ball.

  And perhaps I could persuade Gabriella to invite Bellini, too.

  ***

  Like Gabriella, I counted the days as well. Not to her homecoming but to my next music lesson.

  When the day finally arrived, I rose early. Nina helped me dress then I pressed her into assisting with my hair. We used my favorite tortoiseshell combs to pull my hair back in a way that would draw attention to my eyes—Mamma had often said they were my best feature. A sudden pang of sadness stabbed my heart. I raised a hand to my bodice. How I wished Mamma was here at this moment.

  “Is something wrong, Miss?” Nina asked.

  “No, Nina. I’m fine.” I quickly stood. “Thank you for your help.”

  Maria pa
used at the door of our room before heading off to her study. “You’re looking especially lovely this morning, Emmi. Do you have an engagement?”

  My face flushed. I mumbled something about wanting to keep my hair out of my eyes.

  Despite the extra time I took dressing, I was still early for my lesson. I practiced for a while but soon grew restless. I went to the balcony and gazed up at the gray September sky. The breeze carried a hint of autumn. The absence of birdsong was another sign of the coming change in season.

  “Buon giorno, Signorina Salvini.”

  I turned and curtsied. “Buon giorno, Signor Bellini.” Bellini’s smile seemed wider than usual, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. How had I not noticed it before?

  “You are looking well today, Signorina.”

  “Grazie.” I hurried to the harpsichord so he wouldn’t see me blush. An awkward silence followed. Bellini took his violin out of its case. Before I could think of anything to say, the maestro arrived.

  While Maestro Tomassini introduced our lesson for the day, I stole glances at Bellini. Once, I caught him watching me. I turned away quickly, shame-faced but exhilarated by his attention. Was it attention? Or was it happenstance? I had no way of knowing.

  As our lessons resumed their normal pattern, I was no closer to discovering Bellini’s feelings toward me. But I did grow surer of my own toward him.

  ***

  When the day of Gabriella’s ball arrived, I looked forward to not only being reunited with my friend but also to the possibility of seeing Bellini outside of our lessons.

  “I don’t understand why Father won’t let me come, too,” Isabella said. She was sitting in a chair near the window, watching as Nina helped Maria dress. “I love to dance.”

  Maria replied, “I wish he’d take you in my place.”

  “You need to hold still, Miss,” Nina said to Maria, “or I won’t be able to finish lacing these stays.” Maria had been agitated all day. I had no idea why.

  “Yes, Maria, you need to calm yourself,” I said. “Come, hold the bedpost here.” I took Maria’s hands and placed them on the bedpost just above her head. Then I kept my hands over hers while Nina tightened the gown’s bone stays.

  Nina gave a tug, and Maria cried out, “Ouch!”

  “Sorry, Miss,” Nina said. “Almost finished now.”

  Maria frowned. She tried to pull her hands free from mine, but I held tight. “I don’t see why we have to dress in these ridiculous gowns,” she said. “The panniers are so wide as to make walking awkward, and yet I can barely breathe.”

  “I think your gowns are magnificent,” Isabella said. “Mademoiselle Duval says wide panniers are all the rage in Paris.”

  “Isabella, you’re not helping,” I said. “Why don’t you go see if the hairdresser’s here yet.”

  “Oh, very well.”

  “There, Miss,” Nina said, patting Maria’s back. “All done.”

  Maria said, “At last!”

  “Thank you, Nina,” I said. “Would you go downstairs and make sure Isabella hasn’t trapped the hairdresser in the parlor?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  As soon as the door closed behind Nina, Maria said, “And that’s another thing. Why did Father insist on a professional hairdresser? Mademoiselle Duval could have done our hair.”

  “Mademoiselle Duval has enough on her mind running the household and caring for the little ones,” I said. “Besides, I think it will be wonderful to have our hair done by a professional.”

  I pulled out the dressing table chair and sat down carefully so as not to rumple my skirts. “I don’t understand why you’re upset, Maria. Aren’t you looking forward to all the music and dancing this evening?”

  “You know I like music, especially when you play, Emmi.” Maria gave me a small smile. “It’s the dancing I don’t care for.”

  “Not care for dancing? But why? You dance better than I do.” I wasn’t flattering Maria. Father had kept his long-ago promise to Mamma regarding Maria’s health—he’d required her to follow a strict regimen of dance lessons. As a result, Maria was much more practiced than I, and it showed.

  “Oh, I can perform the steps well enough, I suppose.” Maria eased herself onto the settee opposite me. “But what do I do if a man I barely know asks me to dance?”

  “Well, that’s simple enough.” I stood and demonstrated. “You curtsy like this and say, ‘Thank you. I would be honored.’ Then you take his hand.”

  “But I don’t want to take any man’s hand.”

  Maria looked so forlorn, I couldn’t help laughing. “It’s only a ball. No one is going to propose marriage.”

  She jumped up, her face suddenly flushed. “Don’t jest about such things.”

  “What is it, Maria? Has Father said something to you? Something about arranging your marriage?”

  “Not to me.” She placed a hand on the wooden bedpost as though to steady herself. “I overheard Father speaking with Mademoiselle Duval the day he told her about accepting the invitation to Lady Gabriella’s ball.” With her free hand, Maria grasped the gold cross she always wore and began running it back and forth along its chain. “After giving Mademoiselle Duval instructions about ordering new gowns for us, Father mentioned that Count Riccardi was inviting several possible suitors for Lady Gabriella to the ball. Father said it would only be a matter of time before the count announced her betrothal. Then Mademoiselle Duval commented on how Lady Gabriella was just one year older than I.”

  “Well, that’s true enough.” I sat down again. “That doesn’t mean—”

  “Wait. There’s more.” Maria let go of her cross and clutched the bedpost with both hands. “Mademoiselle Duval then said to Father, ‘Perhaps you will be announcing a betrothal soon, too.’ To which he replied, ‘I certainly hope so.’”

  “A betrothal?” I said. “Whose?”

  Maria leaned against the bed. The color drained from her face. “Whose can it be but mine?”

  “Yours? I think not. After all, Giovanni is eldest.”

  Maria shook her head. “Giovanni has years to go to finish his schooling. I, on the other hand, am already more educated than any nobleman’s daughter, and we aren’t even nobility.”

  Maria tugged at her skirts. “Besides, why else would Father have insisted on these ridiculous gowns and a professional hairdresser? He is putting us on exhibition this evening, Emmi. To attract suitors for us.”

  I couldn’t argue with her reasoning—I still recalled the argument Mamma and Father had had on the subject, an argument I’d never mentioned to Maria.

  “I must confess,” I said. “I once overheard Mamma and Father discuss our betrothals. Mamma said it was time to plan for your future, and mine, too. That was nearly a year ago, just after you turned fourteen, and now my fourteenth birthday is barely a week away. It would make sense for Father to seek suitors for both of us at the same time.” An image sprang to mind of Antonio Bellini playing the viola d’amore. I blushed. Fortunately, Maria was preoccupied with settling into the chair Isabella had vacated.

  I hid my face behind my fan. If Maria was right, I needn’t worry ever again about being sent to the convent. But now I wanted something more than simply avoiding the convent—I wanted to wed Antonio Bellini.

  “I wonder if Father has any particular suitors in mind,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ve been praying he’ll choose a husband for me who loves music as I do.”

  “I don’t want a husband, Emmi.” Worry filled Maria’s eyes. “I’ve been praying Father will allow me to take the veil.”

  “I can’t say that I’m surprised, but are you sure?”

  She squared her shoulders. “I made up my mind years ago.”

  “How could you decide something like that as a child?”

  “It’s my calling,” Maria said. “God told me so in a vision.”

  “A vision? I don’t understand.”

  “Do you remember when I had the terrible throat illness?” Maria said.
“You and Isabella had it first.”

  “How could I forget? You were so sick with fever I feared the doctor would bleed you the way Nonna Marianna had been bled.”

  Our grandmother had died shortly after being treated with leeches. Nonno Giuseppe blamed the doctors for Nonna’s death, calling them ciarlatani—quacks. He said they should never have bled Nonna when she was already weak.

  “The vision came during that fever,” Maria said. “But it was so clear it felt real. You and I were riding side by side in our best carriage. Outside the window, I saw ahead of us a blind woman begging at the side of the road. She stood leaning on a staff, for one of her legs was shriveled. Suddenly, she began hobbling into the road. I knew she wouldn’t be able to cross in time. I screamed, ‘Stop! For the love of God, stop the carriage!’ Our driver pulled up sharply and we all fell to the floor of the carriage. Father was with us, and another woman, too. I didn’t see her face, but she wasn’t Mamma. Father cursed in anger as he helped the woman up. When the driver opened the door to make sure we were unharmed, I ran outside to the beggar. She lay face down in a puddle in front of the carriage.” Maria pointed at the floor before her, as though the beggar lay there, in the room with us.

  Maria went on, “I was about to kneel to help her, but you stopped me. I was wearing an especially fine gown, and it would have been ruined. So I called to our footman and he turned the beggar onto her back. She groaned, and her eyes fluttered open. My heart filled with joy. I silently thanked God for sparing the beggar’s life. And that’s when God spoke to me.”

  “You heard God’s voice?”

  Maria nodded, closing her eyes. Her worried brow smoothed as she said, “God told me, ‘This is your calling, my child. To help the poor.’”

  Sitting there with her eyes shut and her chin raised, Maria smiled. Her expression reminded me of the peaceful look on Santa Clara’s face in the painting in Mamma’s sitting room.

  I hated to plant seeds of doubt, but I recalled all too clearly how confused Maria had been during her illness. “Are you sure it was a vision from God and not the fever? You were so delirious at the time you thought Mamma was me.”