The Remedy (20 page)
Take Camomile-flowers dried 2 ounces; Cochineal 16 grains; boil in Water 3 pints to 1 quart; in the strained liquid dissolve Salt of Wormwood 2 drams; mix.
It’s justly esteemed a Specific in Intermitting Fevers, and a Remedy inferior to none, but the Peruvian Bark, nay sometimes it hath succeeded when that hath fail’d. I use to order 4 ounces of it every three Hours, between Fits.
At Christmas
he left me alone, can you imagine it?
At
Christmas
, when the other girls were pushing their hands into special-made muffs and dining on goose with prunes and apple in the best places, I ate at the Academy alone, that is, with only Mistress Haggardoon for company She’d been weak enough to give the servants a holiday, so we ate
cold cuts.
When it turned out there was no hot pudding for lack of a fire in the kitchen—well, then I had a little turn of my own.
Uncle Valentine came to see me the next day He had to walk beside the carriage because it was so full of gifts. I received him graciously in my bedroom. I had not left my bed since the little turn, and I intended to stay there for a while, nursing an upstart disorder of the belly that could be soothed only with nonsenses curdled of truffles and cream.
Said I to him, sweet as syllabub, “I hope you enjoyed your Christmas, Uncle Valentine.”
I asked him to unwrap the gifts as I was feeling a little weak. While he went in search of a knife for the ribbons, I hastened out of bed to search his pockets, which is always worth my while.
I secreted sundry coins of which he had no need in the sleeve of my nightdress, and then I found something much more interesting: a large piece of paper on which was printed the words:
Valentine Greatrakes & Mimosina Dolcezza
,
London, December 15th. 1785
,
Printed on ICE.
What kind of name was that, Mimosina Dolcezza?
Poor foolish man! Knee-deep in romance, and no doubt the inflamed form of the thing too.
I was back languishing in my bed by the time I heard his foot on the stair.
I could see from his face that Mistress Haggardoon had intercepted him below and that he knew of the damage in the parlor.
I worked up a good head of tears in just a few seconds, and before he left my allowance was doubled. And the bedroom was draped with the dresses and hats he’s gifted me, all most killingly modish.
He
was off to see “Mimosina Dolcezza” no doubt.
Who had cost me my Christmas dinner.
Even my Pa would not have denied me that.
Venice, 1769
Take Conserve of Gilly flowers. Conserve of the Yellow Peel of Lemons, each 1 ounce; candy’d Citron peel. Green Ginger, Electuary of Sassaphras, Juice of Kermes strained, each half an ounce; Oil of Nutmeg 2 drops; Oil of Cinnamon and Cloves, each 1 drop, mix.
It operates primarily and properly upon the Stomach, comforting it, by being Aromatic and Warm, and from thence raising up the Spirits into a kind of Ovation, refreshes the languishing Heart, and recruits wasted Strength.
It was bizarre how well their plans for me fitted with those I had devised for myself. Mine, however, were simple compared to theirs, which had rooms and annexes remote from my own childish design.
It appeared that my talent for histrionics had not passed unnoticed or unreported at San Zaccaria and indeed was known beyond its walls. Nor had my personal appearance, the effect of which had noticeable effects on the men who surrounded me. Some could not look at me; others could not tear their eyes away. I lay rigidly in the bath, looking at the dwindling fire in the grate, wondering if I should freeze to death in this observant company.
One remarked, “Her skin has a good lustre.” His companion replied, “She’s altogether well-formed for what we have in mind.”
It seemed that they planned to leave me immersed in the aromatic water until I had heard them out, and until I had agreed to perform their will not just grudgingly but with enthusiasm. And
if I did not—I had no doubt that they would not scruple to push my head under the water and hold it there until I submitted, or died. I was already dead, as far as my parents knew. My eyes groped around the room for a sympathetic face. I found none; not a particle of compassion for my plight, respect for my nakedness, concern for my physical welfare or the state of my mind. I saw instead a refrigerated kind of curiosity and a patrician impatience.
My interlocutor murmured, “Gentlemen, let us begin.”
First, they tested the purity of my Italian. Without resorting to Venetian dialect once I was able to answer them fluently, despite my chattering teeth. I was handed a warm drink, fragrant with citrus and cinnamon. Then they tried my French: It had rusted for there was little use for it in the convent and, in any case, my tongue had grown sluggish in the months during which I had been solitarily confined. They appeared satisfied by my answers, halting though they were. They had me sing a few bars. My interlocutor turned to his companions: “The nuns were right: It is an attractive voice. It could be trained.”
In the cold water, all my sensations were leaching away to the point where I was almost incurious as to where this interrogation was leading. I answered mechanically But at the back of my mind a filament of hope remained aglow: If they intended merely to murder me then they would not be troubling themselves with my linguistic abilities.
They asked me about my crime; they inquired into any pangs of conscience. I did not know any better than to be honest; I said I was certainly sorry that it had come to this pass, but that I had simply done what must needs be done to save my own life. I felt myself dying under my imprisonment, I told them, adding bitterly, “And the
conversa
is suffering, like a good martyr. If she dies, she will no doubt go to Heaven, which is, after all, her ultimate desire. She can have her bridal night with God all the sooner. I assure you, she was one who was looking forward to it.”
I heard one of the men whisper then, “She has a barbarity the devil would shudder at.”
Another answered, “Well then, it is all to our purpose, is it not?”
Finally they told me what they wanted, and it was not anything like my expectations. In exchange for my life, which might otherwise be extinguished as easily as a candle in this secret room, they wished for me to become an actress! A place had been reserved for me in the troupe that was attached to the theater at San Luca. This troupe was shortly to depart on a tour of European cities, and I was to go with it.
My original interlocutor explained all these matters in a dry voice, concluding: “We are of the opinion that the stage is exactly the right place for a female of your somewhat surcharged character.”
I lowered my eyes as he added, “And with one child clandestinely gotten already, we have little need to instruct you in your supermural duties, or indeed relieve you of that perishable commodity treasured by all
decent
young women.”
For my change of vocation did not end with mere actressing. I was not merely to act the parts written by the playwrights. I was to act at being an actress. My real purpose was far more subtle. In each city, I was to accept invitations from the princes, lords, politicians, and men of quality who wished to make my acquaintance. I was to charm and fascinate them, seduce them and bed them, and in their arms I was to ask certain innocent-sounding questions, and when they left I was to write certain letters that would be collected by a private courier and brought back to this unidentified palazzo for my interrogators to examine.
And it was not in my own Golden Book name that I was to perform these tasks. That name was to be extinguished forever. For the purposes of my new life—and in delivering this news my interrogator smiled beneficently—I would be rechristened Mimosina Dolcezza.
Take Canary Wine 1 pint; Cloves bruised half a dram; Saffron clipped small half a scruple; digest close in Balneo overnight; to the strained liquid add Spirit of Clary (ennobled with Essence of Ambergrise) half an ounce; Spirit of Lavender compound 1 dram; Syrup of Gilliflowers 1 ounce and a half; Juice of Kermes strained half an ounce; Leaves of Gold 3, mix.
This is a very rich, comfortable Cordial.
The morning hour has gold in its mouth. A Prussian minister once told me that, hurrying from my bed, stripped of his secrets.
In the years that followed my escape from the convent, I was always busy in the morning, earning gold, writing the letters that paid for what it pleased my employers to call my freedom.
By evening I acted the actress; by night I acted the whore. Only by morning did I act the truth of what I was: a spy for the Council of Ten and the Inquisitors of Venice.
The day after my interview in the bath I was released from the unknown palazzo into the custody of one Giacomo Mazziolini, toad of state. If I had known that this reptile was to be my sole constant companion for the next sixteen years, I would have screamed that the bargain was too hard, and I’d rather be put to the rope instantly than die by degrees in his pitiless grip.
I was confined in a suite of rooms and never saw the outside world, except through a shuttered window, until I had perfected the arts required of me by my new employment. I was given tutors in French, German, Russian, and English. I worked with them from dawn until the midday hour and met with them again in the evenings, one each night, to eat and drink in their respective
languages. The conversation of the intimate dinner table requires a specialized vocabulary of flirtation, insinuation and flattery, and this was what I learned. I also studied the foods and wines of seduction, and which combinations are most efficacious. Within four months I was sufficiently fluent in all four tongues to perform what was required of me both on the stage and in private with important men.
During the same period, two old actresses had taken charge of me during the afternoons, teaching me all they knew. By the time they finished with me I knew how to conjure up a duplicitous ghost of every human emotion. The fits of melodrama that had finally provoked my parents to reject me now gave me an advantage in my new trade. With my lover, I had already taught my eyes to cry and my mouth to kiss strategically Now, with the help of these tough painted ladies, I was taught to utter the screams of satisfaction that every man longs to hear. When I performed well, the actresses did not applaud. They closed their wrinkled eyes and chuckled like wizened parrots.
I learned to dance, not the simpering steps of the noble ballroom, but the desperate footwork of the boards. I learned to respond to the greasy tide of the orchestra as it soaked up through the stage, staining my tapping slippers until I waded through the overture to center stage where the beat gripped my ankles.
This was now my life: a graceless dance from which I could not escape.
When I had mastered all there was to teach me, they released me into the company of actors.
They let me take small parts at first, to see how I managed. It was soon decided that I did best in the style known as
“dramma giocoso per musica:” two-act
plays as light as a breath of air. I played the
“seconda buffa”
in
IL Bon Ton
, as my first role, and triumphed.
During rehearsals for I
viaggiatori felici
my employers told me to seduce the actor who played Pancranzio. Eusebio Pellicioni was an easy target: He was mine in an afternoon. I felt nothing for him; I knew also that he felt nothing for me except a thin
glaze of physical coveting. I participated in the same external intimacies with him that I had shared with my lover, the first time I had been with another man. I did not die of it. I did not like or dislike it. I possibly liked it more than dancing.
After that, all men seemed the same to me.
Whether I was on the stage or in the bedchamber of a count, the performance of love, too, was all the same to me. I performed my raptures with a fidelity scarce surpassed by Nature. I was skilled, thorough, and absolutely coldhearted. I was creative and shameless. I never worried about conceiving another child. I guessed too well that the cranioclast had ruined that possibility. When I saw other women with their sons I looked away.
Later I came to realize that there were seducers of both sexes planted in our troupe. We Venetians make such good love-spies. Merely knowing that we are from Venice prompts shy confessionals and boasters. Our victims are inspired to describe what special qualifications might render them our equal, give them pretensions to an amorous relation with us. And it so often fell out that it was exactly that special piece of knowledge that we were sent to get.
