The Violinist of Venice

by Alyssa Palombo

  “Oh, Adriana,” she said, embracing me. “Perhaps it is wrong of me to hope so,” she whispered, “but my fondest wish is for you to know this kind of love yourself.”

  And suddenly, before I realized it, my secret was spilling from my lips. “I have,” I whispered.

  She drew back quickly, surprised.

  “I have known such love,” I said softly. “Long ago, before I married Giacomo. Before you knew me.” I looked away from her alert, curious gaze, regretting having said anything. “I am sorry. I should not have spoken of it. This night is about you and Giuseppe.”

  “No, no,” she said, clasping my hands in hers. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

  For a moment, I actually considered it. But the overwhelming need for secrecy pressed in around me. Only a small part of me was willing to admit that I feared the censure I might see in Vittoria’s eyes if she were to learn who my lover had been, and that I could not bear. “No,” I said. “No, I should not. Forgive me. I should not have said anything. And this is not the time. We should rejoin the party, should we not? No doubt your future bridegroom is anxious without you…”

  Vittoria nodded, her gaze never leaving my face. “I understand, amica mia,” she said. “I understand.”

  Giuseppe and Vittoria were wed in a beautiful ceremony eight months later, in early May of 1722. The wedding took place in the chapel of the Pietà at Vittoria’s request, and Giuseppe was only too happy to acquiesce to anything his bride wanted. The feast that followed was held at Giuseppe’s palazzo, the new couple’s home.

  Vittoria looked more beautiful, more joyful, than I had ever seen her, and Giuseppe was just as ecstatic. The two could not help but constantly lean their heads in close to whisper to one another, or to steal a kiss.

  Other than the congratulations I extended to both outside the chapel, I was only able to speak to Giuseppe briefly during the feast. “Fratello carissimo,” I said, kissing both his cheeks. “I am sure I need not tell you how happy I am for you.”

  “I can imagine, sorella,” he said, beaming. “I know you have only ever wanted my happiness, as I have only wanted yours.”

  “It would seem your torment is at an end, then,” I said.

  “I never dared to dream of this day,” he said. “I now have more in one lifetime than I would ever have thought possible for an ordinary man.”

  I embraced him again. “Not ordinary, Giuseppe,” I whispered. “Never ordinary.”

  When the time came for the newlyweds to adjourn to their bedchamber, there was a great deal of the customary ribald cheering and explicit advice for both bride and groom. The ever-modest Vittoria blushed spectacularly, but I could see the excitement on her face all the same. Once they disappeared, I signaled to Giacomo that we should take our leave, and he was only too happy to comply.

  “Francesco is rolling in his grave, and no mistake,” he grumbled on our way out, as though he did not think I could hear him.

  But I had not the heart for arguing, not on that night. I simply ignored him, settling into the cushions of the gondola to take in our dark city. It seemed that true love could thrive in Venice after all, in this city of reflections and hidden depths.

  62

  ENSEMBLE

  My children were growing up healthy, happy, and intelligent as well; the kind of children any mother would be proud of. They all acquitted themselves well in their lessons, even if Padre Davide had to gently admonish Lucrezia for talking too much, and prod Cecilia into completing her arithmetic assignments. I caught her more than once persuading her twin to do her figures for her. Antonio was showing quite the proficiency for numbers, such as Cecilia had for languages—by the age of eight Cecilia could speak her native Italian as well as Latin and French. Her siblings spoke passable French and Latin, and Antonio had a particular fondness for Greek, about which Cecilia teased him—what use was such an old language?

  Lucrezia kept on with her singing lessons with Vittoria, and they were the high point of her week. That Vittoria was now truly an aunt to my children only added to my happiness with the arrangement.

  Yet never could I forget about the missing child in the schoolroom. Anna’s ghost followed me everywhere, and I saw her shadow in every corner of my other children’s lives. It was a pain that never ceased; rather, I simply became accustomed to its presence.

  * * *

  Ultimately, it was Cecilia who proved herself to be very much my daughter, in every sense. When she was eight, I caught her in my bedchamber, holding my violin—which was much too large for her—in position, squinting at the notes on a sheet of music.

  “Cecilia, child,” I said, stepping into the room, “whatever are you doing?”

  She faced me, chin held up defiantly. “I wanted to try.”

  “All you had to do was ask, cara; there was no need to go sneaking about,” I said. I gestured to the music on the stand. “Can you read it?”

  She scowled. “No. I thought it might make sense if I looked at it for a while, but…”

  “That is not surprising. It takes time to learn.” I came around to stand by her, freezing briefly when I saw she had selected Vivaldi’s A-minor concerto from L’estro; the one he had taught me to play, and played for me at the opera. “I will teach you to read music, if you like.”

  “Then I will be able to play this?” she asked.

  “You have much to learn first, Cecilia. You will have to work hard, just as your sister does with Zia Vittoria. Is this what you want to do?”

  “Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “It sounds so beautiful when you play. I want to be just like you.”

  It was one of those unexpected, childish confessions that surprised me every time. “Oh, cara,” I whispered, bending down and hugging her to me. “You will be your own person, and a better one than I, I hope.”

  She was not paying attention. “Did you write this?” she asked, her eyes on the music, in the way children have when they are small and assume that all the world around them is the doing of their parents.

  “No, I did not.”

  “Then who did?”

  I took a deep breath. “A man who is a great violinist, and a great composer. His name is Antonio Vivaldi.”

  “Does he live in Venice? Do you know him?”

  “He does, and yes. I do know him.”

  “Oh.” She scowled at the music again. “Someday I am going to play this,” she vowed.

  I hugged her tighter. “I think you will, carissima. In fact, I know it.”

  * * *

  And so I began to teach Cecilia—my daughter who was unexpected in so many ways—to read music, and to play the violin. She took to it quickly, soon growing bored with scales and arpeggios. Thus I was forced to find something she might be able to play, something simple that would nevertheless build her skills.

  I recalled my mother’s lullaby and wrote that down for Cecilia, in a simple form. When she mastered that, I added difficulty with ornaments and embellishments. After that, I was forced to begin writing simple pieces that would be suitable for her to play. I structured them as concerti, and could not always resist the temptation to fill in the rest of the orchestral parts.

  The lessons for my daughter became lessons for me, once again, after all this time. The hours spent at the harpsichord—which now stood in my own parlor—came back to me. Over the years I had heard the melodies, heard the chords and harmonies, but had never seemed able to find the time to write them down. But for Cecilia, I made time, even finding time to write down the other melodies I had been hearing, the ones that had found me over the years. They became sonatas and the occasional concerto for two violins. Nothing Cecilia could play quite yet, but for a young woman and her violinist lover, they would have been perfect. And some of them, I was surprised to find, were perfect for a mother who also happened to be a virtuoso violinist, and never ceased to daydream of what it might be like to have a stage to herself.

  63

  THE FOUR SEASONS

/>   While no great, grievous illness befell Giacomo, over the next two years his health slowly but steadily failed. He was sixty-two, after all, yet it took some time for me to reconcile the robust man I had married with this elderly one, who would take to his bed for days at a time.

  For every stretch of days that he remained abed, there would be another stretch when he insisted on being up and about, seeing to his government duties and setting his affairs in order. He had a new will drawn up, the contents of which were nothing extraordinary: I, as his widow, would be given control of his estate until Antonio reached his majority; there were also generous sums set aside for Lucrezia’s and Cecilia’s dowries.

  While I fully supported his foresight and initiative, I believed him a bit overdramatic in his belief that death was imminent. He still had many good years left—provided he minded his physician—yet it did not seem I could persuade him otherwise.

  It did not surprise me that once he had seen to his worldly affairs, he would look to his soul, and the no doubt questionable state in which he found it. He resolved the best way to set this right would be to make a donation to some godly institution—and which was more godly than the Pietà? The donation would not be enough, of course; he would also host a concert, so that others might be encouraged to donate as well.

  When he told me of this, during the Lenten season of 1724, my only response was to mildly inquire as to whether his health would permit such an endeavor. He indignantly assured me it would.

  This time, there was no mortal dread of coming face-to-face with the man who had single-handedly wreaked so much upheaval in my life and my heart. There was a bit of trepidation, but mostly annoyance. Finally I had managed to steady the rolling, heaving ship that my life had been for so many years, found peace and even happiness; and now he was going to return, like a storm that had the power to destroy everyone and everything in its path, with only God’s will to decide if there would be any survivors.

  But no, I told myself firmly. It was my will that ruled my life now. And surely I was strong now in a way that I had not been at nineteen years old.

  The Pietà responded swiftly to Senator Baldovino’s request. They were happy and honored to oblige, and would gladly send their orchestra, under the direction of Maestro Antonio Vivaldi, once Lent had ended.

  Indeed, the orchestra was currently putting the finishing touches on an “exceptional” new work by Maestro Vivaldi, and the concert which we were to host would be the perfect venue for the debut of such a work, if we were interested and agreeable.

  I was immediately overcome with an almost physical desire to hear it, and to be among the first outside of the Pietà’s stone walls to do so.

  Within the hour I had dispatched a reply, my irritation gone, and only anticipation remaining.

  I debated over whether or not to send an invitation to Tommaso Foscari and his wife. He had, after all, been the one to reinitiate friendly (or friendly enough, anyway) relations at Senator Barbo’s ball, long ago though it had been. In the end, I sent him an invitation. It would be up to him whether or not to accept—which he did.

  And so everything was set, waiting for the day to approach: the third of May, 1724. It could not come soon enough.

  * * *

  On the appointed day, I could not help but take much care with my dress and appearance, instructing Meneghina to dress me in the gown I had ordered especially for the occasion, having accurately predicted my state of mind on this day. It was of a vibrant, rose-colored pink, with a tight-fitting bodice and voluminous skirts, pinned and tucked just so, and inches of lace on the sleeves. Meneghina wove a strand of large pink diamonds through my elaborately pinned-up curls, and added a pair of teardrop-shaped diamond earrings, also pink. My neck and shoulders I left tantalizingly bare.

  Things proceeded much as they had at that first concert: Giacomo welcomed the members of the orchestra as they arrived, directing them to the ballroom. And once I was finished with my toilette, I joined him in greeting the guests.

  Though playing the role of the gracious and attentive hostess, inwardly I could think of nothing but the music. I could hardly bear all the polite social trivialities, so impatient was I for the concert to begin.

  The arrival of Giulietta and her husband pulled me from my reverie. “My, my, cara, how wonderful you look,” Giulietta said, eyeing me with approval. She heaved a false sigh and patted her own flawlessly arranged coiffure. “I always take such pains to outshine the hostess at these events, but it would seem that today I have been bested.”

  I laughed and embraced her, kissing her once on each cheek before she and Roberto moved on to mingle with the other guests.

  Not long after, Vittoria and Giuseppe arrived. “I am most excited for this new work,” Vittoria said, her smile wide as she looked up at Giuseppe. “I am afraid I have quite wearied my husband with all my talk and anticipation of this day.”

  Giuseppe smiled in return. “And how can I help but also anticipate with pleasure something which promises to bring you such happiness?”

  Their obvious joy and delight in each other had not dimmed since their wedding day. In the almost two years since they had been married, they happily flew in the face of custom by appearing everywhere—the opera, Carnevale festivities, parties—together, despite how unfashionable it was. And now Vittoria was expecting their first child in August.

  Giuseppe’s smile faded ever so slightly as he turned to me. “And how do you fare this day, sorella?” he asked, his eyes asking what he could not.

  I smiled. “I am well, Giuseppe, thank you.”

  He seemed unsure whether he should believe me, but he let it pass. I knew he would be keeping a close watch on me throughout the evening, as he always had, and the thought gave me strength.

  Once most of the guests had arrived, Giovanna brought the children, dressed in their finest, downstairs for the concert. I had promised they would hear some wonderful music today—violin music, I had specified for Cecilia’s sake—and, true to their mother’s blood in their veins, they had been excited for days.

  Settling Cecilia on one side of me and Lucrezia on the other, with Antonio next to her, I waved over Vittoria and Giuseppe, who readily came to sit with us. Giuseppe settled himself into the chair next to his nephew, who began to speak animatedly to his uncle. The three children—but Antonio especially—adored Giuseppe, seemingly more than they did their own father. And Giuseppe, bless him, fulfilled his role as someone for Antonio to look up to, perhaps sensing Giacomo fell short in that regard.

  Vivaldi’s presence was a humming under my skin, without my looking at him even once. Now I dared to sneak a glance in his direction, only to see him look at me in the exact same moment. I froze as our eyes locked, unable to look away. Mercifully, he broke the gaze, nodding in my direction. I returned the nod, and he continued arranging his scores on the music stand in front of him.

  He looked much older than he had the last time I had seen him. I knew that he must be well into his forties by now. His priests’ robes hung loosely off his thin frame, and his face had a number of lines I did not remember. A white wig covered his hair, but I would wager there were strands of gray in the fiery red now, as well.

  And neither am I as young as that girl who fell in love with him, I reminded myself, suddenly aware of my soft and heavy flesh beneath my gown and corset. We have both grown older, in more ways than just years.

  Giacomo came and took his seat beside Cecilia. Seeing that their host and hostess were seated, our guests quickly sought the nearest seat, their chatter ceasing. Such was the assembly’s eagerness to hear Vivaldi’s new music that even the gossip, the one pastime that Venetians sometimes preferred to music, had stopped.

  Vivaldi glanced at Giacomo and myself, seeking permission to begin. Giacomo, rather than making a speech of introduction, simply nodded to the maestro to commence. At this cue, Vivaldi rose from his seat and addressed the audience.

  “I must first thank our gracious host and ho
stess”—he bowed in our direction—“for having myself and the orchestra here today. I must also thank all of you for being so good as to attend.

  “What you are about to hear is a new work I have spent much time in composing and perfecting, and an equal amount of time rehearsing with these most capable musicians. And it bears a bit of explanation before we perform it for you, the first audience ever to hear it.

  “This work is a series of four concerti, each representing a different season,” he went on. “We shall go in the same order as does nature: beginning with spring, continuing on to summer and fall, and concluding with winter. The work as a whole is titled, as you might guess, Le quattro stagioni. The first concerto, Primavera,” he added, fastening his eyes on mine, “we would like to dedicate to our lovely hostess, as thanks for having us here this day.”

  His eyes lingered on mine just a moment longer, allowing me to hear all the things he could not say. Are you still writing music for me, caro mio? I wondered, an almost fathomless well of sadness opening within me. But when he took his seat once again, and the music began, all my sorrow was swept far away.

  The opening bars were lively and joyful, an exuberant, fitting herald of the coming of spring. Yet after the opening tutti came the first of many remarkable things we were to hear: Vivaldi sent his bow gliding over the highest string in a series of high-pitched notes and trills, mimicking almost exactly the chirping of a bird. Beside him, the second violinist played a passage that was very similar, an echo and a harmony.

  The second movement, a largo, was much more languid and melodic. As I listened, I suddenly found myself carried back to that rainy April night, more than a decade ago, when a rebellious eighteen-year old with music in her heart had sought out the great Maestro Vivaldi. Perhaps he had thought of the same night while writing this.

  I was so lost in the past that, when the largo ended and the last movement of the Spring concerto began, I was quite startled. The tone had again shifted to a joyous, celebratory one, with the solo melody playing almost a dance.