“Who was the man in the myth, Tomasso?” she asked. “The one who was condemned by the gods to lie chained to a mountainside while an eagle devoured his entrails, into eternity?”
Tomasso frowned. “You mean Prometheus?”
“Yes. That’s me, Tomasso. I’m chained to a mountainside and an eagle is eating away at my heart. The wound will never heal, because the wounding never stops.”
Tomasso looked away, not knowing how to dispel her hurt or ease her unhappiness. After a moment Fosca put her hand on his arm and laughed ruefully.
“Poor Tomasso, I didn’t mean to spread my dissatisfaction like a sickness. We are a fine pair, aren’t we? The last of the Dolfins: one reduced to utter penury; the other a slave to self-pity!”
He managed a grin. “How have the mighty fallen, right?”
“How? Very swiftly!” she countered.
“And how far?”
“To the lowest depths!”
“Well, what difference does it make?” Tomasso shrugged philosophically. “We’re both still young. We have our looks, and we have our brains!”
“Not so young,” she reminded him. “Do you realize that I’m nearly twenty-nine?”
“Good Lord!” Tomasso assumed an astonished expression. “Are you really? I wouldn’t have said that you were a day over thirty-five!”
She started to laugh, and so did Tomasso. They laughed until they felt weak and stupid and breathless.
Tomasso wiped his eyes. “When is your birthday? The tenth?”
“The fourteenth, two weeks away.”
“Why, we’ll have to celebrate! Let me take you out, buy you dinner, escort you to the theater. You’ll have to advance me a little money, of course.”
Her eyes lit up. He saw the old, reckless Fosca again. “No, wait, Tomasso, I have a better idea. I want to have a party. A huge celebration. A ball! I’m going to throw a great party for myself, in the ballroom of Ca’ Loredan!”
“A brilliant idea!” Tomasso applauded.
“You must bring all your friends, Tomasso. I want the Barnabotti to be there, as many of them as we can get!”
Tomasso stared at her incredulously. “Are you mad?” he gasped. “They’ll eat you out of house and home—not to mention the talk!”
There was a saying in Venice that one impoverished nobleman could eat more than a swarm of locusts. The Barnabotti were not popular guests. Their lean straits were an unpleasant reminder of how low many of the fine, old families had fallen, and they were unbelievably greedy when there was food and drink to be had.
“Why shouldn’t they come?” Fosca demanded. “No one ever asks them anywhere. Can’t you just see them, Tomasso? Parading through the gates in their rags and patches? Strutting around proudly, ever so pleased with themselves that they’ve been invited to Ca’ Loredan!”
“But—but the other guests!” Tomasso sputtered laughingly. “They’d never stand for it!”
“There won’t be any other guests. Just the Barnabotti—and me. All of us outcasts together.”
“But what about Loredan? He’ll be furious. He’ll never allow it!”
“This has nothing to do with Loredan,” she said, tossing her head. “He is not invited. It is my birthday, and my ball, and these are my guests, not his.”
Tomasso chuckled. “He’ll have apoplexy when he finds out. Can’t you hear the gossip? And the newspapers: ‘Five Hundred Barnabotti Entertained at Commissioner’s House!’ ”
“Yes,” said Fosca with a strange smile, “I can hear the gossip. And I don’t care. This is something I must do, and afterwards—. Afterwards, I don’t care what happens to me.”
“That’s the old Fosca I used to know and love,” said Tomasso happily. “Oh, what a night it’s going to be!”
At ten o’clock on the eve of Fosca Loredan’s twenty-ninth birthday, the first of her guests passed through the gates of Ca’ Loredan and mounted the great marble stairs. They arrived on foot because they could not afford to hire gondolas. Their faces were pinched and pale. They were dressed in their best: soiled linens and tattered lace, well-ventilated stockings, downtrodden shoes polished to brilliance with goose fat and spit, out-of-fashion coats, frayed at the front edges and pockets and cuffs and shiny from long use, waistcoats of rich brocade now fuzzy and faded and marked with the medallions of a hundred cheap meals, shapeless hats and breeches that bagged at the knee and at the seat. Their hands were soft and white, unaccustomed to any labor more taxing than writing diatribes against the state or shuffling cards at the Ridotto. Their eyes were haunted by the spectres of lost greatness. One and all, these were sons of the greatest families in Venice, whose names had been entered at birth in the Golden Book. A few had jobs as tutors to richer families. A few were pimps, a few prostitutes. Most lived solely on the meager stipends that the state gave them, and supplemented that with the few sequins they could pick up by selling their votes in the Grand Council.
Fosca knew most of them by sight and many by name. With Tomasso at her side, she stood at the doors, just inside the ballroom, and greeted her guests graciously. She wore a black velvet gown trimmed with gold threads at the neckline and hem. The sleeves were long and tight-fitted, and slightly puffed at the shoulder. Diamonds glittered on her neck and in her upswept hair. She was dazzling, and no one questioned the funereal colors of her costume.
The crowd of indigents swelled. Sweating footmen ran to and fro, carrying trays loaded with glasses of wine, and fruit and cake, and the trays were emptied almost as soon as they emerged from the kitchens. The Barnabotti were certainly a hungry lot. Most lived on a single meal a day, of polenta or cornmeal pudding supplemented with a piece of fruit and coffee. A few had brought their women, painted trollops and whores whose faces were so badly ravaged by smallpox or syphilis that they could attract no better-paying customers than these paupers. Fosca welcomed them warmly, as if they were visiting duchesses.
A small orchestra provided music for dancing. The hum of voices grew louder as wine warmed throats and loosened tongues. Soon the din was deafening, and the subdued tinkle of harpsichord and violin almost inaudible.
All around, conversations were of revolution and war with France. The name Bonaparte was on everyone’s lips. Here was their long-awaited saviour, the man who would reduce the Venetian government to ashes and give the Barnabotti a chance to rule. Bonaparte was in Italy, in the north, and whole cities were falling to his armies. Soon Venice would be French, they predicted.
Fosca perceived that the prospect of French invasion had done what Rafaello had failed to do: it welded these disgruntled souls together into a unit, bound by common desire and belief. Individually these men were pathetic and absurd. Collectively they represented a strong threat to the government of their fathers. Fosca smiled at the irony of receiving these rebels in the house of Alessandro Loredan, arch-defender of the status quo.
She danced with her guests until her feet were numb. They presented her with snatches of verse and song, because clever words and well-fed imaginations were all the gifts they could afford.
At midnight they drank a toast in her honor: “To Donna Fosca, our queen, the happiest of birthdays! Long life and much happiness!”
She lifted her glass and said, “And to all of you, my brothers, my deepest thanks. Let us drink to better days ahead, for all of us!”
They cheered until their throats were raw, then shouted for more wine to soothe them. The orchestra struck up a furlana, a merry peasant dance, and Fosca was swept away by eager partners.
As soon as the nature of Donna Fosca’s guests became apparent, the Loredan steward dispatched a messenger to Alessandro, to inform him of the goings-on under his roof. But Loredan had taken his mistress to the theater to see a new comedy. The Faithless Wife, and then accompanied her to a restaurant for a late supper. When he returned to his casino with her at two in the morning and heard the news, he sent his mistress home and proceeded immediately to Ca’ Loredan.
He knew about the
ball, but just assumed that Fosca was entertaining a horde of her usual friends. Even before his gondola docked under the house, he could hear echoes of merriment. He disembarked, and the first thing he saw was a couple of men urinating into the fishpond in the center of the courtyard. He recognized one of them as a leading spokesman for the Barnabotti who had recently won election to the Senate.
He strode up to them as they fastened up their breeches. “What are you doing here, Brunelleschi?” Liveried gondoliers hovered in the shadows, ready to assist their master.
They looked around. The larger of the two men leered drunkenly. “Ah, our esteemed host! Look Angelo, Commissioner Loredan has condescended to come and help his wife celebrate her birthday!”
“Charming lady,” Angelo sighed. “A saint!”
“Out. Both of you,” Alessandro said curtly. He motioned to his men. “Show these gentlemen to the gates. And give them a ducking if they start to make trouble.”
“Ah, you can’t get rid of us so easily, Loredan,” Brunelleschi shouted over his shoulder while the gondoliers dragged him and Angelo away. “There are thousands more, just like us. We’re like the hydra, Loredan. Cut off one head and a dozen more appear in its place!”
Instructing his men to keep themselves in readiness but not to interfere unless he gave the word, Alessandro ran up the stairs to the ballroom. At first glance it might have been just another brilliant gathering of nobles in their natural setting: silks and laces, shimmering crystal, bright laughter and talk. But on looking closer the elegant shapes became distorted, the faces grotesque, the reality a hideous parody of the first charming illusion. Every ragamuffin and wastrel and troublemaker in Venice was there, and a sprinkling of the lowest whores as well. Fosca stood at their core, the shining hub of an unsightly wheel.
His steward hurried up to him and murmured, “I am sorry, Excellency. I didn’t realize—none of us expected—not even Emilia. I wanted to throw them out, but there were so many—and it might have embarrassed Donna Fosca.”
Alessandro said distractedly, “It’s all right. I’m not blaming you.”
Tomasso Dolfin appeared at his elbow. “Ah, my dear brother-in-law! I want to thank you, on behalf of all my friends, for permitting us the use of your house this evening. We’ve been having a political meeting—ha, ha!”
“So I see,” Alessandro said dryly. “And I suppose Fosca is chairing this meeting?”
Tomasso laughed heartily. His face was flushed with drink and excitement. “As you can see, Signor, she is adored by every man here. You’d better be careful. Your wife may well become a potent political force in Venice—even more powerful than yourself! With the Barnabotti at her feet, she could overthrow the government tomorrow and have herself appointed queen!”
Others noticed Loredan’s presence, and word spread quickly through the room. Silence fell, and soon the only center of loud noise came from the little group that surrounded Fosca.
Alessandro considered the matter. He had two choices: he could slink away and do nothing, and let the party come to an end of its own accord, or he could put an end to it then and there and get these wretches out of his house.
He pushed through the little crowd around Fosca and grasped her elbow. Thinking he was just another admirer, she turned and smiled up at him. Then she recognized him. Her smile vanished and the old, tired dullness returned to her eyes.
“Well, Signor Loredan,” she said slowly. “How very good of you to come to my party. ” Her speech was thick and slurred and he realized that she was quite drunk. She tried to pull away from him, but he held her fast.
“Come along, Fosca,” he said quietly. “I want to talk to you.”
“Talk?” she exclaimed. “Talk! Ah, you have made this a most memorable occasion indeed, Signor. A birthday gift from my husband!” She turned to the crowd that hemmed them in. “Did you hear that? After six years of silence, my husband wants to talk to me tonight! What, I wonder, can he possibly want to talk about?”
“Perhaps he objects to your choice of guests, Donna Fosca,” someone suggested.
“Oh, no!” She shook her copper-colored head firmly. “My husband is very tolerant. He has given me permission to do as I please—to select my own friends. And you are my friends, all of you! You are nobles, are you not? How can he possibly object to you?”
There was a ripple of nervous laughter. Alessandro took a breath and propelled Fosca through the crowd. She was unsteady and he moved his arm around her waist to keep her from falling on her face. She reeked of wine, her favorite French perfume, and the stink of poverty that clung to the Barnabotti.
“Well, it’s off to the madhouse for me!” she shouted gaily. “Goodbye, my brothers! Come and visit poor Fosca, will you? Good-bye!”
Alessandro heard ugly murmurs as he guided her towards the doors to his library, but he ignored them until they reached the far side of the ballroom. Then, still supporting his sagging wife, he turned and said in a calm but penetrating voice, “If you aren’t all out of here in five minutes, I shall have you arrested. I have already sent for the Inquisitors’ police.”
It was a lie and he doubted that it would work. There were some jeers and some rebellious shouts like, “You can throw us out of your house, but you can’t throw us out of Venice, Loredan!” But the Barnabotti were basically a cowardly lot, and even as he left the ballroom. Alessandro could hear them begin to shuffle out.
Resolutely, he half-carried Fosca to his library. Her eyes were closed and she was humming tunelessly to herself.
“It isn’t so bad, this madness, ” she observed. “Like floating. Or flying.”
They entered the library and Alessandro closed the doors behind them. They were alone together, for the first time in six years.
He lowered her into a tall chair near his desk and stepped away from her. She opened her eyes and cocked her head to the side.
“Well, Signor, bring on your dozen physicians. I am ready to go.”
“So this is the beginning of a new rebellion,” he sighed. “I’m very sorry to see it.”
“Oh, no,” she rattled her head slowly. “No beginning. The end. I am ready for the madhouse. It is my destiny. This event—was my farewell. To life. Tomorrow I will be on my way to San Servolo. I just wanted to spend my last night among my true friends. Outcasts, like me. Prisoners. Oh, we appear to be free. We can walk about, talk and take coffee where we please. But we are prisoners, all the same. Held by invisible shackles. We all stink of sorrow and disappointment. We groan about how unfair life has been to us. I am tired of it all, so very tired.” She sighed deeply and closed her eyes. “No more penances. No more heartbreak. You have beaten me, Alessandro. You didn’t expect it to take so long, did you? I’ve been your prisoner for six years. A good wife. I meet my lovers in secret. I don’t cause trouble. Not a whisper of scandal. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? But it’s over now. I’m tired, too tired. Living this way—not living at all. I must have been mad to let it go on for six years. I want to go to San Servolo!” She gripped the arms of the chair and made an effort to stand. She couldn’t, and fell back. “Tell Emilia to pack my things. I want to go to the madhouse tonight!”
Tears of sorrow and exhaustion ran down her cheeks. She was weary and disheveled and defeated. Alessandro knew it would be useless to berate her. The birthday party for the Barnabotti was her last defiant gesture before giving up completely.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said gruffly. “Forget San Servolo. Forget the madhouse. I was a fool to—. Look, it’s late. I’ll send for Emilia to come and take you to bed.”
“No!” she said stubbornly. “I want to get out of here. I only stayed and obeyed your wishes because I wanted my son. But you have taken him away from me, as surely as if you had locked me away long ago. He isn’t mine. I have nothing, no one in the world now. I can’t see him alone. You have poisoned his mind against me and told him lies. He will grow up thinking me evil and wicked and crazy, because that is what you�
�ll tell him about me. But it doesn’t matter now. I just want to go away, to the madhouse. I’ve thought—about my father. But he was braver than I realized. I must go to the madhouse, because I am too much of a coward to die.”
Neither of them moved for several minutes. Fosca put her hands over her face. When she dropped them again her face looked rather green.
“I think—I’m going to be sick,” she whispered. She pitched forward out of the chair. Alessandro caught her. She had passed out, from the drink and the strain.
He knelt on the floor and cradled her in his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder and he pressed his cheek against her hair.
“Oh, my God, Fosca,” he said hoarsely, “what a mess we’ve made of our lives.”
He carried her up to her room. Emilia was waiting anxiously, and when she saw the unconscious form she gave an anguished cry.
“It’s all right,” Alessandro said dully. “She drank too much.”
“I swear, I didn’t have the faintest idea of what she was up to! What a mad thing—oh, the poor darling!”
Alessandro laid Fosca gently on her bed. “Do you think we ought to send for a doctor?” he asked.
“Doctor!” Emilia snorted, pulling off Fosca’s shoes and starting to remove her jewelry. “There’s nothing the matter with her body that a night and a day in bed won’t fix. But as for her heart—I blame you for this, Signor Loredan.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you!” The little black eyes were like bits of smoldering coal. “Keeping her child away from her, treating her like a leper. You couldn’t forgive her, oh, no! You had to keep on punishing her, year after year. And you call yourself a Christian! Even Christ forgave the Magdalen. But you—you think you’re better than God! Not speaking to her. Treating her like dirt. You don’t know how you’ve hurt her, what you’ve driven her to do. I know. I’m just surprised that she hasn’t thrown herself into the canal and put an end to it.”
Alessandro didn’t say a word. Emilia thought: Well, this is the last night I’ll be spending under this roof. But I’m not sorry I spoke out.
The Masquers Page 25