The Lover's Path: An Illustrated Novella of Venice

by Kris Waldherr

  As the days passed without seeing Angelo, I tried my best to push these disloyal thoughts away, to honor Tullia’s wishes. I couldn’t. As soon as the sea receded and the streets reemerged, streaked with sand and small translucent fish gasping for life, I sent Laura with a message to Angelo warning him of our departure. “You must hurry, Laura,” I urged, for we were to leave Venice that morning for the Matteo’s villa.

  I paced as I awaited my maid’s return, uncertain of the path before me, but more certain than ever of my emotions. Remembering this now, I am struck by the fierce convictions of youth—how little I knew of Angelo, yet how strongly I desired him! Yes, it was true we would be separated for only a few weeks, but this seemed a dangerous eternity. I feared his father would send him to his fiancée sooner than planned. I feared Angelo would forget his love for me, and all would be lost.

  “Where is Laura?” Tullia asked, entering my room. “Signore Matteo is impatient with our delay.”

  I did not answer—even then I preferred the honesty of silence to lies—but instead returned to looking at the portrait of my mother. It had joined Angelo’s red book as among my most precious possessions.

  An hour later when Laura finally appeared, breathless and upset, she confessed she had been turned away by at Angelo’s door. His father’s servants would not even accept a note from her.

  Nothing more could be done.

  Our journey from Venice did not take long. To Tullia’s surprise, I took little pleasure in viewing the outside world at last. I hated Matteo’s villa at first sight, with its brightly colored frescoes and overpruned gardens, vineyards for decoration rather than wine; forests stocked with young deer for sport instead of sustenance—pretensions of honest, rustic living disguising bored decadence. I despised the dust that gilded my gown every time I ventured outside my small, hot room into the gardens. It pained me to witness Matteo’s attentions to my sister, knowing how little she cared for him. It weighed on me she had chosen to be with him to protect my life. Most of all, I missed Angelo. I resolved myself to heartbreak—after all, after losing two parents at a tender age, I understood loss too well. But, fueled by memories of his tender encouragement, I used all my time alone to compose.

  These first songs I wrote were created in a solitude necessitated by secrecy. I waited until everyone was out of the house, even Laura, to give way to inspiration. Like a bird collecting scraps of silk for a new nest, I gathered every bit of information I ever remembered Tullia uttering about music. I recalled her comment that lutes were worthier to compose for than flutes or horns. Wind instruments spoke of strife, she claimed, strings of harmony. When we were together, I watched with new interest as she sounded out melodies on a simple wood flute; studied how she combined these notes to create emotion with sound.

  Over the weeks, my ears grew sharper, my imagination quicker. Though my talents were still in their infancy, I took pleasure in their expression, as well as in the hope they offered. Although I was too cautious to commit these first songs to parchment, they were engraved within me. No matter what Tullia planned, or what happened with Angelo and his father, I would be a virtuosa. I would be free.

  During those long summer days so green and strained, only one event lightened my heart. Soon after our arrival, a messenger called at the villa bearing a package for me. It contained a flask of the finest red wine, a silver chalice, an ivory salt cellar, and two white doves—the traditional gift presented upon parting from one friend to another.

  Tullia said nothing as she handed the basket to me.

  “It must have been meant for you,” I lied. “A mistake.”

  As I feigned surprise and innocence, I prayed she did not notice my burning cheeks, for I knew the package was from Angelo. No note was enclosed, but no words were needed—I understood his message.

  We drank his wine the first night. The salt cellar disappeared into the kitchen. But the doves remained with me. I doted upon those shy, docile creatures, feeding them morsels of bread from my hand, training them to sit on my shoulders as I strolled the vineyards in the mornings before the sun grew too high.

  “Our nightingale has found herself some friends,” Tullia teased, noting my attentions to them. “I know Dolce will like them too.”

  I begged Laura to help me find a way to thank Angelo. She reluctantly approached Matteo’s huntsman, who had kindly built a cote for my doves in the garden. Seduced by gold, he asked no questions about the letter I pressed into his hand as he rode from the villa to the outside world. “Beloved,” I wrote, “I have drunk wine from your cup. But the doves miss their master.”

  In reply, letters from Angelo began to arrive. His writing reminded me of his hands—their strength, their gentleness. I thought of how they must have handled those doves he sent me. I imagined him stroking their soft white feathers; the way they might have stretched their delicate wings in response:

  Beloved, the cup you drank from was the same that joined Tristan and Isolde on the lover’s path. Like those two lovers, we are captives to love and desire. Though you are far from me, know that desire shall triumph over distance, love conquer longing.

  Angelo found the most imaginative ways to leave me these letters. I found one wrapped within the folds of my brown cloak, a bow of neat red silk tying it shut from prying eyes; I still do not know how it arrived there. Another time I found a poem he’d written tucked inside a silver basket of small white peaches, the first of the season. It was fortunate only Laura was in my room when I discovered the basket hidden behind my pillow.

  His red book grew thicker with each new letter I hid within it, and my desire blossomed. As often as I could without attracting undue notice, I dashed out pages of quickly scrawled words, filled with simple yearning, to send to him.

  In the evenings, when I sang for Tullia and Matteo, Tullia commented on how passionate my voice was becoming, chiding me only for my distracted manner.

  It was three weeks after the doves’ arrival that Caterina offered to amuse us by reading our cards. Surprisingly, my sister agreed to this. In truth, Tullia was intimidated by Caterina’s cards, but longed for an excuse not to accompany Matteo as he hunted in the woods outside his villa. Like me, my sister disliked the sight of the bloody stag sacrificed for his diversion.

  Within the villa’s garden, the afternoon sun bathed everything in a blinding white heat. Laura, Caterina, Tullia and I took shelter under an arbor crowned with a canopy of twisting grape leaves. These vines were jeweled by luminous grapes no one would harvest since they were only for show. The humid air laid heavily on us. It was so hot that the only sound was a chorus of cicadas, their staccato chirps rising and falling in waves.

  “Read for me first,” Tullia said, fanning herself lazily. “Distract me. You choose the cards, Caterina.”

  “I already know your future, signora,” her ruffiana quickly offered. “You will be ever wise, ever desired.”

  “You know me too well to think I’d accept such obvious flattery,” my sister teased, but her relief was overt. She glanced at Laura and me. “Who’s next?”

  Sensing danger, I rose to leave, gathering my doves in my arms.

  “It’s so warm,” I claimed. “Perhaps it’s time to go inside.”

  “No, not yet,” Laura said, giggling. “Don’t read my cards, Madre. Do Filamena’s. Will she become a famous singer? Will she marry?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Tullia answered calmly. “I wish for my sister a peaceful life. A life free of the folly of desire. A life of serenity away from the world’s harsh eyes. If she obeys my wishes, she will be a happy woman.”

  Tears stung my eyes as I recalled my sister’s restrictions, my desperate loneliness for so many years. If Tullia had her way, I’d no longer make music, nor would I love Angelo. In time, I’d lose myself into her will. Nothing would remain of me but regret and sorrow.

  To calm myself, I stared at Tullia, willing my expression as unreadable as hers. How mysterious my sister seemed at that moment! She was
a puzzle I could never decipher, so generous yet so harsh in her love. Perhaps this was the same allure she offered so many of her suitors, a cool inscrutability they yearned to thaw with their ardor.

  “What is it, Filamena?” Tullia asked. “You look so strangely at me.”

  “I was just thinking,” I said slowly, “that my life should be mine to choose.”

  How my heart pounded! I’d never spoken before in such a manner to my sister, but in that moment I felt so angry and willful. I even felt spiteful.

  Tullia’s smile slipped. “Our mother would think differently.”

  Before I could respond, Caterina offered up her worn deck.

  “No woman can choose her life, Filamena,” she said wryly. “But you can choose some cards.”

  “Very well.”

  I grabbed the deck. I sat back down, not bothering to arrange the folds of my brown linen gown to save it from wrinkles.

  “Shuffle the cards seven times,” Caterina ordered. “Then spit on the earth for luck.”

  I complied. Her usually expressionless face registered curiosity as she gathered the cards from my hands. She nimbly chose three from the top.

  “As God wills....”

  Her hands, smooth and white even in middle age, flashed against the deep flat colors of the cards as she turned them over on the grass. Despite myself, I felt a ripple of anticipation.

  I saw one card bearing silver arrows and a second with a man and woman caught in an underworld of stone. A third and final card showed a couple sharing a cup, a winged heart fluttering above their heads in a cloud of fire. I flushed, remembering how Angelo and I had embraced just like the lovers on this card.

  Caterina was silent, her somber brown eyes considering my future.

  “What do you see?” Laura pressed. “Say something, Madre.”

  Caterina addressed me. “I see many things.”

  Tullia asked, “Such as?”

  “Fame, both good and bad. Travels to faraway places. And I see a man who loves Filamena. He’s very loyal.”

  I felt triumph yet fear at her words. Yes, I would be a virtuosa. Yes, Angelo loved me no matter what. We would find a way to be together, despite his father and my sister. It was right for us to love, to defy their wishes.

  (I understand how superstitious it must sound to put so much faith in cards and fortunes, dear Patroness. Remember, I was only sixteen and desperate for reassurance.)

  I shook my head, protecting my secret. “You must mean my sister, for she is famous. It is she who loves someone.”

  “I’m not susceptible to that malady,” Tullia said, laughing coldly. “And even if I was, it certainly wouldn’t be Signore Mateo who’d win my heart. He bores me to distraction.”

  Caterina continued, “This man wants to take Filamena on a journey to a new land.”

  Had she seen Angelo’s red book? Could Laura have revealed something? Suddenly cold, I stole a look at my maid; the sun had ducked behind a grouping of tall cypress trees, silhouetting them in gold.

  I offered weakly, “Maybe you speak of the journey here?”

  “I’m only telling you what the cards say.” Caterina shrugged. “If you don’t want to hear, don’t ask.”

  My hands relaxed their grip on my skirt. Laura hadn’t betrayed me after all.

  I asked, “What else do the cards say?”

  “The Two of Cups. True love, but poorly aspected. Do not accept his offer,” Caterina warned, mulling over the display of cards. “Like your sister said, you have no need of his affection.”

  No doubt the ruffiana was only echoing Tullia’s wishes. But how closely her words cut!

  “Go on, Mama,” Laura begged. “What else do you see?”

  Caterina pointed at the first card. “The Six of Swords. A voyage over water, a journey without end.” She frowned. “This last card is very strange.... This man can never marry you, signorina, for he is like Orpheus in Hades. He’s trapped between worlds.”

  “This is silly,” I said. “I don’t want to hear anymore.”

  Shaken, I collected the cards from the grass before Caterina could stop me, and placed them in their wooden box. Whether Laura had said something or not, I had the sense Caterina knew more than she’d revealed. For the remainder of the afternoon, I was silent, feeling the fear of an animal who cannot see the hunter, but senses he is close. Was this how the stag had felt as Matteo stalked him?

  That evening I wrote Angelo, We are discovered.

  His response came three days later. I placed it in the red book, beside the rest of his letters.

  BLINDED BY LOVE, THE DECEIVER IS DECEIVED.

  A prince lost in a dark wood fell in love with a swan maiden. Moved by his devotion, the enchanted girl confided she was cursed to remain a swan unless a virgin youth swore to love her forever; if this vow was broken even by chance, she would die. The prince agreed, promising to return and claim her as his bride. The next evening, a ball was held in honor of the prince’s birthday. As it drew to a close, a princess arrived who looked like the swan maiden but was as dark of heart as the other was light. Believing her to be his true love, the prince wed her, thus cursing the swan maiden forever.

  Over the years, many have wondered what could have been in that letter from Angelo to create so much sorrow for so many. But by writing of sorrow so soon, my dear Patroness, I run ahead of my fiaba; I would rather relate it just as it occurred when I was so young, so ripe for joy and disappointment.

  Angelo’s letter to me contained no sadness, only the promise of reunion. He wrote that his father had set his wedding date earlier than expected; he urged me to run away with him as soon as I could. All I need do was send a note with the date of my return to Venice. On that night, he would have a gondola waiting for me on the edge of the piazza. It would take me to an abandoned island his father owned, where his mother had lived before her death. He swore no one would think to look for us there. To avoid discovery, he would travel separately to meet me. We would stay away through the winter, until the scheduled date of his wedding had passed. Then we would seek the blessing of a priest he knew in Rome, who would marry us in spite of his father.

  While I read his letter, I thought how distressed Tullia would be by my betrayal. But when I considered how much I loved Angelo, and how alive I felt beside him, I knew I had no choice.

  As for the remainder of my time at Matteo’s villa, I won’t write much more about those days of blistering sunlight and suspicion, unmitigated by the sea’s cool currents. Whether or not Laura had revealed my secret to Caterina, I no longer trusted her. I stopped composing, too distracted to concentrate on anything save my worries. As each day passed, the threat of discovery weighed heavier. It oppressed me, just as my guilt and gratitude toward my sister did.

  As for Tullia, my stomach roiled as I witnessed her with Matteo. Isolation did not spark her affection: her disdain for him grew more overt, which only fed Matteo’s insecurity. “I can tell your thoughts are with another,” he cried. “Who is he?” Though my sister did her best to shrug off his accusations, her cool serenity cracked. Nights that should have been devoted to pleasure were abandoned to the discord of raised voices. My only comforts during this desperate time were those sweet white doves, and the promise contained in Angelo’s last letter. You can imagine my relief when, after one particularly vicious argument, Tullia announced we were to leave. She excused her decision by claiming that the worst of illness seemed to have lessened in Venice. Matteo was furious with her decision, but there was nothing he could do.

  I immediately wrote Angelo of the date of my return. He sent confirmation that our plan would move forward as promised. Though I should have destroyed this last letter, I placed it inside his red book along with the others. Now I wish I hadn’t.

  As soon as we arrived home in Venice, I told Tullia I was tired and needed to rest. “I understand, my nightingale,” she said, kissing my brow. She didn’t accompany me when I retreated to my room. I shut the door, but I did not sl
eep. Instead, I waited anxiously for nightfall, counting the hours until I could leave to be with Angelo. As I packed what I’d need for my new life away, I rummaged through my belongings for his red book. I thought I’d placed it at the bottom of my trunk. I unfolded linens, shuffled books.

  The red book wasn’t there. Nor were his letters, which I’d hidden inside it.

  “Laura!” I cried. Surely my maid knew where it could be; even if she had revealed my secret, she would not have stolen from me.

  I called yet again, desperation tingeing my voice.

  When Laura finally appeared, her face was blotchy, her eyes raw with tears. “Please believe me,” she sobbed. “I didn’t tell them, but somehow they knew! I had no choice—”

  Caterina entered my room behind her daughter. “You did have a choice, Laura—a choice to be honest.”

  I flinched as she slapped her daughter’s cheek and yanked at her brown curls. I was stunned to silence. I’d never seen Caterina hurt her daughter before—what would Tullia do to me?

  Caterina turned to me, shaking her head. “How could you deceive your sister?”

  I yelled, my voice stronger than I felt, “How could you steal from me? Give me back my book!”

  Caterina pursed her lips, and left the room for only a moment. When she returned, the red book was in her hands.

  I grabbed the book from her, screaming as I ordered her and her daughter out of my room. I slammed the door, fear giving me a new strength. As the door shuddered behind me, my doves tried to take flight, their wings beating fruitlessly against the bars of their golden cage.

  I slid the bolt upon my door. My heart sped as I opened the book to remove Angelo’s letters. I pulled out the envelope....

  Imagine biting into a ripe piece of fruit, expecting to taste sweetness, and instead finding your mouth filled with nettles. This is how I felt when I saw a single envelope marked by Tullia’s handwriting, instead of Angelo’s. She had replaced his letters with one from her.