He nodded uncomfortably. “Yes, of course. Your guests.”
“Yes,” I replied. I took a deep breath. “Addio, Antonio.” This time when I walked past him, he let me go.
I could hardly return to my guests in this state, so I climbed back up the stairs and ducked into the small parlor outside of the main room of the piano nobile. I sank down onto a daybed, doing my best to stitch myself back together.
A few moments later, the door opened slightly and the elegantly coiffed head of Vittoria Cassenti appeared. “Why, Donna Baldovino,” she said, stepping fully into the room. “Everyone is quite at a loss as to where you vanished to.”
We were both silent as she took in my appearance. “Are you quite well, Adriana?” she asked, lowering her voice.
“Yes,” I answered quickly. “That is, no, I was feeling unwell, and so I stepped in here to collect myself…”
She crossed the room and sat beside me. “I understand,” she said, sliding an arm around my shoulders, and I found myself leaning into her strong yet slender frame.
“There are so many things in a woman’s heart of which she can never speak,” she said gently, without accusation or curiosity.
And as I accepted her comfort, I wondered, fleetingly, how a girl who had grown up hidden away in a cloister could be so very wise.
52
CONSONANCE
I managed to get through dinner without further incident—a dinner at which many of the guests expressed their admiration for the mystery concerto.
“Whoever that composer is, he has quite a career ahead of him, should he choose to reveal himself,” Don Cassenti said.
I felt Vivaldi’s eyes on me, and allowed myself a small, secret smile.
Thankfully, both Vittoria Cassenti and Giulietta Grimaldi were seated near me, and I was able to pass some of the meal in conversation with them—as much as my duties as hostess would permit, anyway.
I was not sorry when the evening came to an end, though it had not been without its happier moments: Vittoria promised to call upon me at my earliest convenience, and Giulietta Grimaldi and her husband extended an invitation to a party they were giving on the first night of Carnevale. I had not realized how my life had suffered all these years without female companions whose company I enjoyed and looked forward to.
So excited was I by the idea of having friends that I could scarcely wait to take Vittoria up on her offer. Only two days later, I sent her a note, saying that I hoped she might be able to pay me a visit that day. I received a speedy reply, telling me she would be along within the hour.
I received my guest in the same small parlor where she had happened upon me the evening of the party. The servants prepared some mulled wine for us to ward off the November chill. There were two steaming glasses waiting when she arrived.
“I thank you for your kind invitation,” Vittoria said, gratefully accepting the glass. “These empty winter days have made me rather melancholy. At the Pietà we were always so busy, or at prayer. Though I am very much looking forward to fully experiencing Carnevale for the first time.”
“They do not celebrate Carnevale at the Pietà, then?” I asked teasingly.
She laughed. “Hardly. We were never allowed outside the cloister except under close supervision, and they took even more care with us during Carnevale, for obvious reasons.”
Vivaldi’s voice rang in my head: I did not much care for their rules … rules for performing, for practicing, for the types of music that could be performed …
“You were much bound by restrictions there, then?” I asked.
She laughed again. “That is putting it mildly,” she said. “There were rules for everything: speaking, praying, eating, rehearsing, even sleeping.” She shrugged. “But it was not that bad. After all…” A dreamy look came over her face. “There was music, always music. Glorious music, especially once Maestro Vivaldi began composing for us.” She sighed. “And even so … the rules, the confinement, they did chafe on one. All I could think of was the freedom of the outside world; I did not think long enough on what I would be giving up when I decided to leave and marry. I miss singing, performing; miss it more than I think I would miss one of my limbs if it were to be cut off.”
Her choice of phrase shocked me, not for its passion and severity but because I had once had the very same thought about the violin. “And your husband?” I asked, without thinking. “Do you not love him?” I blushed. “I do beg your pardon. I should not have asked you such a question. It was unspeakably rude of me.”
“No, no,” she assured me. “It is a fair question. In fact, you do me a great service by allowing me to unburden myself. My few friends are all still at the Pietà, so I have no one to whom I may speak freely.”
“You may speak freely with me,” I said.
“Francesco … he is not the dashing, fairy-tale prince I believed him to be when he first asked for my hand,” Vittoria said, after a moment of reflection. “But he never claimed to be anything other than what he is. I allowed myself to be caught up in the romance of it all: a man asking for my hand even when he had never seen my face, only heard me sing from behind a grille. It was so easy to imagine he was a knight out of an old tale of courtly love, come to rescue me. When I married him, I was madly in love with this vision I had of him, but not with him.” She shook her head and laughed sadly. “What a naïve fool I was.”
For a moment, it seemed that I was looking at a younger version of my mother. Had she, too, been disappointed by the harsh indifference of reality to a young girl’s dreams? Even I, who had been no virgin in a cloister, who had known more of the world than either of them, had allowed myself to believe in a love so absolute it could destroy all other realities, or at least make them no longer matter.
“Not a fool,” I said at last. “Not at all. Very few of us end up living the life of which we may have dreamt.” I looked down at my hands. “No doubt you have gathered that my marriage to Giacomo is no grand love match, either.”
“I had guessed as much, yes,” Vittoria said. “You have too much spirit for an aging gentleman like him.”
I smiled at her delicate phrasing.
Impulsively, she reached out and squeezed my hand. “Do not worry,” she said, before releasing me. “You are not alone.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling. “It has felt that way, all too often.”
A companionable silence stretched between us before Vittoria spoke again. “I must apologize. I have quite dominated our conversation with my past, which can hardly have been interesting.”
“On the contrary,” I said. “I have always been curious about life within the Pietà. My mother was a ward there before she married my father.”
“Ah, yes,” Vittoria said. “I believe your husband mentioned that. She was a singer as well, is that what he said?”
“Yes, a soprano. Her name was Lucrezia della Pietà, and she became Lucrezia d’Amato.”
“Lucrezia della Pietà!” she exclaimed “She was one of the best ever to sing there, or so the maestre used to say.”
“Yes. She would sing to me when I was a child, and I remember thinking an angel must have lent her that voice.”
“I can imagine,” Vittoria said. “Well, then, perhaps now you are better able to picture what her life would have been like as a girl—no doubt it is a world that seems very foreign to you.”
I laughed. “Some of what you have described is more familiar to me than you can perhaps guess.”
“Oh?”
I nodded. “There were many rules confining me as well. After my mother died, my father became very strict, protective…” I trailed off; how to describe something that I still did not understand myself? “I was not allowed to go out into society until I came of marriageable age, each invitation carefully scrutinized. And he stopped my violin lessons and forbade me to study music.”
Vittoria looked at me closely, then raised an eyebrow. “And now?”
“What do you mean?”
I had no answer for her. Giacomo would not deny me such a simple thing if it would bring me joy. And, I realized with a shock, I was my own mistress now.
But the thought of playing the violin again caused an uncomfortable twisting in my stomach.
“I do not know,” I said finally. “I could, I suppose, but it has been so long…”
“Perhaps someday, then,” Vittoria said, in a tone that indicated she would leave the topic if I wished.
I forced a smile and took a sip of my wine, thankful our talk then turned to other things. Vittoria and her husband had also received an invitation to Giulietta Grimaldi’s party, much to my excitement. “Francesco has promised to accompany me, even though it is not fashionable for a husband and wife to appear in each other’s company.” She rolled her eyes. “He tells me he cannot wait to introduce me to my first Carnevale.”
“There is something about one’s first Carnevale,” I said wistfully, remembering. Vittoria raised her eyebrows expectantly; blushing, I quickly returned to the topic at hand. “Yes, Giacomo will be accompanying me as well. He is not the most sociable man, as you no doubt know, but he would not fail to attend a party given by such a close friend.”
“I shall look forward to seeing you there, then,” Vittoria said, rising from her seat. “Now I pray that you will excuse me, as I must be on my way home. Francesco and I will be dining soon.”
I rose as well. “Of course. And thank you for calling on me. I have not…” I bit my lip, somewhat self-conscious. “I have not had many good friends in my life.”
She smiled. “Nor I. I shall be glad and honored to call you my friend, Adriana.”
“The honor will be all mine,” I said. And with that, Vittoria departed, leaving me happier than I had been in a long time.
* * *
I had to lean in close to hear Giulietta Grimaldi over the noise around us: other guests of the Loredan family talking, laughing, the music of the orchestra. “And then, if you can believe, she said to me—”
A woman behind me in a blue and green peacock’s mask, with feather plumage to match, let out a shrill laugh just then, drowning out Giulietta’s words. “Che? I did not hear you, amica,” I said, nearly shouting.
She pursed her lips in a pretty pout, one she had perfected to the devastation of many a Venetian gentleman. “It is far too crowded in here, and we cannot even hear one another gossip! Shall we go to the Ridotto, then?”
“Because the Ridotto will not be crowded at all,” Vittoria said, rolling her eyes behind her mask. “And honestly, Giulietta, I do not know how you can gamble so much.”
“Where, then? It is too early to eat dinner— Oh, for the love of God and all the saints, it is so hot in here,” Giulietta complained, snapping open a fan and flapping it vigorously. “Where has Mario gotten to? Ah!”
Giulietta broke off when she saw Mario Albonini across the room. She waggled her fingers at him, and he excused himself and began to move toward us.
“We need some air, caro, and we have quite tired of this crowd,” she said when he drew near enough. “Do come fetch us when the gondola is ready, si?”
Mario nodded, kissing Giulietta’s hand, and went off to do her bidding.
Mario was Giulietta’s cicisbeo: a lover whose name was included in the marriage contract as part of the arrangement between husband and wife. I had heard of this practice before; it was quite fashionable among a nobility comprised of aging men who took young wives. In such cases, the older husband was often glad his wife had someone nearer her own age to squire her to parties and other entertainments. It was a strange arrangement, but Giulietta and her husband were both perfectly comfortable with it, and she and Mario seemed to care a great deal for each other. Mario would take Giulietta wherever she wished to go, bring her gifts, and write her poems, while she would repay him with certain favors which—as she told Vittoria and me in a giggling whisper—she was only too happy to provide.
“We still have not decided where we are going,” Vittoria pointed out as we began to move toward the door.
Giulietta smiled. “Do you mean to tell me the convent girl has not yet had her fill of merrymaking for the night?”
Vittoria laughed, a light, carefree sound. “Hardly!”
I had been surprised to learn that Giulietta and Vittoria were already friends; I would not have expected the pious, introspective Vittoria to get along so well with someone like the outgoing, flamboyant Giulietta, but I was wrong and gladly so. Giulietta had taken it upon herself to serve as our guide into the tangled thicket of the Venetian nobility, a jungle which, she informed us cheerfully, we were both novices at navigating.
“Let us go to Piazza San Marco!” I said suddenly.
Both of my friends stopped, looking at me quizzically. “Have you never been to Piazza San Marco during Carnevale?” I asked Giulietta.
“When there are parties to go to? No,” she answered. “Whatever is there to do in la piazza?”
“Oh, you will see!” I said excitedly. When Giulietta still looked doubtful, I added, “There are wine vendors.”
“Well, in that case,” she said. “I suppose it is worth a try. Leonardo, andiamo!” She waved to Leonardo Franchetti, a friend of Mario’s and another member of our party. Leonardo joined us, wrapping one arm around my waist and one around Vittoria’s. “Where are we off to, my lovelies?” he asked.
“Piazza San Marco, apparently,” Giulietta said.
As Giulietta had Mario, Leonardo fulfilled the more chaste role of cavaliere servente for Vittoria and me: he accompanied us to all social functions, brought us flowers and little gifts, and even wrote us a terrible poem or two, as in the game of courtly love. He had become a good friend, and was the final member of this merry group of ours that had formed over the course of the Carnevale festivities.
We left the palazzo and the party and climbed into our gondola. The other houses we passed were all brightly lit, with the noise of parties and dinners and concerts pouring out of each one. My eyes drank it all in hungrily. Even this late in the Carnevale season, the unbridled excess and scandal and pleasure of my city still fascinated me. Tommaso Foscari had been careful only to escort me to events of which my father would approve, never keeping me out too late. I had never truly experienced the freedom of Venice until now.
As we passed one of the palazzi along the Grand Canal, I peered at a man in a black cloak with a familiar hawk mask helping a woman—a courtesan, judging by her breast-baring neckline—into a gondola. Giacomo.
I looked away, pretending I had not seen, as any good Venetian wife was expected to. I knew that when we went out separately—as we often did—he enjoyed the company of the occasional courtesan, but it did not bother me, as I hardly envied any of them a place in his bed. There were, of course, times when we both returned early in the morning from our respective entertainments and he exerted his husbandly privilege, bolstered by the wine he had consumed. It appeared this evening I would be spared.
When we reached Piazza San Marco, Giulietta and Vittoria were just as enchanted as I had known they would be. There were no fireworks this night, but the jugglers and tumblers and magicians were out in force, and my friends gasped and whooped at their exploits. We moved through the crowd, each with a cup of mulled wine in our hand. We had quite misplaced Mario and Leonardo, but I could not say that we minded.
Just as Giulietta was suggesting we adjourn to a restaurant for dinner, I thought I saw the old gypsy fortune-teller lurking behind one of the pillars that ringed the square. But when I turned to look more closely, there was no one there.
I put my back to the columns and joined my friends’ conversation again, letting the past retreat back to the shadows, where it belonged.
53
STABAT MATER DOLOROSA
I was quite sad to see Carnevale end. There would be no more entertainments f
or the next forty days, while Venice began the tedious process of repenting of our sins during Lent’s somber season.
I further lamented when Giacomo made a most unwelcome announcement at dinner on the first Saturday after Ash Wednesday. “We will be attending Mass tomorrow morning at the Pietà,” he informed me. “So be sure to rise and make yourself ready.”
“Oh?” I asked, raising an eyebrow with practiced composure. “Suddenly so pious, marito?”
He chuckled. “I have neglected piety a great deal of late, it is true,” he said. “But I mean to begin attending again with you. No doubt you will find the music the coro performs during Mass just as enjoyable as their performance here. Also,” he added, “tomorrow the coro is to premiere a new work by il Prete Rosso, and I mean to hear it.”
I felt that old vibration of longing, as though someone had taken a bow to the strings of my heart. “As you wish, marito,” I said, bowing my head to hide my discomfort.
* * *
The chapel was crowded when we arrived, but Giacomo seated us in one of the first pews, reserved for the nobility. I cast my gaze at those sitting around us, hoping that perhaps Vittoria might be among them. I did not see her.
Sighing, I turned my attention to the simple beauty of the chapel. I had been far too distraught on my wedding day to appreciate the painting of the Blessed Mother over the altar, and the high, graceful dome with windows beneath it allowing sunlight to spill in. To my left was the choir loft, where the members of the coro filed onto the balcony and took their places behind the grille in a blur of indistinct shapes and colors.
Just then, the Mass began. The words of the priest and the mumbled replies of the congregation faded into a dull blur of sound as I tried to regulate my breathing. The past few days had found me quite ill in the morning—a pattern I knew too well and couldn’t bring myself to think on just yet. It was an unseasonably warm, muggy day, and as such the air inside the chapel was heavy from the closely packed bodies within, oppressively so.
The Violinist of Venice Page 27
