The Violinist of Venice (48 page)

Andrea sat, his back straight, his head held high.

He was a handsome young man, I thought, studying him. It was easy to see why he had turned Cecilia's head.

“No doubt you know why you are here,” Tommaso said. “I expect you to answer for your actions as a man would.”

“You know, then,” he said, glancing at me. “That Cecilia and I … she told you.”

“Her maid did, rather,” I interjected. “She discovered that my daughter is with child.” I noted the lack of surprise on Andrea's face. “As you know.”

“Damn it, Andrea!” Tommaso burst out. “Have you no sense? What can you have been thinking, to so dishonor the daughter of a patrician, of a senator?”

“I love her,” Andrea said quietly. “As she loves me. There is no dishonor in that.”

“And your betrothed?” Tommaso demanded. “What of her?”

Andrea shook his head. “I do not love her,” he said. “I do not even particularly like her. She is vain and foolish, and all her conversation is malicious gossip. Not like Cecilia.” As he said her name, his whole expression changed. “She is intelligent—more so than many men. And beautiful, and the music that she plays…” He shook his head. “Any man would be honored, should she agree to be his wife, were she the daughter of a senator or a gondolier. I wonder that she ever even looked twice at me.”

That was enough for me. I saw it then: he loved my daughter; she was not just sport or a dalliance. He was a good man, just like his father.

“And so you expect me to break your betrothal?” Tommaso asked. “The Corners are a family not easily slighted,
figlio.
”

“You need break nothing, Father,” Andrea said. “Cecilia and I have been discussing it. We will elope, and leave Venice together. My honor is better served by doing right by my child and the woman I love than it is standing by a promise my mother made on my behalf.”

Silence. After a moment, Tommaso looked at me. “And would your daughter consent to wed my son, then?”

A smile broke out on my face. “I believe that she would, yes.”

Tommaso sighed. “Well, then, yes. God forbid that I should stand in the way of a young couple in love. There is enough of that in this Venice of ours as it is.”

 

70

MY CONFESSION

And so it was settled. Andrea and Cecilia would be married in April of 1734, two months before the child was due, thus allowing it to be born in the marriage bed, even if it was not conceived there.

Tommaso and I gave a grand party to celebrate the betrothal of our children. No one but our families knew Cecilia was with child; though no doubt Venice would find out soon enough, for the moment it was a secret. And whatever people chose to think later, no one who saw the couple that night could doubt that they were very much in love—and that their parents were very pleased to have it so.

I learned that Lucrezia had known of Cecilia and Andrea's affair all along, and of her sister's pregnancy. I could not find it in me to fault her for not telling me; after all, who better than I to understand the bond between siblings?

The night of the party, Vittoria and I looked on as Andrea made a toast to his bride-to-be, declaring himself the happiest and most fortunate of men, and heaping boundless praise upon the blushing Cecilia—good heavens, when had I ever seen the girl blush, of all things?

“They are a lovely couple,” Vittoria murmured to me. “Oh, Adriana, I am so happy for them, and so glad you and Tommaso were able to come to an accord. Not that he set himself against anything you wanted, I will wager,” she added slyly.

I laughed. “You may or may not be right about that,
sorella.
But all we want is our children's happiness.”

“Then you are successful.” She watched the couple kiss, to the applause of those present. “There is nothing like one's first love,” she said. “I am lucky enough to be married to mine, and so will Cecilia.”

“Yes,” I said. “Not all of us are so fortunate, and it has always been my fondest wish for my children.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Vittoria studying me as the speech ended and the crowd began to disperse. Softly, so softly I was almost not sure I had heard her, she said, “It was Maestro Vivaldi, was it not?”

I could only stare at her, dumbstruck with horror.

Apparently I had not kept my secret as well as I thought.

I grabbed her arm and drew her out into the hall where there was no danger of being overheard. But once there, I still could not speak.

“Oh, Adriana, forgive me,” she said. “Forgive me for prying; it is a sin I will readily confess. I have been curious, and I thought … it seemed to me that everything fit together, over the years.”

When still I remained silent, she said, “Please forgive me. I should not have said anything.”

She made to return to the ballroom, but I reached out, stopping her. “I can only imagine what you must think of me,” I said.

To my surprise, she smiled slightly. “I admit, I was a bit shocked when first I thought I had stumbled upon the answer. But … he was always a rather difficult man to work with; at the Pietà he demanded perfection at all times. Yet we all adored him just the same, perhaps because of that.” She studied my face. “So I can see how easy it must have been for you to love him. And just as easy for him to love you.”

“It was,” I whispered. “It was easy to love him, and yet painful at the same time.” I cleared my throat. “Did Giuseppe—”

“No,” she hurriedly assured me. “Giuseppe never breathed a word. I asked him once, after we were married, if he knew who your great lost love was. He tried to avoid the question, but I…” She smiled ruefully. “I pressed him, which was wrong of me. It was the only time in our marriage that he has ever spoken sharply to me. He said that it was your secret to tell, not his.”

“I am sorry to have caused discord between you,” I said.

Vittoria smiled. “Do not be. It is one of the things I love most about him—his loyalty.” She paused, studying me. “There is one thing I still do not understand,” she said. “Where does Anna Girò fit into all this?”

I took a deep breath. “She is our daughter. Mine and Maestro Vivaldi's.”

Vittoria threw her arms around me. “Oh, Adriana,” she whispered. “I will not tell a soul. I will take it to my grave, I swear.”

*   *   *

That night, after the party had ended, I went into Cecilia's room. She was still awake, though dressed for bed. “Mother,” she said, surprised. “What is it?”

I sat on the bed beside her. It had taken me until tonight to realize how heavy secrets are, and how much heavier they grow over the years. And if there was one person I would have know the truth—other than Vittoria—it was Cecilia, the child who was most like me. My unexpected one. “I told you,” I began, “that as a young woman I fell in love with a man who could not marry me.”

She nodded, her eyes wide.

“It has been a secret long enough,” I said. “I will tell you everything, if you are willing to hear it.”

“Of course, Mother,” she said.

I smiled. “You met him once, you know,” I said. “If you recall, when you were much younger. His name is Antonio Vivaldi.”

And then I told her all.

 

71

DA CAPO

Cecilia and Andrea were married in April, in as beautiful and festive a ceremony as anyone had ever seen; and in June my Cecilia gave birth to a son, who was named Andrea Tommaso.

Once the newlyweds were settled, Tommaso began asking me to accompany him on an extended tour of Europe. He wanted to show me the world before we grew too old to travel. While a part of me longed to go, I always refused. At first my excuse was baby Andrea; I could not imagine missing any part of his childhood. Then there were my other children to think of; but they, too, were growing up. Lucrezia, who had become society's reigning eligible beauty, had scandalously turned down an offer of marriage from the doge's son and instead married Rafaello Marino, son of Giuseppe's friend Baldassare. Giacomo, I knew, was rolling in his grave, but I gave my daughter a sizable dowry and my blessing.

Just as he had been a serious and studious child, Antonio grew into a serious and prudent young man. He retained his excellent head for numbers, and occupied much of his time with making wise investments with the money from his father's estate—mostly in property, though his love of music shone through when he bought a share in the Teatro Sant' Angelo.

My children were prospering, as were my nieces and nephews; I could very well have left Venice, but for whatever reason, I did not. If ever the time became right for me to leave, I thought, I would know it.

And so I remained. And I remained happy. And perhaps there are as many kinds of happiness as there are love, for each time I felt that I might lay claim to the word, it never felt quite the same.
Perhaps,
I mused one day, as I sat in my gondola on my way to meet Tommaso,
that means that I have tasted much of life.

 

CODA: ON THE OTHER SIDE

Vienna, July 28, 1741

I stepped out of the hired coach, looking up at the building before me. It was nondescript, even shabby; the windows were shuttered, and the stone façade was dirty and crumbling. But I gave all of this only a passing thought as I knocked on the front door and waited to be let in.

In my hand I clutched the much-folded parchment that had been delivered to me about a week ago. The words on it were imprinted on my mind as well as my heart.

Adriana—

I am dying. I have no right to ask this of you, but all I want is to see you one more time.

If you do not come, I will understand.

A.V.

Below his initials was an address in Vienna before which I now stood.

I had deliberated briefly upon receiving the letter. In the end, though, I had left the next day. How could I do anything else?

Tommaso had come to call as I was in the midst of preparations. “What is this, my love?” he asked in confusion, as I directed the servants in packing a trunk.

“I have received a letter,” I told him. “From a … very old friend. He is in Vienna, and he is dying. He has asked that I come to him, and so I am going.”

I could see from the look in Tommaso's eyes that he knew exactly who this “friend” was, had been, to me. “Very well,” he said. “You are right to go, I think.” He kissed me. “When you return,” he murmured, “I shall have a very particular question to ask you.”

I was pulled from my memories by the opening of the door. I looked up to see Anna standing before me.

I was so taken aback that I did not immediately know what to say. I had heard that Vivaldi came to Vienna to seek the patronage of Emperor Charles. Things had gone sour for Vivaldi in Italy; in 1738, the Cardinal of Ferrara had denied him entrance to that city for the opera season for being a priest who traveled openly with his mistress. Only years of hiding my emotions had allowed me to remain composed when Giulietta had related that piece of gossip.

However, the Emperor Charles had died not long after Vivaldi's arrival. And I did not know Anna had come with him. What to say?

In the name of God and the Holy Virgin, Antonio is dying. Can it possibly still matter what I tell her?
I asked myself impatiently.

“Donna Baldovino,” she said, surprised. I was stunned that she remembered me.

It was plain she had been doing much weeping of late. She was dressed in a plain linen dress with her hair pulled back from her face, looking very different from the last time I saw her.

Dear God, she is almost thirty years old.

This reminded me that I was nearing the age of fifty; therefore I decided that it was high time to push such thoughts aside and deal with the matter at hand. “I do not mean to be rude,” Anna said, “but what are you doing here?”

“He sent for me,” I said, holding up the letter. “I am an old friend of his.”

I could see she wanted to question me further, but realized that now was not the time. “Then you have come just in time,” she said, letting me in. “I fear he has just hours left.” With that, she burst into renewed sobs, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve. “Oh, my poor maestro!”

I was surprised to feel a prickle of irritation.
Silly girl, at your age I had been married ten years, borne four children, had one of them taken from me, and lost my lover long since. Death is death; there are greater tragedies in life, and by the time you are my age you will not fear death in any case, but respect him so that he will treat you kindly when he comes for you.
“There, there, all will be well,” I said. “Now please take me to him.”

She led me into a darkened bedchamber at the rear of the small house. I entered, and she shut the door softly behind me.

I stood, frozen, looking at the thin body stretched out beneath the coverlet.

Yet then he stirred, slowly lifting his head. “Adriana?” he asked, his raspy voice no more than a whisper. “Is it you? Or do I but dream…”

His words trailed off into a fit of coughing, and I moved swiftly to his side, sitting in a wooden chair beside the bed and taking his hand. It was all I could do to contain my cry of shock as I looked into his face.

His skin had a deathly pallor, and he was skeletally thin. His famous red hair was now all white.

“Tell me,
caro,
” I said, “what ails you?”

He groaned. “I am not certain. Annina had a doctor in here, but he could not be sure … it may be my lungs, or my heart, or…” He broke off, beginning to cough again. “Or simply that I am old.”

I squeezed his hand gently, painfully aware that his brittle fingers could no longer play the violin with the speed and dexterity that had once seemed like magic to me. “We are both old, I am afraid,” I said, fighting to keep my tone light.