Vivaldi, it seemed, was both teaching her how to be a great diva, as well as writing roles for her low voice—unusually low for someone so young. And in Venice, where no morsel was too small to make a fattening meal of gossip, the exclusive attention paid by a well-known composer, impresario, and violinist to a heretofore unknown singer gave society’s tongues plenty to wag about.
For a while it was accepted that she was simply the maestro’s favorite pupil. Yet by the time it was announced that she was to appear as the sorceress Alcina in Vivaldi’s Orlando furioso, premiering at the Sant’ Angelo in November of 1727, the rumors had begun to brew into the storm that would hang over Vivaldi’s head for the rest of his life.
While there was the odd critic who raved about her performance in Farnace, most critics and the discerning, operagoing Venetian public seemed to think that while her acting skills were of an extremely high quality, her voice was not. And, everyone was asking, should not Vivaldi know this better than anyone? Why, then, was he devoting so much of his surely valuable time to a rather unremarkable student?
Only three souls living knew the truth: Vivaldi, Giuseppe, and I. I knew without needing to be told that Anna still did not know the truth of her parentage. I also knew Vivaldi would not reveal it to her, out of respect for me and for the secret we had scrupulously kept all these years.
But as far as the rest of Venice was concerned, there must be only one explanation: Anna Girò was Vivaldi’s mistress. It was whispered by the most notorious gossips until it became common knowledge. Already they were calling Anna l’Annina del Prete Rosso: the Red Priest’s Annina.
My initial reaction to the rumors was horror; luckily, it was from Giuseppe that I heard it first, so there was no need to hide my response. Yet eventually—though my disgust with those who delighted in such unproven rumors did not abate—that horror faded, replaced by a rather wry sense of irony.
This was all in addition to the reputation Vivaldi had gained of late for being somewhat grasping, determined to receive his due for his art at any cost. He was, it was said, capable of being a most unpleasant man when crossed. I could not quite reconcile these accounts with the man I had known so well. Could he truly have changed so much?
I had found excuses to absent myself when my friends were going to hear Anna sing, yet I found my resolve weakening as they made plans to go to the opening night of Orlando furioso. It weakened even more when Giuseppe came to try to talk me into attending.
“I told them that as your brother I would have the best chance of getting you to agree,” he said, standing before the fireplace. “They do not know, of course, all the arguments I might present, nor the true reason you are so reluctant.”
I did not speak.
“They—Vittoria and Giulietta, and even Mario—are beginning to wonder in earnest why you have not wanted to hear her thus far,” he said.
I laughed mirthlessly. “Such a tactic is beneath you, fratello.”
He shrugged. “You may think so, but nonetheless what I say is true. The pieces are all there for someone to assemble if they may.”
“I do not think that anyone living is in possession of all the pieces,” I said. “Giacomo may have been able to put the picture together, had he lived.”
“I do not think you give your friends enough credit,” he said. “Especially Vittoria.”
My head snapped up. “Has she said something to you?”
“No,” he said. “But you know that she is quite perceptive. And I know not the things you may have said to her over the years.”
I fell silent, considering all the slips—and near slips—of the tongue I had had.
“You will be able to see her,” Giuseppe said softly. “How long have you waited for this chance?”
Am I being a fool? And am I betraying the secret I have tried so hard to keep by my reluctance? “By the Virgin, I am too old for such intrigue,” I said aloud. “Very well, I shall go.”
Giuseppe smiled. “Good. Your friends will be pleased. And I will be there, sorella mia. You may depend upon me.”
“I know.” I smiled at him. “I always have.”
67
COSÌ POTESSI ANCH’IO
And so, on the evening of November 10, 1727, I found myself in the Cassenti box at the Teatro Sant’ Angelo, from which I had seen countless operatic performances, and followed the careers of singers and composers alike. Yet never before had I seen a performance like this one.
I tried to focus my attention on the stage right from the beginning, but my mind was a blur of thoughts and my stomach was churning. Once the dark and haunting opening sinfonia had ended, I could not bring myself to concentrate. Even Vivaldi’s music could not drown out the refrain echoing in my mind: Any moment now, my daughter, mia figlia, my firstborn, will appear on that stage.
Much to my annoyance, my friends were engaging in their usual games and conversation in the rear of the box, and I could hear them even from where I sat at the front. And they had all been so anxious to attend, or so I thought, I reflected irritably. Yet to my surprise, it was Giulietta who finally brought everyone to order. “Come, mieri cari, we must quiet down and not disturb Adriana. After all, it is the first time she is seeing Anna Girò.”
With that, they all filed out to take their seats in the front of the box with me. Giuseppe contrived to sit beside me, swiftly reaching out to squeeze my hand before anyone could see.
I had to fight back the tears that threatened at his gesture. Oh, what am I doing here? I cried inwardly. How can I see my daughter stand upon that stage, open to the criticism and judgment of all Venice, and still retain my composure? I should leave, leave now, plead some illness and not put myself through this …
Then she swept onto the stage, and every last thought fled so quickly that I could not hope to recall them.
Even at the young age of sixteen years, her body was that of a woman: she had inherited my curvaceous figure and full breasts, displayed to their best advantage by the low neckline of her costume. A long, braided black wig concealed her true hair color, but I began to imagine that it was dark brown, like mine.
So lost was I in studying her that I scarcely noticed she had begun to sing. Gradually I came to realize that what so many had said of her voice was true, and the knowledge was a dull, blunt blade between my ribs. As much as the mother in me wished otherwise, the musician in me could not deny the truth.
Anna had not inherited her grandmother’s gift, then. Yet it could not be denied that she was the most commanding actor on the stage. Every gesture, every movement, every facial expression drew the eye and brought to life the words that she was singing, so that she seemed a sorceress, indeed: one who could make the audience believe entirely what was happening before them.
In between picking out more points of resemblance—she has my nose, though her skin is paler, like her father’s—I listened closely to her singing, and a number of good qualities began to emerge. When she created more space within her mouth to let the sound resonate, for example—a technique I knew from sitting in on some of Lucrezia’s lessons with Vittoria—the result was a big, rich, darkly textured sound that sent chills through me. Yet despite the heaviness of her voice, she moved with ease through the ornaments and trills as the opera went on.
The height of her power over the audience—myself included—came during what was Alcina’s most beautiful and sympathetic aria, in act two.
“Così potessi anch’io,” she sang sorrowfully, wrapping her arms around herself in a gesture of desolation. “Goder coll’idol mio, la pace che trovar non può il mio cor.”
The words of the aria—and her masterful singing of it, as if she had been saving all that she had for that moment—caused me to tremble. If only I, too, could enjoy with the one I love the peace my heart cannot find …
The words reflected my own fragile hope of so many years ago. And Vivaldi’s marvelous music, his melody and skillful word painting—which made it seem as if Alcina were alternately wee
ping and raging—only served to heighten this effect, creating more truth than words by themselves ever could.
Selfishly, I could not help but wonder if this, too, Vivaldi had written for me. Was he trying to say to me that he, too, wished for the same things, had always wished for them? After all, how better for him to ensure that I hear his message than by putting it in the mouth of our daughter?
True to custom, Anna added a great deal of embellishments and ornaments as the first section of the aria repeated again, showcasing a technical virtuosity which I had not heretofore glimpsed. Surely now no one can doubt what he sees in her. And indeed, the applause at the conclusion of the aria was quite robust.
As soon as the applause ended, I rose from my seat and exited the box, so swiftly that no one had time to question me. I walked out to the foyer of the theater, where I hoped no one would happen upon me, and finally let loose the tears I had struggled to hide.
I was trying to compose myself when one of the theater’s servants hesitantly approached me. “Madonna? Is there any way in which I may assist you?”
“Yes,” I replied, without thinking on it further. “Please bring me a bit of parchment and a quill, if you would.”
The servant hurried to obey, and when he returned, I leaned the parchment against a small table in the foyer and wrote my message: I must see her after the performance. Arrange it any way you must. I signed it with only my given name, folded the parchment into four sections, and handed it to the servant. “See that Maestro Vivaldi gets this as soon as possible,” I instructed him.
The servant bowed. “Very good, madonna.” He disappeared to deliver my message, and I made my way back to the box.
68
FORGIVEN
“This way, madonna.” A servant led me through the maze of the backstage area, past immense pieces of painted scenery, past singers still in costume and garish stage makeup, and piles of props.
We turned down a quieter hallway, and I saw Vivaldi waiting for me outside of what I presumed was Anna’s dressing room. The servant bowed to us and departed.
“Adriana,” Vivaldi said. He looked even older than he had the last time I saw him, as though he had aged more than three years since then. But there was no trace of the abrasive character of which the gossips spoke. “I … your note surprised me.”
“Did you think I would not be here?” I asked.
“I was not sure.” He paused. “I had hoped you would come.”
“And here I am.”
“Yes,” he said. “Well, then, let me present you to her.” He stepped forward and knocked twice on the door, then opened it.
As we stepped into the room, Anna rose from her seat at the dressing table. “Dear maestro,” she said happily. “Did you hear how they applauded after the aria? I do not think I have ever sung better!”
“I do not think that you have either, cara,” he said, surprising me by using the endearment so openly.
“Do you think—oh.” She broke off as she saw me. “Mi scusi. I did not realize that you had brought a visitor.”
“Yes. Anna, may I present Donna Adriana Baldovino, wife of the late Senator Baldovino,” Vivaldi said. “She sent me a message expressing a desire to make your acquaintance. Donna Baldovino, Signorina Anna Girò.”
Anna curtsied and I nodded in acknowledgment. The desire to gather her into my arms and clutch her to me was nearly overpowering.
She was looking at me expectantly, yet now my tongue felt like a massive, immovable rock, unable to rouse itself and speak.
Now that she had removed her wig, I saw her hair was, indeed, similar in color to mine, save for the red that laced through it, turning it a rich auburn. Her eyes were dark, and fathoms deep, like her father’s. She was beautiful, as beautiful as I had been at her age, perhaps more so.
Remembering myself, I managed to speak. “Signorina Girò,” I said. “I wished to compliment you on your performance. I was much moved by your aria in act two.”
“I thank you, madonna,” she said, perfectly poised and gracious. “I do believe that is my favorite aria of those the maestro has written for me thus far.”
“Indeed,” I murmured, continuing to study her. I glanced at Vivaldi; he seemed to be fighting back tears. My own eyes began to well. He and I and our daughter are all in the same room. Together. When will this ever happen again?
“Allora, I shall impose on you no longer, signorina,” I said. “I merely wished to give you my compliments.” Before turning to leave, I added, “I wish you only success in your career and your life.”
She curtsied again. “Thank you, madonna.” I could see she was weary from performing and relieved I was leaving; I tried not to let it sting.
I walked past Vivaldi and exited the small room; he pulled the door closed behind me and followed me. A lone tear slid down my cheek.
“I know,” he murmured, as if I had spoken. “I wish that you could know her as I do, and spend time with her.”
“There is nothing on this earth that I wish more,” I said. “And yet it is impossible, I am afraid.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. Adriana.” He grasped my arm, drawing me away from the door. “The rumors … you have heard them, surely?”
I nodded.
“God, how they torture me, how they pick at my soul!” he burst out. “And I cannot contradict them, for I cannot reveal the truth!” He sighed. “Does it not pain you as well?”
I did not know how to answer. The gossip did not particularly upset me, not any longer. And it did not seem to bother Anna. It would not, after all, be the first or last time that scandalous tales were told about a famous opera singer.
After all, the things of which they were accusing Vivaldi now he had, in fact, done—but years ago, and not with the woman they thought. But I could not say any of this.
“Adriana, you must know, for you heard … her voice, it is not the best,” he said, speaking even more softly now.
I nodded reluctantly.
“And I know that—how could I not? Perhaps I should not blame them for what they say. Short of the truth, what other explanation could there be? Unless everyone is to believe that I have lost my ear, my skills.”
“Venetians will always find something to talk about,” I said. “You told me that, once. In a few months, no one will think of it more.”
“Perhaps. But Adriana, surely you can see why?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Why I have brought all this upon myself.” He released my arm, which he had still been clutching. “I sought her out when I was last in Mantua. I knew that was where she was; it was not difficult. And she wished desperately to be an opera singer. How could I deny her, when it was within my power to give her what she most wanted? I swore I would teach her as best I could, so as to know her, be near her, even if she never knows the truth.”
“Why have you not told her?” I asked.
“I have been tempted,” he confessed. “But I knew it would be a selfish act, for my benefit and not hers—and not yours, either.”
“Rest assured that I know, even if no one else does, that everything you do for her is because she is your daughter, and you love her,” I said.
“But it is more than that,” he said. “I would do anything for her, yes, but this is also for you.”
Final words, a farewell, whispered into my ear: I will make it right somehow, someday, mia carissima Adriana. I swear that I will, even if it takes my very life. I heard his words again with such clarity that for a moment I thought that he had spoken them aloud again.
“It is all for you, Adriana. I swore to you, and everything I have done has been to fulfill my vow. I have done everything I could—even some unscrupulous things at times—to ensure that my career would be successful, for if it is not, then all I did to you was done for nothing. And this—supporting Anna—this is the best way I know how to fulfill my vow.” He paused and looked away. “Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I wanted to make sure you knew. T
hat you knew I had not forgotten.” He sighed. “You must have hated me all these years. As well you should, but I—”
Trembling, I reached out and laid a finger against his lips. “Please, caro. No more. It is forgiven.”
He looked at me, disbelieving. “Truly, Adriana?”
I stepped closer, pressing my mouth to his and, though surprised, he responded quickly, and for a moment we were the young lovers we had been, one last time.
I drew away. “It was so long ago, Tonio,” I said, struggling to steady my voice. “But know that I have forgiven you for all long since.”
It was only when I spoke the words that I realized they were true.
69
RITORNELLO
Though my renewed friendship with Tommaso Foscari had at first been a matter for secrecy, it was no longer the case once he appeared at the concert given by my children. Wondering what our need for secrecy had been—Giacomo was dead, and there was no love lost between Tommaso and his wife—we began to venture out openly in public together. Tommaso joined our group on outings, as my cavaliere servente, and everyone seemed glad of the addition. He also came frequently to dine at my palazzo—the better to avoid his wife, he always said—and as our children were by this time good friends, he would bring them along and the arrangement suited everyone.
But in 1729, when Tommaso’s wife died, everything changed.
She died in childbirth, bearing a second son, who survived and was christened after his father. Tommaso observed the customary period of mourning, during which time we deemed it prudent not to be seen in public together, though we still met privately. His children, whom I had grown to love, were saddened by her death, but as she had not been a great part of their lives—much like Giacomo, who had involved himself very little with our children—their lives continued as before, save for the addition of their new baby brother.
Perhaps we had both been waiting for the death of his wife, in a way. For before his period of mourning ended, our relationship changed.
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