The Madman of Venice

by Sophie Masson

  But after the Council of Ten had met on the matter,

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  the Duke sent a letter to the Tedeschis: it had been decided that if they persisted in not revealing Sarah’s true identity, and if Sarah persisted in refusing to accept the possibility of leaving her family, then the Tedeschis might be more comfortable in a place other than Venice, and should find a new home, far away from the city, where they would not be known. Or else Sarah, as the natural child of the Count, might be taken from them, to be reared a Christian and given in marriage to some man more suiting her station than a poor soldier. The Duke clearly indicated that the Council had been merciful in the matter and had kept the matter from the Inquisition;

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  but if this body came to hear of it, there was no way the Tedeschis could be protected. They were no longer at home in the city in which they had lived for so long.

  It wasn’t just in the city generally. They were no longer at home in the Ghetto, for though their neighbours did not know the full extent of what had happened, still they knew, through Tartuffo’s spiteful hints and through rumours sweeping the city, that the Tedeschis had had a hand in the undoing of the Montemoros. It did not make people feel comfortable; the way to survive, as a Jew, was to keep your head down and not become involved in the plots and machinations of outsiders. As to the people beyond the Ghetto, it made them feel uncomfortable too, and suspicious. Dr Tedeschi had lost nearly all of his patients, Jews and Christians. The few who came were gawkers, curious souls who hoped to find out

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  more. They were usually sent packing by Rachel, who could not abide ‘sniffers after sadness,’ as she called them.

  For it was indeed a sad house now. There was no doubt of the love between Sarah and her father and her aunt—but it was a love tempered now with the burden of knowledge, and must slowly be rebuilt into natural joy and warmth. And there was a question over the other great love of Sarah’s life, her Claudio. How could they marry, when the laws of the land forbade it, unless Sarah gave up the only kin she knew in the world? For the time being, all that had been decided was that Claudio might visit her, in whichever city they might chance to go to, and that, in time, perhaps, something might be worked out. . . . Where they would go they had no real idea, and no stomach for thinking about it. They would wander where they could and try to find a crack in the world in which to hide.

  The Ashbys and Ned and Dr Leone were frequent visitors to the house in the Ghetto that was shunned by everyone else. For a few days now Ned and Celia had been racking their brains trying to think of a solution for the family’s woes. But the problem was too big for them. It was the weight of the world pressing down on their friends’ shoulders, and try as they might, they could not budge it even a tiny fraction.

  Soon they themselves would be gone. Back to their own lives in London. Back to safety and comfort and a

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  glowing new future. For Ned had asked Master Ashby for Celia’s hand and, rather to his surprise, the merchant hadn’t turned him down flat. ‘I want you to wait two years,’ he said. ‘You both need to grow up more, and if I am to make you an associate in the business as I wish to do—my future son-in-law cannot remain a mere clerk—I wish to make sure you understand it more. But I know Celia is very happy, and I want only her happiness. You are a good and clever lad, Ned, with a true heart, and I dare say you will never waver from her.’

  ‘Oh, sir, you can be sure I never would! I would rather cut out my heart and throw it to the dogs! I would rather pierce my flesh with a thousand barbs! I—’

  ‘I see the picture,’ said Ashby hastily. ‘You are a fortunate lad, for you have the love not only of Celia, but also of my sister, who told me quite roundly that if I dared to disapprove, she would personally make sure I would walk on hot coals for the rest of my life! No, don’t look so worried, Ned,’ he added, laughing. ‘I did not need to be persuaded quite so harshly! You have my blessing on this enterprise, lad; really, you do.’

  But poor Sarah and Claudio had no such blessing. Oh, it wasn’t that Dr Tedeschi disapproved; his opinion of Claudio was very high. It was just that he was defeated by events, crushed by the world, unable to fight against fate. And their friends watched helplessly. Even Dr Leone’s optimism seemed to have deserted him. Slowly, the Tedeschi family pieced together its possessions and made

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  ready to leave Venice for ever. No one hurried them; even the city authorities understood. A strange kind of shame gripped people, but it was no good. What was said was said; what had to be done, had to be done. It would be ever thus, until the world changed.

  It was the last day the Ashbys and Ned were in Venice. The last time they would see their friends. That afternoon, if the winds were still favourable, they would set sail and leave Venice. That morning the d’Arcys, father and son, had come to say goodbye. They were staying on in Venice a while longer before setting off back home. Many plans were made about meeting up again in Paris, or in London; for the families had become good friends now. Ned had a strong inkling that one day, perhaps, Jacques d’Arcy would be calling in at their house with more than a polite greeting for Bess Quickly, for his eyes were often on her, and hers on his.

  As to Henri, he had met a young Venetian beauty by the name of Maria and was in no hurry to see the shores of his own country. He regaled Ned and Celia with stories of the beauty’s stiff-necked family, and Ned, listening to his stories, recognized now the genuine wit, the humour, and the kind, observant spirit under the young Frenchman’s light ways. He is a fine man, and one I’m honoured to call friend, he thought. How stupid I was before! But then I had reason to be. I didn't know myself, or Celia's heart. Not like now . . .

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  Celia caught his eye and smiled, in that way that made his toes tingle. She said softly, ‘What are you thinking of, Ned?’

  ‘Of you,’ he answered, ‘and how I wish our friends could be as happy as we are.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said sadly. ‘If only wishes came true.’

  ‘If only there were a place in the world to which they could go; some place where they could fly, like birds to their nests, and be happy, and—’

  ‘Is there such a place?’ said Henri, overhearing, and then suddenly the melancholy silence that fell on them when he spoke was suddenly broken with a yell as Dr Leone jumped to his feet, sending his chair crashing behind him, and boomed, ‘In God’s name, there is! What a blind fool I’ve been! Why didn’t I think of it before!’ And then, before any of the astonished company could ask him what on earth he was talking about, he strode out of the room and out of the house, slamming the front door behind him.

  He didn’t come back for hours. Matthew Ashby was getting worried, for the time for them to board their ship was getting closer and still his friend had not returned. The bags were packed, the porters ready; the post-chaises had drawn up outside the door. They could wait no longer.

  Just as the Ashbys and Ned made their last goodbyes to the servants, a post-chaise came hurrying down the

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  alley. From it tumbled Dr Leone. He was bright red, his hair standing up on end, but there was a beaming smile on his face. ‘I’m sorry, my friends, I hope I’m not late. Are we ready to go to the quay, Mateo?’

  ‘Of course. Where have you been?’ snapped Ashby. ‘We thought we should have to leave without saying goodbye.’

  ‘Can’t have that, oh, no!’ shouted Dr Leone. ‘Hop in, then; let’s get to the quay.’ And not a word would he tell them about where he’d been, or what he’d been doing, or anything else.

  As on the day they’d arrived, the quay was thronged with people bustling to and fro: sailors, porters, dock workers, merchants, hot-food sellers, all sorts. Their ship was waiting for them, the gangplank in readiness. The baggage was loaded on board. Still Dr Leone did not tell them what he had been doing, though they burned with curiosity. He was making small talk and looking aroun
d as if he expected to see someone there. And then, quite suddenly, Ned gave a shout.

  ‘It’s them! It’s the Tedeschis and Claudio! They’ve got bags with them! They must be coming with us on the ship to London!’

  ‘Of course they are coming on the ship. And so am I,’ said Dr Leone, flourishing a small bag. ‘But not to London, though perhaps that might come later.’ He laughed

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  at the looks on their faces. ‘We will ask the master of your good ship to drop us in one of the Adriatic ports closest to Greece—and from there take other ships and other conveyances till we find ourselves in Alexandria. Yes, Alexandria!’ He gave Ned a clap on the shoulder. ‘It was your words that pierced the melancholy fog in my mind, dear boy! Your words, about flying! It reminded me of how Miracolo, the flying alchemist, came from Alexandria, and how I’ve always wanted to go there— and how it is a place of many different sorts of people, living side by side and mingling. So I rushed over to Jacob’s house and finally persuaded the stubborn doctor that I found the climate of Venice really very uncongenial now and planned to move to Alexandria; that I not only wanted their company on my trip there, but that I proposed to buy a large house there, and would be honoured if he might set up his physician’s practice alongside my alchemist’s study, and that his daughter and Claudio might make a life there together too, unmolested by spite and jealousy. And that if one was a Jew and one was a Christian, well, that was a question for God and not man.’ He looked over at the Tedeschis, fast approaching. ‘And it’s to his sister Rachel I owe the final persuasion; for she as much as told her brother that if he was going to break his heart over a city corrupt to the marrow, then she, for one, was not going to stand by and let it happen. “We will go with you, Dr Leone,” she

  said; “but as to the other proposal, we will make up our own minds.” What a spirit! Fine-looking woman, but a bit of a tartar!’

  ‘And more than a match for you, my friend,’ said Matthew Ashby, laughing.

  ‘Do you think so? I intend to show her I am in fact her match in every way,’ said Dr Leone calmly. And I won’t take no for an answer either.’

  ‘I’m sure you won’t,’ snorted Bess Quickly, ‘but it’s whether she’ll take the question, Orlando Leone!’

  ‘Oh, I always get my way,’ said the alchemist with a big smile as he hurried forward to help the ladies with their bags.

  Much later, Ned, Celia, Sarah, and Claudio stood at the railings of the deck as the ship glided through the smooth, darkening water. The others were below, chattering over the remains of their meal. The four young people had been talking animatedly too, but now they were quiet, Ned’s arm around Celia, and Claudio’s around Sarah. Below them, the teeming sea heaved and glittered darkly; to one side of the ship they could just about glimpse land, but it was fading fast from view. Ned felt his love’s heart beating close to him, her warmth becoming his warmth, a moment of perfect harmony that went to the core of his being. He thought of all that had happened. And suddenly, words came whispering into his head. What profit love, that cannot show his face?

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  Words that he knew for certain, without a doubt, were the beginning of something wonderful. A long poem— no, a play, telling a story stronger and stranger, more piteous and more beautiful too, than anything he had ever written before. A tragedy: a story of a great and passionate love, a love that survived death, that went through the very gates of hell. . . Not his story and Celia’s, nor even Claudio and Sarah’s, though there would be elements that stemmed from both of those, but the story of two young lovers called Edmund and Beatrice, who loved each other in Venice, long ago. It would be a story worth writing. It would be a memorial to those lost lovers, a beautiful story to make crowds weep. ...

  ‘What’s the matter, Ned?’ said Celia.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘You were talking to yourself.’

  ‘Was I, my love?’ he answered teasingly.

  ‘You were. I suppose you were thinking of something you wanted to write. A play?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell me?’

  He looked sideways at her. ‘I thought you didn’t like plays.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind about quite a few things,’ said Celia serenely, strands of her hair blowing across her face. ‘So maybe I can change my mind about that too. In fact, I might even go to the Globe with you next time you go.’

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  He laughed, and cuddled her closer, and told her what he was thinking. He even whispered to her the first four lines that had come fully formed to his head. She listened, her head on one side; then she said, ‘I like it. It’s real, Ned. It’s like real life. Not like what. . . what you used to write.’ A pause, then she went on, ‘I think it will be a good play. I know what you should call it too. The Lovers of Venice'

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, Celia. I rather think you’re right.’ And in his mind rose an image of the stage at the Globe, and crowds cheering and weeping over The Lovers of Venice. And himself in the audience, with his family from London, and his friends from Venice, and especially Celia beside him, his muse, his lover, his dearest, sweetest friend. He could hear the crowds now and the music playing as the actors took their places on the stage. He could see the setting of the beautiful, golden, treacherous city; the gondolas plying, the masked throngs, the dark secrets behind the bright facade. And he murmured:

  Now listen well, for here thou will be told Of darkness, danger, and of lovers bold,

  Of poison plots, of vengeance, and of love supreme,

  In fairest Venice, where we set our scene.

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  As you might already have realized, The Madman of Venice is inspired by two of Shakespeare’s ‘Italian’ plays: The Merchant of Venice, of course, but also Romeo and Juliet . The first play, which was the first of Shakespeare’s plays I ever encountered, and which struck me deeply, is also one of his most controversial. It is a dark story of revenge, full of ambiguous characters, especially the Jewish moneylender, Shylock, who’s eaten away by hatred of the unjust Christians who persecute his people, but who is himself not a very nice sort of person at all.

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  Yet Shakespeare gives him one of his most famous speeches ever, a real cry from the heart:

  T am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh?

  If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?’

  (The Merchant of Venice, act 3, scene 1)

  In the time when my book is set, the Jews of Venice held a special position in the city. They were better off than in most other places in Europe, because they were protected by law from outright persecution and violence. But they paid a pretty heavy price for that protection. They were forced to live on the island called the Ghetto. They had to wear special clothes that would mark them out as Jews. They could leave the Ghetto during the day but not at night—unless they were doctors—and they had to pay the wages of the Venetian guards who patrolled the Ghetto’s borders at night. As well, they could only practise certain trades, including medicine, moneylending, and dealing in cloth, and they weren’t allowed to own land. Of

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  course, marriages between Jews and Christians were strictly forbidden unless the Jewish party converted, and even then they were regarded with great suspicion. And yet, despite all these difficult constraints, a rich and vital culture built up in the Venetian Ghetto, and even today you can see traces of that culture there.

  I was also greatly inspired in my writing of this book by a visit I made to Venice in 2003. I fell in love at once with the beauty, strangeness, and unique atmosphere of
this amazing city, floating serenely on its stone raft in the lagoon. And I was fascinated by its rich, deep, and disturbing history, with its sinister and enchanting aspects.

  Incidentally, Emilia Lanier, who sends Ned and his friends off on their mission, was a real person. Her musician father, Baptista Bassano, came over to England from Venice with his equally musical brothers at the express invitation of King Henry VIII. Her mother, Margaret, was English and came from London, and she married Alfonso Lanier, another court musician. There is some evidence that the Bassanos may have been converted Jews, but no one’s quite sure.

  Like her father and husband, Emilia Lanier was an excellent musician, and played for Queen Elizabeth I. Highly intelligent, she was also a published poet, some of whose work still survives. She was a great beauty and very ambitious and was, for a while, the mistress of the Lord Chamberlain, Henry Carey, Lord Hunsdon. She is

  thought to have known Shakespeare, and it’s possible he got some of his information about Italy from her, especially about Venice and the Veneto region, which includes Verona, where Romeo and Juliet and The Two Gentlemen of Verona are set. In fact, some people have even suggested that she was Shakespeare’s lover at one stage and might have been the model for the mysterious ‘Dark Lady’ of Shakespeare’s sonnets.

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  Sophie ITlasson was born in Jakarta, Indonesia, to

  French parents. The author of twenty-eight novels for adults, teenagers, and children, she is the winner of the Australian Aurealis Award for Best Children’s Novel. She lives in New South Wales, Australia.

  Soph ie fTlasson was born in Jakarta,

  Indonesia, to French parents. The author of twenty-eight novels for adults, teenagers, and children, she is the winner of the Australian Aurealis Award for Best Children’s Novel. She lives in New South Wales, Australia.

  Also available in Gibraltar Library Binding

  Jacket art © 2010 The Grand Canal near the Rialto Bridge, Venice, c. 1730 by Canaletto. Christie’s Images/ The Bridgeman Art Library