The Four Seasons: A Novel of Vivaldi's Venice

by Laurel Corona

  “Maestro Vivaldi,” Chiaretta said when he arrived. “I see you were able to get a ride from Venice.” Though she tried to sound like a gracious hostess, she could hear the accusation in her tone. Maddalena might be enraptured by his music, but as far as she was concerned, the man was making a shambles of his life, and the sooner this concert was over the better.

  “Yes. It was quite a coincidence. Anna—La Girò,” he hurried to add, “is singing in Padua tomorrow. She and her sister suggested I accompany them this far, and I am just a poor musician—”

  Stop, she thought, cutting him off by turning to a servant just inside the entrance to the house. “Show Maestro Vivaldi to his room, and see that his clothes are dried.”

  “I really must go,” she said to her guest, and without asking him to excuse her, she walked across the portego and disappeared up the stairs.

  Maddalena was waiting to take tea with Chiaretta in her quarters.

  “The Maestro is here,” Chiaretta said.

  “Good,” Maddalena said.

  “He got a ride here with those women.”

  The stricken look on her sister’s face was so brief Chiaretta missed it altogether. “That was convenient,” Maddalena said as she composed herself.

  Chiaretta rang for Zuana and ordered their tea. After Zuana left, she turned to her sister. “How are you and Don Vivaldi getting along since the...” She paused, not sure how to phrase the question.

  Maddalena shrugged. “I’m fine,” she said. “I don’t have any trouble working with him.”

  Chiaretta was taken aback that her sister could talk so casually about him, even if the red in her cheeks betrayed at least a little feeling. “I’ve never understood how you can be so calm about someone who’s hurt you so many times. I guess it’s lucky you never fell in love with him. You’d probably hate him now.”

  Maddalena didn’t know what to say, and she toyed with the idea of brushing aside Chiaretta’s comment. But in such rare circumstances, sitting in a comfortable room in her sister’s home, without a grille between them or anyone to listen in, she suddenly wanted Chiaretta to know everything.

  “When I was a little girl, he was like a crusader, galloping through the Pietà to save me.” She looked up at Chiaretta. “And he did, you know. Don’t ever forget that. Whatever it is with those Girò women, don’t ever forget that.”

  She didn’t notice that Chiaretta had taken her hand. “But I think as I got older I realized that my life belongs to me. It’s not an extension of somebody else’s. Even though the Pietà claims almost every hour of it, it’s still mine.”

  Maddalena noticed her sister’s hand and began to play with Chiaretta’s fingers as she collected her thoughts. “When I went to his house and La Girò showed up... It sounds strange to say, and I can’t tell you exactly how it happened,” Maddalena continued, “but I knew deep down for the first time that afternoon that he truly cared about me. I feel such loyalty to him, despite having to admit he’s essentially a rather foolish man with a great gift.”

  “You do love him, then, at least a little.” Chiaretta’s face was solemn.

  “Is there such a thing as a little love? That’s not how I ever imagined it. So that’s hard to answer.” Maddalena took a moment to think. “I feel safe with him now,” she said. “I don’t see how he could hurt me again, because I don’t need him, and that makes it easier to open my heart. And I don’t think he has any idea how dear he is to me.”

  She looked at Chiaretta with a long, loving smile. “You know the horses we took the girls to feed the other day when we went on the picnic? If you hold up your hand with food, the horses will run over, but the rest of the time, do they care? And if someone has food for them, does it matter to them what kind of person he is? For me, it’s like that with Vivaldi. I don’t want him around, particularly, but I can’t imagine ever not coming to him, whatever the circumstances.”

  They both fell silent. “I need to rest,” Maddalena said, pulling her hand away gently. “Chiaretta, what you’re going to hear tonight is the most remarkable music ever written, I’m sure of it.”

  “Hmm,” her sister said. “Maybe so, and I’m glad you’re at peace with Vivaldi, but I have to admit I’ll be glad when he’s gone.” She stood up. “I have a lot to do. Can you find your room, or should I take you there?”

  “I’ll find my way,” Maddalena assured her. “I always do.” Seeing Chiaretta’s puzzled look, she added, “Find my way. You taught me how, you know.”

  A raucous chorus of birdssang out from the trees as the last guests arrived under a blue and white afternoon sky. Vivaldi had insisted that the concert start while the audience had enough light to look through the windows behind the orchestra, where the gentle breeze tousling the leaves would suggest spring. Timed properly, they would finish up the winter concerto as the sky began to bleach out at dusk.

  He had changed out of his priest’s robe into a black velvet jacket over a lace-trimmed shirt, tailored pants, and white stockings. Maddalena wore a plain dress in the red of the Pietà, and the figlie wore gauzy white dresses, with sprays of colorful summer flowers tucked into their bodices.

  Vivaldi played the opening notes with the rest of the violins, while the bass viol hammered out a driving continuo. The figlie repeated the opening melody once without him, and then he was off, imitating the sound of a bird with Maddalena and Cornelia joining in a cheerful reply.

  Behind them, on a potted tree on the loggia, two goldfinches perched, bending their heads and looking around as if they had been called by the music. The clouds moved slowly across the sky as the orchestra mellowed into the flowing sounds of a stream. The bass viol, too heavy for the scene, gave way to a tinkling harpsichord continuo. The figlie drew out the nuances of each note before returning to the main melody in a minor key and moving, with dramatic bowing, to a depiction of a spring shower. Just as they began to slide their notes upward to suggest the birds’ flight, the goldfinches outside flew away, and the audience murmured in recognition of the moment. Vivaldi began his next solo section, contrasting the birds’ flight with the still agitated sounds of the orchestra before calm was restored and the birds, at least the musical ones, returned.

  As the first movement closed and the second began, the audience consulted the copies of the sonnets they had found on their chairs. The violins played a soft and undulating ostinato, suggesting a light breeze through the grass, while Vivaldi played a languid melody describing a shepherd stretching out his arms and shifting his body as he slept under a tree. Only the bark of his dog, played by the cello, broke into the perfect calm of the scene.

  The music of summer sweltered, evoking the torpor of a hot afternoon, hounded by gnats and flies. A cuckoo, a turtledove, and a goldfinch fluttered and sang in the trees. A sudden storm, cracking and violent, drove the summer concerto to its conclusion.

  Fall was a time to celebrate. The violins played a scratchy imitation of bagpipes, and wooden flutes mimicked peasants dancing. Wine soon gave way to drunkenness, and Vivaldi’s solo traced a staggering peasant leaving the scene and tumbling to the ground unnoticed while the revelry went on.

  Chiaretta and Claudio stood together in an alcove. Near them, their son and daughter stood in front of a newly frescoed section of wall where Chiaretta had commissioned a scene of the two of them peeking through a trompe l’oeil door. Donata and Maffeo were trying not to giggle as they leaned against their own portraits, imitating their painted gestures. Claudio motioned toward them to see if Chiaretta had noticed, and she replied by taking his hand and squeezing it.

  Though some members of the audience were still consulting their programs, by now more than a few seemed annoyed at the challenge posed by the sonnets and the unusual and unpredictable sounds from the orchestra. A few turned to look at the banquet table to check on the progress toward dinner. By the fourth concerto, the rustle of bodies shifting in their chairs was unmistakable.

  The basses entered first, followed by the violins in j
ittery trills that weren’t meant to be a melody at all, but mimicry of shivering in the cold. Vivaldi’s solo sent a north wind swirling through the music, leading to shaking legs and chattering teeth. The second movement evoked the sensuousness of being warm by a fire while rain fell outside, an effect achieved by the soft, rhythmic plucking of strings. The work concluded with people making their way across the ice, to the protection of a shelter before a storm.

  Vivaldi’s violin screamed and whistled like wind howling around the edges of buildings and through the trees. The orchestra amplified the sound into a blizzard, swirling downward into the basses before rising again, the violins picking up in unison the solo melody for a moment before the basses drove the music downward again. Then, without allowing the audience even a moment to anticipate the end, the figlie put their instruments on their laps.

  The guests sat for a moment, not understanding that the concert was over. A few began to clap, and then the rest followed politely, but the applause soon drifted off. The guests headed for the table, looking for Claudio to see if it was time to sit down and eat.

  Chiaretta had made her way to the orchestra with her husband. She hugged Maddalena, feeling the heat of her body through the damp fabric of her dress. “You were magnificent!” she said. Turning to Vivaldi, she said, “Maddalena was right. It is remarkable.”

  She had chosen the word with care. The Four Seasons was stunning, but she would have to hear it again to know how much she liked it. And whenever small clusters of guests murmured after a concert, as her guests were doing at the moment, criticism was probably outrunning praise. She could imagine what they were saying. The music describing each season was soothing and bright, but never for long. Even if the artistry in the discordant notes was unmistakable, it was not pleasant to listen to. Summer did have gnats along with the breezes, and winter had far more ice than crackling fires, but people didn’t want to hear music about such things. For someone always so anxious to please, Vivaldi had offered to an audience expecting the light fare of a summer evening quite a surprise, and not an altogether pleasant one.

  As Chiaretta left the orchestra to attend to her guests, the music was already less on her mind than two of the musicians. Her sister had risen to a level Chiaretta could not really understand or ever have imagined. No one except Vivaldi played better than she did. Maddalena and Vivaldi were a world of two, although an odd one—a sullied priest of undeniable genius and a cloistered virgin who played as if she knew everything about the world.

  Vivaldi fell ill that night. By morning he had recovered, but the lack of sleep after the intensity of the performance left him too exhausted to return to Venice with the rest of the coro. The best plan, they all decided, was for him to return the following day with Chiaretta and the children, who were accompanying Maddalena back to the Pietà.

  The weather was cool enough the day of their journey for Donata and Maffeo to sit with Vivaldi on the deck of the barge, but they soon grew tired and went down below to eat the small meal the servants had prepared and to take a nap out of the hot sun. When they lay down, Maddalena went out to sit with Vivaldi while Chiaretta stayed below.

  “What did you think of it?” he asked her the second she sat down.

  “The concert? The figlie played magnificently, I thought.”

  “That’s not what I meant. What did you think of the reaction?”

  “I think some of them saw it for what it was.”

  “And what is it?”

  “A masterpiece. Perhaps too much so.”

  He sniffed. “I like some of the melodies. Perhaps I can use them again in something easier to understand.”

  “I wouldn’t give up so easily. Maybe you can do a little explaining before the performances. Stand up with your violin and play a few bars. Say ‘This is the dog,’ or ‘This is the breeze.’ ”

  Vivaldi didn’t seem to hear. “I overestimated the people of Venice,” he said in a voice so low and discouraged it was almost inaudible.

  “Perhaps. But overestimation isn’t always bad.” On impulse, Maddalena reached out and brushed the top of his hand. “I’m glad you overestimated me.”

  His eyes darted from his hand back to her face. “What do you mean?”

  “Picking me out when I was little, and insisting that I get a chance. Give the people of Venice a chance too.”

  “I’ve given them so many. The coro is in Venice, you’re in Venice, but there’s not much other reason to stay. My music gets a much better reaction almost everywhere else.”

  “My being in Venice has never kept you there before.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “Because you left. Twice.”

  “I also stayed when I didn’t need to.”

  Maddalena stared at him, uncomprehending. He went on. “There were times when I felt so humiliated by my treatment at the Pietà that I considered quitting, but I didn’t, because I had a lesson with you coming up, or a solo I wanted to write for you. I wrote music for you in Mantua and in Rome too, but you never knew about it because someone else played it.”

  He looked away. His eyes followed the plodding movements of the draft horses pulling the barge, but he didn’t appear to be seeing them. “Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t realize, before I took my final vows, that I was wrong for the priesthood.” He took in a breath and let it out in a sigh. “That I had too much of the wrong kinds of passion in me.”

  He looked at Maddalena with an expression so sad she felt her eyes begin to sting with tears. “I was very taken with you—I still am. The church would call it ‘tempted.’ ” He tried to smile. “There. That’s my big confession.”

  “I was too young to understand,” Maddalena said softly. “I realize now that every time you hurt me, you were trying to keep from hurting me worse.”

  He leaned forward. “I couldn’t ever show you, but that’s exactly how it was.” He cupped her hands in his. “When I was fired the first time, I went home and wrote you a letter, and when I was finished, I realized I couldn’t send it without creating problems for you. I knew you wouldn’t understand my leaving, but what could I do? And when I was rehired and your name wasn’t on the list of violins, I wondered how I was going to bring you back without looking like I cared about you too much. It felt like a miracle when I saw you walk in with your violin case. There were so many times like that when I knew you must be misinterpreting, but...”

  He fell silent, and for the first time he seemed to realize he was clasping her hands. He pulled his hands away, but she took them back and held them in hers.

  “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” she said. Glancing at the closed door to the cabin of the barge, she added, “Except for my sister.”

  Vivaldi’s head had sunk halfway to his knees, and she felt the misery emanating from him. “You bought me a bow when I wasn’t even an attiva,” she whispered.

  He looked up. Her attempt to cheer him seemed to have had an effect. “I loved watching you play,” he said. “The first day I came into the sala, do you remember what I told you?”

  Maddalena shook her head.

  “I said you were not afraid of the difficult. What I didn’t know at the time was that the difficult would turn out to include me.”

  She smiled. “I think I’m old enough to handle it now.” She thought about stopping there but decided to say more. “Sometimes when I thought about how life might have been different, I would picture us without the Pietà, without the church, having nothing to concern ourselves with but music. Two people playing the violin and growing old together. And I would tell myself that sometimes what seems meant to be doesn’t happen. But here with you now, I’m thinking that things are exactly as they’re meant to be, and it’s good. You’ve become one of my most treasured friends, and I have a life I love.”

  His eyes shone as he watched her speak, and then they grew sad again. “I wish I could say the same about my life.”

  They pulled apart and sat back on oppo
site sides of the barge, letting the conversation die away.

  Eventually Vivaldi spoke again. “I’m sorry for any problems my”—he reached for a word—“my actions have caused you.”

  He brushed away an insect that had landed on his sleeve and followed its flight toward the riverbank. “You know, the Girò sisters have their own home. I need a nurse, and you saw Paolina is a good one. And Anna—I write some of my best operatic music for her. But she’s so young, and she can be so... demanding.”

  “I saw.” Maddalena had not intended her tone to be so curt after the conversation they had just had, but the Girò women were not people she cared to think about. “I think she diminishes you.”

  Before he could reply, Maffeo and Donata opened the door of the cabin. “We’re almost there,” Donata said. “We looked through the window.”

  Chiaretta came up too, with the basket they had packed for the day. While Vivaldi chatted with the two children, she cast a quizzical look at Maddalena, and Maddalena gave her a fleeting smile to say she was all right.

  The barge bumped the dock at Fusina, and within a minute they were ready to disembark. Vivaldi helped Maddalena off first. Standing on the quay while he was assisting Chiaretta with the children, Maddalena heard a woman’s laughter coming from the entrance to a tavern. Two men were walking with Anna Girò and her sister, who were both dressed in traveling clothes.

  Anna stopped short. “Tonio?” she said, walking unsteadily toward Vivaldi. “What is this?” She flung her arm in Maddalena’s direction. “Her again?”

  Vivaldi looked around to see who might be watching. “She’s my performing partner,” he hissed.