“Well enough,” I said. “And the children are well, which is all that matters. It is just strange, without him, even though…” I trailed off, and Tommaso nodded, understanding. “I have missed you as well,” I went on, and he briefly squeezed my hand. “I just do not know how much more mourning I can take. That is, I do not mean…”
He shook his head. “I understand. I know all too well the complicated emotions of a … marriage of convenience,” he said delicately. “But as Giacomo never begrudged your going out while he lived, I hardly think he should do so now.” He smiled. “And in Venice, no one need know you have been out rather than home grieving.”
I smiled. “And where are you taking me tonight?”
“A small concert I have heard of—some German harpsichordist who is traveling through,” Tommaso said. “He is to play some music by this obscure fellow named Bach. A friend of mine with no musical taste finds him deplorable, so I am certain that you and I will enjoy him greatly.”
Laughing together, we talked like old friends until we reached the concert. The first few visits with Tommaso had been somewhat awkward: him trying to hide the remnants of his pain, and me trying not to see it. But soon, somehow, it had become easier, effortless. And I saw the man I had known before, but more clearly, now that I was no longer afraid of him.
65
WAYS TO SING OF LOVE
It was my children who concocted the entire scheme. They appeared in my bedchamber one morning, as Meneghina was dressing my hair for the day.
I eyed the three of them in the mirror: devastatingly beautiful fourteen-year-old Lucrezia, with her long blond hair and heart-shaped face; Antonio, nearly thirteen and still a head shorter than his older sister, his light brown hair falling into his eyes; and Cecilia, taller than her twin and as beautiful as Lucrezia, if in a different, darker way. Vivaldi was right. She does look much like me. “What is this, my darlings?” I asked aloud. “Are you not due for your lessons now? Must I make excuses to Padre Davide?”
The three shot each other conspiratorial glances. “Yes,” Lucrezia said. “But we wanted to speak with you first.”
“We wish to put on a concert,” Cecilia announced. “We have been practicing, and wish to play for everyone—for you, and for Padre Davide, and Zio Giuseppe and Zia Vittoria, and Zia Giulietta, and—”
“And everyone,” Lucrezia finished impatiently. “Everyone who wishes to come and hear us.”
I turned on my chair to face them. “Are you sure that you are ready?” I asked. “You have practiced enough, and have enough music to play a whole concert?”
Antonio glanced uncertainly at his twin. “I can play some of the songs Crezia has learned with Zia Vittoria,” he said. “To accompany her. And Cecilia—”
“I have made up a violin part for some of them,” she said. “I just use parts of the accompaniment and the melody, and—”
“And we are learning more,” Lucrezia added.
“Yes,” Antonio added. “We need to practice more, but—”
“But if we knew we had a concert to prepare for, it would encourage us to practice,” Lucrezia said.
Smiling, I studied the three of them again, only slightly surprised. They were my children through and through, and I was thrilled to see how my blood—and my mother’s—had held true. “Very well,” I said. “We shall hold a concert here—say the last week of October. That gives you a little over a month to prepare. Will that be sufficient?”
“Oh, yes!” Antonio said.
Cecilia tossed her head. “We could be ready sooner,” she said.
“No doubt,” I said, my mind beginning to work. “But if, perhaps, you were to have some new music to learn as well—would that still be sufficient time?”
“Yes, certainly,” Lucrezia said. “What new music would you have us learn, Mother?”
I smiled. “I have not written it yet.”
* * *
I began work that day, writing a strange sort of song for voice, violin, and harpsichord. The violin part came first, naturally, and the harpsichord was a great deal simpler to write for than when one had an entire orchestra in mind. Lucrezia’s part, however, gave me pause; I had never written for the voice before, though I was certainly familiar enough with my daughter’s voice to feel up to the challenge. I enlisted Vittoria’s help in selecting a text, and in working words and melodies together.
“I have brought a book of Petrarch,” Vittoria said, when she arrived at my palazzo to lend her assistance. “Not very original, I know, but I do so love his poetry. I have a few sonnets in mind.”
“Yes, of course,” I murmured when I saw the first sonnet she had marked. I would sing of love in so new a way / I would draw a thousand sighs / from that hard heart, and light / a thousand noble desires in that chill mind …
It would be perfect, perfect for the music I was composing, and perfect for Lucrezia to sing; the sweetness of her voice could melt even the hardest of hearts.
“I rather thought that one would be best as well,” Vittoria said. “But Adriana, I knew not that you composed so much!”
“I am no Maestro Vivaldi, it is true,” I said. “But I have been writing music since I was a young girl. Some of it is passable enough.”
“More than that, I should say,” Vittoria said, studying the staves of what I had already written for the concert. “Why, you are quite accomplished!”
I smiled. “My experience is rather limited, all told.”
“But so you have formed your own coro of sorts,” she said, smiling. “I think it is lovely. I am so happy your children wish to perform.” Her eyes lit up, an idea coming to her. “But Adriana, you must play us something at the concert as well!”
“Me?” I asked. “Of course not. The day will be about the children.”
“Do not be silly!” she interjected. “They will love to see you perform, and so will your friends! Why, I do not think I have ever heard you play, not once in all these years!”
I grinned. “Very well, I will play—on one condition.”
“Name it.”
“That I may accompany you as you sing.”
Vittoria’s hands flew to her face. “Oh, Adriana! How can you even suggest such a thing? You know I cannot perform!”
“You must have performed masterfully at one time, for from what I hear you commanded many an audience from the balcony of the Pietà,” I said.
“You know that is not what I mean! I signed a contract which forbids me from performing in public.”
“Vittoria,” I said, “my piano nobile is not ‘public.’”
She paused. “I suppose you are right about that,” she said. “But I … oh, I just do not know if I can! It has been so long.”
“You will have to practice, as the children do,” I said.
“I do not know,” she said. “I will have to think on it, and consult Giuseppe, and make sure he is comfortable with the idea.”
I rolled my eyes. “When have you ever known my brother to deny you anything?” I asked. “He will be more delighted than anyone.”
In typical Vittoria fashion, she begged me to give her time to consider it further, and we turned our attention back to Lucrezia’s melody.
Later that week, however, Vittoria asked me to tea and gave me her answer.
“I will do it,” she said, her eyes shining with excitement. “You were right, Giuseppe is thrilled. And since it will not technically be in public, I do not think it violates the contract.”
“Of course it does not,” I said. “Oh, Vittoria, this is wonderful! Have you decided what you shall sing?”
“I shall write to Maestro Vivaldi and have him send us something,” she said. “Something for soprano and violin; whatever he thinks is best. If that is agreeable to you.”
Already my fingers were itching for the strings of my violin, to play something of Vivaldi’s I had never seen. “Oh, yes,” I said. “I am perfectly agreeable.”
* * *
The night of th
e concert, Vittoria and I had decided that we would go first, and then leave the stage to the children.
“Oh, I so hope it goes well!” she said, pacing nervously. “Not just for me, but for the children as well!”
“It will all be fine, cara,” I promised her. I adjusted the sleeves of my gown. “It is going to be a wonderful evening.”
We went downstairs, where guests had begun seating themselves, directed by Giuseppe. The children were waiting in the small parlor of the piano nobile.
“Are you nervous, my darlings?” I asked them.
“No,” Lucrezia said, though she looked uncertain.
Antonio shook his head, though I noticed he was a bit pale.
“No,” Cecilia said, sounding as if she were the only one who meant it.
“Good,” I said. “You must play as you do when it is just you three, and forget anyone else is listening.”
“The only reason you will ever have to be nervous,” Vittoria added, “is if you do not know your music well enough. And you three have it well in hand.”
I smiled at her. “Wise words,” I said pointedly.
She blushed. “For me it is a bit different.”
“Should we begin soon? Is it time?” Although Lucrezia was trying hard to act the poised young woman—dressed in her finest pale pink dress, her hair artfully pinned up like a lady’s—she was near to bouncing up and down in excitement.
“I think that it is time,” Vittoria said hesitantly. “Shall we?”
We filed out of the parlor and into the main floor of the piano nobile, where instruments and music had already been assembled. The audience applauded as we entered. I saw Giuseppe seated in the front with Marco, their oldest son—Adriana (named in my honor) and her baby brother, little Giuseppino, having been left at home with their nursemaid—and a couple of his friends and their children. Donna Barbo and her husband, Senator Barbo, sat in the second row—Donna Barbo and I had taken to calling upon each other often, and though she was a great deal older than I, she was excellent company, with her sharp intelligence and even sharper wit. Beside her sat Giulietta and Mario, then Tommaso Foscari and his three children, who had become fast friends with my own: Isabella, Andrea, and Pia. In the last row sat Padre Davide, Giovanna, Meneghina, and Antonio’s harpsichord instructor, Maestro Ferro.
The children went to sit with their uncle, and Vittoria and I took our places. “Friends,” I said, addressing the assembly, “thank you for coming. My children have put together this program all on their own, with little help from me or their teachers. I am so happy you could all come, to hear their hard work and talent for yourselves.”
I turned to Vittoria. “I could not, however—and my children agreed—pass up this opportunity to showcase another great talent among us. Without further ado, signori e signore, my dearest friend and sister-in-law, Vittoria Rivalli, formerly Vittoria della Pietà.”
Everyone applauded, and I took a moment to retrieve my violin—Vivaldi’s violin, the one he had given me and which I had played ever since—from its case. I tightened the bow, checked the tuning, then glanced at Vittoria. When she nodded, I began to play.
The lilting yet flowing violin melody seemed to fall from the strings of its own accord. After my few measures of introduction, Vittoria began to sing.
“Domine deus, rex coelestis,” she sang, her sweet yet powerful voice filling the whole room. “Deus pater, deus pater.”
She sang on, her voice tumbling through the long, melismatic passages. I struggled to keep my mind on my own playing, so engrossed was I in listening to her. As marvelous as she had sounded in practice, here she was otherworldly.
Sometimes my part doubled hers, and sometimes I went off on my own, playing little flurries of figures behind and between her singing. It was, in truth, a conversation between soprano and violin, and during practice we had learned to make it so, ensuring that neither part overpowered the other—though in truth I felt certain Vittoria’s performance would outshine mine no matter what.
Soon enough we had reached the end of the aria, and I played the final measures, slowly bringing the piece to a close.
The applause was instantaneous. I could see that Vittoria was flushed, and her face almost could not contain her grin.
So this is what she gave up, I mused, looking out at the applauding audience. I felt my own grin stretch wide as I realized that they were also applauding for me.
Once the applause ended, we took our seats. “Beautiful,” Giuseppe murmured, leaning over to kiss Vittoria. “The angels themselves are jealous,” he said, smiling at us both, “for there are no finer musicians in all the celestial choir.”
Then the attention shifted to the children, as it should. Lucrezia, dimpling prettily at the audience, explained that their first piece was an old love song that her Zia Vittoria had taught her. Without further ado they began, Antonio playing a short introduction on the harpsichord, joined by Cecilia, who had added trills and ornaments to the simple piece. I thought I caught her throwing a glance at Andrea Foscari, to see if he noticed her skillful playing.
I found myself quite forgetting that I was listening to my own children. While they were perhaps not quite as polished as the musicians from the Pietà, that their skills went beyond their ages was obvious. Although Lucrezia’s voice was not as strong or mature as Vittoria’s, she projected it well, and had a lovely vibrato. Vittoria was certain that she was a soprano; she said there were certain telltale signs: her facility at handling and sustaining the higher notes, the lighter coloring of her voice.
Next, they moved on to a song by Alessandro Scarlatti, entitled “Sento nel core.” Maestro Scarlatti had died just a few years before; a tragedy, to be sure, for having seen many of his operas, I had grown quite fond of his work.
The song—which Vittoria had told me was perhaps more appropriate for an older singer, with a heavier voice, but Lucrezia had insisted—sounded lovely even stripped down to a bare accompaniment. Yet as much as Lucrezia captivated the audience with her shimmering voice, and Antonio solidly provided the basis of the whole endeavor, I found my attention continually drawn back to Cecilia.
She played well, better than I had at her age. She lost herself in the music, played the emotion of it as Vivaldi had always said I must, found the heart of each phrase, each note, and leaned on it until the listener nearly gave way beneath her.
She had much still to learn, but her gift was monumental. If she trained it properly, she would be greater than I ever could be. She could, I realized, tears stinging my eyes, make good on her promise to Vivaldi and someday play as well as he.
But for what? So she could marry someday, and play for and teach her children, and have no one beyond her own piano nobile ever know what a talent she was?
In that instant, I was angrier at the injustice of it all on my daughter’s behalf than I had ever been on my own. But, I thought, has this not always been enough for me? Is music not an end in and of itself?
After this song, Cecilia lowered her violin and spoke to the audience, sounding far more poised and mature than her not yet thirteen years would account for. “You have heard, earlier, that our mother is a most accomplished violinist. Yet what most people do not know is that she is also a talented composer. She has written this next piece for us, so that we might share it with you.”
With that, she set her instrument into place again and, with a nod to Antonio, began.
This was not like the concerti I had written as a young woman, melancholy and minor and full of despair at the future I knew awaited me. No, this was light and deliberately simple, a song for my children, a song of love.
“I would sing of love in so new a way,” Lucrezia began, the lively and vibrant melody falling from her lips like a shower of gentle spring rain. Cecilia’s violin part, which I had set to both imitate and embellish the melody, danced with her sister’s singing, creating a harmonious counterpoint that rang out more brilliantly than I had ever imagined it could when I placed thos
e blots of ink on the page. Even Antonio’s part had an echo of the melody here and there, not just the simple chords that were usually given to the harpsichord.
They performed it just as I had imagined they would, and better. No, I could not have written that; whatever I did write they have taken and transformed and made into their own, into something better than I dreamed. And when they finished, Lucrezia was pulling me back up to the front of the room, to bow again. I knew I should say something else, if the applause ever faded; congratulate my children, say how proud I was. But I could not find the words.
My teary eyes flitted from Giuseppe and Vittoria to my nephew to my friends and then to Tommaso Foscari, wearing a huge smile and looking as proud of me as Giuseppe had been of Vittoria.
Surely there are many, many new ways to sing of love; ways that I have yet to discover or even imagine.
MOVEMENT SEVEN
THE RED PRIEST’S ANNINA
November 1727–April 1734
66
ORLANDO FURIOSO
I did not see Anna Girò make her operatic debut in Venice, in Albinoni’s Laodicea, in 1724. Nor did I go to see her sing in her first role that Vivaldi wrote for her, in his opera Farnace, which premiered at the Teatro Sant’ Angelo in February of 1727.
In truth, I was torn by uncertainty. The desire to see my daughter—fueled in no small part by simple curiosity—was almost overwhelming. Yet still I resisted.
Anna Girò was slowly becoming the talk of Venice. Her early performances did not receive much praise, when she was noticed at all among the crowd of ostentatious divas and preening castrati. Yet it had been conceded by many of the operatic critics that she was quite young and had potential, once she had learned more about singing and the operatic stage.
However, she remained a relative nonentity in the opera world until she was taken on as a protégée by the great Maestro Antonio Vivaldi.
The Violinist of Venice Page 34
