Let me assure you that this offer is accurate and genuine—I am not as gullible as I have sometimes been in the past, and I have been at pains to ensure that my goods are of the quality described, so you may be confident that you will get full value for money. I will not be satisfied with inferior products, and I do not ask any of my clients to be so.
With every surety of my continued dedication to your work
And with grateful respect,
Ulrico Baradin
factor and broker in papers and inks
At Venezia, on the 18thday of August, 1531
5
“But the man is a respectable widower,” Pier-Ariana’s cousin Marcantonio Rosseli said to her over the dining table. “With my father dead these ten months, I am mindful of my duty to take you in, since you are not sponsored by your patron any longer—more’s the pity that his business should fail so terribly, and he be gone—yet you have some money to contribute here from the house you have claim to in Venezia, but I will not allow you to remain here forever—I cannot. You have a duty to your family to wed—at last. Cornelio Paschetti is an honorable man, Cugina, with sufficient money to keep you well enough; he is the best instrument-maker in Verona, and his work is praised everywhere. You would be an asset to him, as a musician.” He sat back, the force of his emotion making color rise in his face. “Your mother would expect you to make the most of this offer, if she were still alive.”
Pier-Ariana sat very still on the women’s side of the table; her face was pale and her mouth was hardly more than a thin line. She felt her cousin’s wife nudge her in the side, and realized she had to say something. “I know you mean well by me, Cugin’, and I am deeply grateful to you for taking me in, but until I know how matters stand with the Conte, I cannot make such a decision as you ask of me, not without careful consideration, and a better acquaintance with Signor’ Paschetti.”
“He will come to visit here if I tell him he is welcome,” said Marcantonio. “You will not have to decide without knowing something about the man.”
“And if I should say I would rather not receive him, what then? Would you decide to require me to accept his suit?” asked Pier-Ariana, moving her hands under the table so Marcantonio would not see them tremble. “Is my willingness to be courted a condition of my continuing welcome in your house?”
The five other women on their side of the table flinched at Pier-Ariana’s challenge, his mother-in-law, Tiberia, going so far as to cross herself at such temerity; Marcantonio’s oldest step-daughter blushed deeply and looked across the room as if to vanish from the meal.
“No, no, of course not,” said Marcantonio, but added fretfully, “But unless you want to be known as a woman of questionable character, you had better encourage the attentions of a well-respected man. Otherwise you will risk gaining such repute as no man would be likely to—”
“To what?” Pier-Ariana waited for a long moment. “Well?”
“You have been in Verona more than two months,” said Marcantonio bluntly. “If you plan to return to Venezia, you would do well to leave before the end of September, when the weather changes, and so you can make plans for the winter.”
“I haven’t made up my mind, Cugin’,” said Pier-Ariana with more firmness than before. “If you would rather I go elsewhere—”
“No, no,” said Marcantonio. “I won’t have it be said that I turned out a relative in distress, and a good Catholic.”
“For the sake of my late mother,” said Pier-Ariana, “and the two ducats I provide every month.” It was the entire amount she received from the Pisan merchant currently residing in the house di Santo-Germano had taken for her, and she paid it reluctantly, for it was the only money she had in the world.
Marcantonio glowered in Pier-Ariana’s direction. “If you will not listen to me, then speak to my wife: Serafina is a sensible and worthy woman, whose grasp of such matters is admirable. Since you do not seem to apprehend the perils of your situation, she will explain your circumstances more effectively than I can, and why Cornelio Paschetti has been most generous in his offer.” He smiled at Serafina. “She understands how such things must work.”
“Because she, as a widow, needed support for herself, her mother, and her children, and so married you?” Pier-Ariana inquired.
Serafina’s smile did not reach her eyes. “You and I should talk, Pier-Ariana,” she said, with a quick glance at her three daughters: the scarlet-cheeked Giacinta, the deliberately preoccupied Feriga, and the sweet-featured Orsola.
“If you insist,” said Pier-Ariana, and rounded on her cousin. “If you will excuse me, Cugino, I will leave the table.” She got to her feet and stepped away from the table. “I find I have lost my appetite.”
“Pier-Ariana—no,” said Serafina. “You mustn’t—”
But Pier-Ariana was halfway to the door, and she would not look around. As she closed the door behind her, she heard excited conversation erupt among the remaining diners. She resisted the urge to pause and listen, making for her rooms at the rear of the house. As she climbed the stairs to the second floor, she had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from crying. Once in her bedchamber, she gave vent to the turbulent emotions gripping her, but her tears carried with them no release or anodyne solace. She mourned her music, her life in Venezia, her time with di Santo-Germano, her heartache so intense that she could barely breathe. By the time she wiped her eyes, she was in a more desolate state of mind than before she had left the dining table.
In an effort to restore her equilibrium she reached for her virginals and began to play; the melody that wove itself through her fingers was plaintive and sad, turning her thoughts more forlorn than they had been. She stopped her music in mid-phrase and, instead of trying another tune, rose and went to the small window on the east side of the room, where she looked out at the small kitchen garden below. Some little distance beyond the garden wall, she could see the curve of the walls of the old amphitheatre, built long ago by the Romans, rising over this quarter of Verona, and the tall spire on the Capella di Santa Pomona, said to have been a pagan temple before it was a church. Other buildings claimed her attention as the day waned, a distraction from her misery. She remained there until the night faded all the details from soft grays to deep, ill-defined shadows. Returning to her virginals, she lit three oil-lamps using flint-and-steel, and finally resumed playing, carried by her despondency at the bleak outlook presented to her.
As the family came up from the ground floor to go to bed, a tap on Pier-Ariana’s door announced the arrival of Serafina. “Pier-Ariana, you and I must talk.”
Tempted though she was to send Marcantonio’s wife away, Pier-Ariana sighed and called out, “Come in, Serafina.”
Needing no more invitation than that, Serafina entered the room, a candle in her hand to show that this was to be an important discussion. “I heard you playing. We all did.”
“Thank you,” said Pier-Ariana, closing the virginals in case Serafina’s remark was not a compliment.
“My husband has asked me to speak with you,” Serafina began.
“I am aware of it,” said Pier-Ariana.
“Then you must also know what he expects me to say,” Serafina said, pulling herself up with all the dignity she could summon.
“He expects you to advise me,” said Pier-Ariana with the semblance of humility. “You are here to do his bidding—along his recommendation.”
“His and mine are one,” said Serafina.
“He expects you to explain the advantages of marriage to me,” said Pier-Ariana, trying unsuccessfully to look compliant.
“That he does—and I pray you will listen,” she said, and launched into the first phase of her argument. “It must surely be apparent to you that you have put yourself at a marked disadvantage, given your age and your … recent distresses, and it is only through the deep concern of your family that any chance for a decent life is still available to you. I beg you, keep in mind what your presence may do to the po
sition of us all.” She sat on the end of the narrow bed, for Pier-Ariana was occupying the only chair in the room. “I don’t want to prolong our discussion, because it is pleasant for neither of us.”
“But your husband has instructed you, hasn’t he?” Pier-Ariana asked, doing her best not to sound too indignant at this attempt to coerce her into a marriage she did not want.
“For your sake, yes, and for the rest of us, as well,” said Serafina, pausing as if to muster her arguments. “For women, marriage is a necessity, if there is no inclination for the religious life, and no parent or sibling needing a woman’s care. You are not crippled or ugly, so you have a reasonable expectation, even now, of making a worthwhile alliance. Signor’ Paschetti is a man of good character, one who has much to offer a woman like you. Do not make light of his courtship. Marriage is the path most of us must tread, and many have fared less well than you would with Signor’ Paschetti. All women must weigh such advantages against their inclinations; otherwise we bring dishonor to ourselves and our families.”
“So I have been taught, and not only by Cugin’ Marcantonio,” said Pier-Ariana, who had heard this contention since she was old enough to listen: her mother, the local priest, her aunt in Holy Orders, her playmates, her nursemaid, all impressed upon her the obligation to marry as her family wished. Only her father’s loss of money and subsequent death had altered these admonitions, allowing her to pursue her musical aspirations. “You don’t think you can find many husbands willing to overlook my past in Venezia.”
Rather than blush, Serafina gave a single, decisive nod. “I am glad you grasp the nature of the problem. Your patron did well by you when he was in Venezia and had his fortune, but you can no longer rely on his support, nor can you remain here in so ill-defined a capacity. The convent of San Apollonius would be glad to have you as a tertiary, to direct the choir of the orphanage, but you say you lack religious vocation, so it must be marriage, and sooner rather than later. At least Cornelio Paschetti has not spoke of any deep disapproval of your abilities, so long as you abandon your playing outside the family, although he may occasionally ask you to demonstrate his instruments. The sooner your own music is forgotten, the better it will be for all of us.”
Pier-Ariana was unable to speak, and so she stared at her oil-lamps, swallowing hard three times as she strove to maintain a semblance of control of her temper. “Suppose,” she began, “I had been a widow? Would it then be so hard to secure a husband for me?”
“That is entirely different,” said Serafina. “You would have your husband’s family to provide you a living.”
“Yours didn’t,” Pier-Ariana remarked. “You married Marcantonio because it was that or penury.”
“I have three daughters who must be dowered and wed, and who need a place in the world,” said Serafina stiffly. “I cannot provide any of those things for them, nor can my first husband’s family, with four dead from Swine Fever, along with my late husband. Your cousin did not have to agree to the match, but he did. I would have been irresponsible and contumacious had I refused his offer.” She coughed. “Your cousin is a good man—kindly and generous. I have been most blessed in this marriage, and that, in itself, is reason enough for you to consider Cornelio Paschetti’s offer.”
“So you wed Marcantonio for the sake of your daughters, which was probably very prudent. But I have no children.” Pier-Ariana fell to musing. Finally she said, “There are two books of my songs. They are being sold.” She did not mention she had completed part of a third which she had promised to deliver to Giovanni Boromeo as soon as it was done.
Serafina nodded, not comprehending Pier-Ariana’s meaning. “That is unfortunate, but I must suppose you cannot withdraw them now; the printer expects to recoup the cost of his printing, and he must do something with your patron no longer in a position to bear those expenses, no matter what it means to your reputation. It is a difficult impasse, to be sure, for the printer cannot give up sales for the sake of your family.”
“I will have a little income from the books,” Pier-Ariana reminded Serafina.
“But it is a small amount and once the books are sold, it will be gone.” Serafina shook an admonitory finger at Pier-Ariana. “You must not depend upon such things, for they will fail you.”
“Does Signor’ Paschetti know about the two books?” Pier-Ariana asked, hoping this would end her awkwardness.
For the first time, Serafina lacked a prepared answer. “I … I believe something was mentioned.”
“But you don’t know what,” Pier-Ariana guessed. “That was the part your husband glossed over, wasn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Serafina said huffily. “It isn’t fitting for me to know about such dealings where you are concerned, given that the relation between us is in law, not in blood. You are not my daughter, or any part of my family: you’re my husband’s cousin.”
With a glint of mischief in her eyes, Pier-Ariana said, “Yes, and for that reason, I should think you’d want this Cornelio Paschetti for Giacinta or Feriga, since he is such a good match.”
Unaware of the barb in Pier-Ariana’s observation, Serafina smiled; there was a hint of triumph in her demeanor. “Neither Giacinta nor Feriga have any reason to accept Signor’ Paschetti: both of them have engagements of long-standing, and each will be married when she turns fifteen.”
“So late,” Pier-Ariana marveled.
“Young enough,” said Serafina, again failing to detect the satiric intent of Pier-Ariana’s words. “I think it is wrong to marry a girl off as soon as she has her first bleeding: better to give them a little time to accustom themselves to the world of grown women and the duties of running a household. Those old-fashioned parents who send a bride to the husband’s family at eight do their daughters a disservice. Such conduct may serve very well for nobles, who often have to find brides from far away, but for honest merchants and tradesmen, it is not fitting.”
“Then you should have approved of all the things my mother did for me,” said Pier-Ariana.
“It was well-done of her to permit you to learn music—that is a skill all women should have—but her encouraging you to seek out such a life for yourself was, at the best, short-sighted. She was not thinking of the man you would marry or what the world would believe of you.” She was warming to her purpose now, and her words came more quickly. “You are not young any longer, Pier-Ariana, and your abilities, although commendable in their place, cannot recommend you to any prudent man except one such as Paschetti.”
“Do you think that he is apt to be a good husband?” Pier-Ariana asked.
“I think that any husband is a good husband for you at this point,” said Serafina somberly. “And the sooner you are wed, the better.”
“It would spare you embarrassment?” Pier-Ariana opened the virginals and began to play again, noticing that the two lowest strings needed tuning.
“It would make our life here easier, I admit it,” said Serafina, as if performing a distasteful-but-necessary duty.
Even though you would lose two ducats a month?” Pier-Ariana’s smile was provocative. “I had no notion I was such a burden.”
Now Serafina flushed, her cheeks plum-colored, her forehead the color of new roof-tiles. “I would not mind the loss of those ducats if you would be happily established.”
“With Signor’ Paschetti,” said Pier-Ariana, and began to play more vigorously.
“He is willing to have you,” said Serafina. “You must not forget that.”
“How can I, with you to remind me?” Pier-Ariana put most of her attention on her playing, offering no apology for her discourtesy.
After listening to Pier-Ariana play for more than ten minutes, Serafina rose from the bed. “Well, I will leave you to think over all I have said. I know you will do what is in the best interests of us all.” She started toward the door. “If you refuse this opportunity, you will be the most ungrateful jade in all of Verona.”
Pier-Ariana continued to p
lay even after the door closed behind Serafina. Concentrating on the sounds made by the instrument, she deliberately shut out all noises in the house, worried that she would be even more unmannerly with anyone coming to speak to her; so she was surprised when, more than an hour later, there was an emphatic rap on her door, and Marcantonio himself requested that she come down to receive a visitor. “A visitor?”
“He arrived a quarter of an hour ago; he and I have been talking,” said Marcantonio. “About your future, Cugina.”
“Unexpected, I am sure,” she said, striking a jangling chord.
“Most unexpected,” Marcantonio confirmed. “He is waiting for you.” He cleared his throat. “I told him you would receive him.”
Dreading this ordeal, Pier-Ariana finished the passage she was playing, and then closed the lid of the virginals as if it were a coffin containing all her music. “I’m coming,” she called out, and started toward the door.
“Make haste,” Marcantonio urged her.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she repeated, lagging as much as she could. She stepped out into the corridor, wondering if she should challenge this obvious ploy as what it was.
“I would have thought you were more curious than this,” said Marcantonio, trying to lighten Pier-Ariana’s state of mind. “Didn’t you hear the horse in the courtyard?”
“I’m sorry, Cugin’, I was preoccupied,” said Pier-Ariana, starting down the narrow stairs behind him. She went as slowly as she dared, anticipating her meeting with Cornelio Paschetti—for surely the new arrival could be no one else—with simmering rancor. How she detested having her hand forced! What would she say to this man? If only she had the courage to return to her room.
“Pray make yourself more presentable,” Marcantonio admonished her. “You don’t want to appear unconcerned.”
Pier-Ariana pulled at her guimpe in a desultory fashion. “Where have you put this guest?”
Saint-Germain 19: States of Grace: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 31