The Violinist of Venice (43 page)

Giacomo came and took his seat beside Cecilia. Seeing that their host and hostess were seated, our guests quickly sought the nearest seat, their chatter ceasing. Such was the assembly's eagerness to hear Vivaldi's new music that even the gossip, the one pastime that Venetians sometimes preferred to music, had stopped.

Vivaldi glanced at Giacomo and myself, seeking permission to begin. Giacomo, rather than making a speech of introduction, simply nodded to the maestro to commence. At this cue, Vivaldi rose from his seat and addressed the audience.

“I must first thank our gracious host and hostess”—he bowed in our direction—“for having myself and the orchestra here today. I must also thank all of you for being so good as to attend.

“What you are about to hear is a new work I have spent much time in composing and perfecting, and an equal amount of time rehearsing with these most capable musicians. And it bears a bit of explanation before we perform it for you, the first audience ever to hear it.

“This work is a series of four concerti, each representing a different season,” he went on. “We shall go in the same order as does nature: beginning with spring, continuing on to summer and fall, and concluding with winter. The work as a whole is titled, as you might guess,
Le quattro stagioni.
The first concerto, Primavera,” he added, fastening his eyes on mine, “we would like to dedicate to our lovely hostess, as thanks for having us here this day.”

His eyes lingered on mine just a moment longer, allowing me to hear all the things he could not say.
Are you still writing music for me,
caro mio? I wondered, an almost fathomless well of sadness opening within me. But when he took his seat once again, and the music began, all my sorrow was swept far away.

The opening bars were lively and joyful, an exuberant, fitting herald of the coming of spring. Yet after the opening tutti came the first of many remarkable things we were to hear: Vivaldi sent his bow gliding over the highest string in a series of high-pitched notes and trills, mimicking almost exactly the chirping of a bird. Beside him, the second violinist played a passage that was very similar, an echo and a harmony.

The second movement, a largo, was much more languid and melodic. As I listened, I suddenly found myself carried back to that rainy April night, more than a decade ago, when a rebellious eighteen-year old with music in her heart had sought out the great Maestro Vivaldi. Perhaps he had thought of the same night while writing this.

I was so lost in the past that, when the largo ended and the last movement of the Spring concerto began, I was quite startled. The tone had again shifted to a joyous, celebratory one, with the solo melody playing almost a dance.

The first movement of the Summer concerto evoked the sweltering heat of the summer, heat so heavy and oppressive that one can barely move. The movement was punctuated here and there by bursts of rapid violin passages, perhaps an indication of an oncoming storm, as well as several more tentative sections of birdsong. The second movement continued this, a brief, apprehensive prelude to the storm of the third movement.

With no warning, all the instruments began to play at a frantic pace, with the violins moving to create waves of sound like rolling thunder. Vivaldi's harried, agitated solo evoked both lightning flashing jaggedly across the sky, as well as some poor creature trying to flee the storm. The lower string instruments combined to imitate the ominous rumblings of thunder, with the violins rushing on almost without pause. The harpsichordist forcefully beat out the continuo underpinning it all.

The season of Autumn brought with it joy and festivities again, colored with all the merrymaking of a country harvest feast and its aftermath. I could see people dancing, such was the vividness of the music.

The second movement, however, brought with it the first chill winds of the autumn, when the skies start to turn gray, bearing the melancholy news that winter is coming.

The last movement was again upbeat; one last celebration before winter arrived and drove the world indoors.

Then, finally, Winter came, the opening bars sounding just as a shiver would, if one could hear it. Vivaldi had again a frenzied solo which enhanced the feeling of shivering, of moving about almost frantically to try to keep warm, while the increasingly forceful winter winds of the orchestra blew about.

In the second movement most of the strings, incredibly, played pizzicato, and the sound perfectly imitated a crackling fire in the hearth when the day outside was frigid, and the melodic violin solo contributed to the feeling of warmth and contentment.

In the third movement, it was back out into the cold, to watch the snowflakes glide to earth, to slide on the ice of frozen canals and to fall down.

When this final movement ended, the silence that followed the last crashing chord seemed to stretch on and on. Yet it was broken, all at once, by the entire audience rising to its feet as one and bursting into tumultuous applause. The orchestra rose in acknowledgment, with Vivaldi bowing deeply, happiness and excitement creeping cautiously onto his careworn face.

I had forgotten everything while I had been lost in the music: where I was, with whom, any reason that I should be scared or hurt or hiding. I had even forgotten my children, who were all now clamoring for my attention. Once again, Vivaldi had stretched forth his hand and given me something of glorious beauty when I had needed it most.

Perhaps I should have made some speech of thanks to the orchestra, to my guests, yet I was rooted to the spot by what I had just heard. Giacomo did not speak either, thus our guests began to mingle, talking excitedly about the music.

Antonio had turned to talk to Giuseppe, since I had not responded to his tapping on my arm. Beside me, Lucrezia was much more persistent.

“Mother! Mother! Oh, did you like it? I did, very, very much! It was wonderful! I have never heard music like that before!”

Slowly I was coming back to myself, returning from the world the music had taken me to, a world where birds sang and people rejoiced and I was as beautiful as a spring maiden, as Vivaldi thought me. Yet finally I was forced to acknowledge the reality: that I was a woman no longer young, hostess to a teeming ballroom full of people, with three children needing attention at my side, and that this magnificent, sublime music had been written by a man as full of imperfections as any man.

Drawing a deep breath, I bid farewell to that other world, and turned to address my daughter. “I am glad you enjoyed it, darling. I certainly did as well.” An understatement. But there was only one other person in that room who would ever truly understand my feelings.

Or perhaps,
I thought, turning to Cecilia,
there is more than one person who understands.
My nine-year-old daughter was staring determinedly at the orchestra, as though trying to unravel their magic. On my other side, Lucrezia was still chattering away. “I did not know one could play like a bird singing, or snow falling or…” she continued on, running through the list of things she had heard in the music.

This seemed to free Cecilia of the spell she had been under. “Have you ever played such music, Mother?” she asked.

“No,
carissima,
” I said. “I have played much music in my life, but never any such as this.”

Giacomo leaned across Cecilia. “I grow hungry, wife,” he said, the touch of petulance that had taken up residence in his tone of late very much present. “Do order the feast to begin soon, won't you?”

Hot anger flared in me. I had been patient almost to the point of sainthood with his moping and mooning about, yet this struck me as blasphemy beyond bearing.
You have not the faintest idea in your thick skull what you have just heard.
“Of course, husband,” I replied through clenched teeth. “I shall send someone to the kitchen to see if all is ready.”

Once I had accomplished that errand and returned to my children, I saw that Lucrezia had found a new audience for her raptures in Vittoria. I felt a slight tug of guilt as I saw how attentively Vittoria listened.

My gaze wandered, unbidden, seeking the source of my distracted mind; to my surprise, I saw him bending over the harpsichord, explaining something to a small boy seated behind it—my son.

There was no help for it; I had to approach him. “
Figlio,
come away from there,” I said, voice calm. “Is my son bothering you, Maestro Vivaldi?”

He looked up at me. “Not at all,” he said.

“Mother, can you play the harpsichord?” Antonio interrupted.

Vivaldi's eyes met mine, a smile playing about his lips, and I knew we were both recalling the very same moment. “Not well, I am afraid,” I said, feeling hopelessly foolish as a blush rose to my cheeks. “But would you like to learn?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, his usually quiet eyes shining with his new discovery. “We have one in the parlor, but I have never heard anyone play it. I like it, I think.”

I laughed. “Very well, then, I shall look into it if you promise me you will practice. You must practice just as much as your sisters do.”

“I shall!” he promised. “Perhaps I can play for Lucrezia when she sings.” Antonio had an almost puppylike devotion to his older sister.

“Perhaps, but you have much to learn before that,” I said.

“The harpsichordist who plays at the Sant' Angelo is excellent,” Vivaldi interjected. “And I know he takes on students. I can give you his name and direction before I leave, if you wish.”

“That would be very kind of you,” I said. “Thank you.” I looked away again, down at my son, who was carefully pressing the harpsichord's keys, one after another. “I see you have met my son Antonio.”

Vivaldi's head jerked up upon hearing the name. I looked up and saw on his face surprise mixed with sorrow and joy, and perhaps a bit of pride in the boy who bore his name. For a moment I thought he would weep; but then he swept my son an exaggerated bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Don Antonio.”

My son giggled at being addressed like an adult. “It is a pleasure to meet you also, maestro.”

Jealous of the attention the maestro was paying her brother, Cecilia suddenly appeared at my side. “You are Maestro Vivaldi,
si?
” she said.

He glanced at me with a quick smile before answering. “
Si,
I am.”

“My mother plays your music all the time,” she announced. “You play as well as she does. I think even better.”

“He plays much better than I do,
carissima,
” I said. I hesitated. “He always has.”

Cecilia studied Vivaldi. “Someday,” she said, “I am going to play as well as you, maestro.” Then, as if suddenly remembering her manners, she bobbed a small curtsy and said, “Pleased to meet you.”

He laughed. “I am very pleased to meet you as well, signorina.”

“Both of you run along to your sister,” I told them, smiling.

“Antonio's twin sister,” I explained. “Cecilia.”

“Ah.” He was smiling broadly. “She looks very much like you. And is very much like you in other ways, I think.”

I smiled. “That she is.” I nodded toward the children. “And my older daughter, Lucrezia. I named her for my mother.”

“Ah, yes.”

When the conversation seemed to end there, I moved to extricate myself. “I must go see to my guests.”

“Wait,” he said, moving as if to prevent me from leaving, but stopping abruptly. “Am I to have no other word from you, Adri—Donna Baldovino?”

I sighed. “We cannot speak here. Meet me in the small parlor just outside the doors as soon as you may. Dinner will not be served for another half hour at least.” Without waiting for him to reply, I swept away from him, stopping to speak with several of my guests so no one would think anything was amiss.

Just as I was poised to head to the parlor, I found myself hailed by none other than Tommaso Foscari.

Mentally I cursed myself; I had forgotten altogether that he was to attend, and he must have arrived after we had all adjourned to the ballroom. Momentarily I panicked; had he seen me speaking with Vivaldi? Had he guessed?

By God and the Virgin, I am too old for such intrigues!

My breathing steadied as I thought of how silly I was being, and I threw him a genuine smile. Whatever had passed between us in years past, he was once a friend to me, and I was glad to see him. “Don Foscari,” I said. “I am so glad you could attend. I did not see you earlier.”

“I am not surprised, for my wife and I arrived late,” he said. “I shall introduce her to you before we dine, if you wish.”

“I should be pleased,” I said politely.

He nodded. “I remember well that you are a true lover of music,” he said. “What are your thoughts on this performance?”

“It was magnificent,” I said. “Something entirely new; a way to use the instruments that has never been done before.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. It will be the talk of Venice before long.” He took a small step closer to me. “You look beautiful, Adriana. But I am sure you do not need me to tell you that.”

“And I am sure that you do not need to be told a compliment of beauty is always welcome to a woman—especially an aging one.”

“You are as beautiful today as the day that we met.”

“As are you,” I said, before I could stop myself. Yet it was true. There was a hint of gray among his dark curls, and a few lines in his face, but he was still handsome, perhaps the most handsome man present. Always I had been somewhat dazzled by his looks, from that very first moment when he rescued me from a lecher in his parents' ballroom.

“Adriana … may I come call on you?”

Seeing I was rather taken aback by the implications of his request, he hastened to reassure me. “I mean nothing that would bring dishonor upon us, nor call your reputation into question,” he said. “Only that we may become friends again. I bear you no ill will for things long past. And I miss your company. Truly.”