Daughter of Venice

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “A most grievous offense,” says Father. “A false denunciation of my daughter Donata.”

  “A denunciation of a girl?” Messer Zonico presses on the bridge of his eyeglasses in bewilderment. “What offense could a girl be accused of that would threaten the state and warrant a denunciation?”

  “Probably the only one a girl could ever commit.” Father spreads the letter flat on the wheeled book table. “Would you look at this handwriting and give us your ideas about what the accuser might be like?”

  “Ah, it is anonymous. Thank the Lord for that, at least. Certainly, Senator Mocenigo. I’ll do whatever I can to help.” Messer Zonico looks down at the letter. Immediately he glances up at me.

  I move closer to Laura and press my arm against hers for support.

  Messer Zonico looks back at the letter and seems to study it. Now he steps away and wipes his hands off against each other, though they cannot be dirty. “These letters, while well formed in many respects, still need improvement. My guess is that the writer is a new scholar. Someone who’s been studying only for a short while.”

  “A child?” says Mother.

  “Exactly.”

  “Why would a child accuse our daughter?”

  “Such speculation is beyond my capacity as a tutor,” says Messer Zonico.

  I don’t know why he doesn’t expose me. He knows I wrote it.

  Father folds the letter. “A child or, perhaps, a childish mind.”

  “The Latin, however, is impeccable,” says Messer Zonico, quietly, and irrelevantly to everyone but me.

  Messer Zonico is my ally. Yes. And now it’s so clear: Messer Zonico is the one who should propose my future to Father.

  “Fire!” comes the shout.

  We run out of the library.

  “Fire, fire!”

  Francesco points to the stairs. “It’s Cook.”

  We race down to the kitchen.

  Bortolo stands in the center of the room, drenched, beside an ashy puddle on the marble floor. He’s moaning and clutching his hand.

  Mother runs to him and examines his palm. The burn already blisters. “Get lard. Quick.”

  Cook drops the empty water bucket he’s holding and gets a handful of lard. He smears it on Bortolo’s burn. “I don’t know what got into the boy,” he says. “He was feeding a fire, right here on my floor.”

  “How could you do such a dangerous thing?” cries Mother, hugging Bortolo and rocking side to side.

  “I had to destroy my magic hat,” says Bortolo.

  “You’re too old to do such crazy things.” Mother moans as she kisses the top of his head over and over. “My crazy boy.”

  His magic hat! That crazy boy has destroyed the only piece of evidence that ties me to Judaism. And he hasn’t even asked for a treat.

  What a wonderful family I have. What a wonderful tutor I have. Now all I need is a wonderful future.

  “Please, Messer Zonico, please, could I talk with you in the library?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A FUTURE

  I am folding Antonio’s clothes into the leather-bound trunk for our move to our summer home in the hills. Antonio will accompany Mother and the girls and the youngest boys and Uncle Umberto. Father will stay here with Francesco and Piero, and attend to various business odds and ends before joining us. It is my job to pack the boys.

  An unexpected breeze comes through Antonio’s window. I pause and drink its sweetness. But I know it is deceptive. A summer storm to the north has brought a brief reprieve in the heat. Once it passes, the air will grow oppressive, unbreathable.

  I move mechanically, performing my assigned duties without thought. I feel I hardly know who I am anymore. All I do is wait for a determination that is entirely beyond my control.

  But others’ futures have been determined, which makes me truly glad and grateful.

  Andriana will marry early in the new year, as she wanted.

  Laura will marry in the spring.

  Margherita Priuli talked with Laura and decided she was an even lovelier choice than I had been. Laura and I chuckled over that, of course. And Benedetto Priuli was delighted at his wife’s decision, since an alignment with a family so powerful as ours would have been hard to give up.

  My twin is happy. And she has since met her betrothed and speaks of him with joy, her eyes alight.

  And even Antonio’s wife is chosen, though they won’t marry until his education is completed. His fiancée is the eldest daughter in the Donà family. I blanched at the announcement. But I know that Signora Donà will never recognize me as the ruffian errand boy who delivered her boxes so recently. And I must admit that Franceschina is both beautiful and kind, a better person than her mother by far. It is a good match.

  Paolina is not going to a convent, after all. She will be the aunt to stay at home and look after Antonio and Franceschina’s children. I wasn’t even considered for that position, after all that has happened. Headstrong women don’t make good maiden aunts. But I’m willing to bet that Paolina, with all her funny ways, will prove an unusual maiden aunt herself. Franceschina will face lessons in patience, that is assured.

  In any case, Paolina is delighted. She has already convinced Father to have the stones in our courtyard dug up over the winter. She’s going to make a garden there, starting in the spring. And she’s enlisted Vincenzo, of all people, to accompany her on visits to the best gardens of Venice. So far they’ve explored a convent garden on Giudecca known for its trees, and the Cornaro family’s garden on that same island, where lemon and orange trees grow in huge pots.

  Mother begs them not to make decisions without her. She’s as excited about the garden as Paolina, and promises to give it her attention as soon as the weddings are over. At first I was surprised at her enthusiasm. In the past when Paolina asked to make a garden in our courtyard, she never agreed. But then, her change of heart made sense to me, as so many things do now. Mother never allowed Paolina a garden before because she knew a garden would make Paolina want even more to stay at home. In her own way, Mother was protecting Paolina.

  Mother would like to protect me now, too. I can tell from the way she flutters about me. She’s on edge, always wondering if the evil that made me leave the palazzo for those three days will return. She tries to hide her fear by talking calmly and asking me to do the same sort of tasks she asks of everyone else. I know that she wants so very much to help me, to give sense to my life.

  My future has become the silent topic, the thing everyone purposely does not talk about. Father said the matter was in his hands, and that he would announce his decision when he was ready. His words gave the whole family the jitters. My brothers and sisters have persisted in little acts of kindness toward me ever since. I put my hand in the cloth purse that hangs from my wrist now and finger the lacquered scarab that Francesco bought for me at the Greek market. They feel sorry for me, all of them.

  No one knows of my hope—no one except Messer Zonico.

  I fervently hope to become a tutor, like him. Then I can be of use here in the palazzo. I can be the tutor to Antonio’s children.

  And maybe, when Antonio is in charge of the family, maybe he will allow me to tutor other noble children, too. Maybe I can even tutor girls. And women. After all, that woman beside me on the balcony was a noble and she somehow got an education. There are women and girls who would want me to tutor them. If only Father will allow me to study with Messer Zonico for a few more years, then I’ll know enough to be a good tutor.

  Messer Zonico promised to talk with Father. But he was called unexpectedly out of town. I can only pray that Father does not decide my future before Messer Zonico returns. The wait is agony.

  I close the trunk and leave it for Antonio to carry to Vincenzo’s room later, so that I can continue the packing. For now, I’m free.

  I head for the library. I miss my studies. In the past ten days, there have been no tutorials in this house because of Messer Zonico’s absence.

&nbs
p; I hurry into the library. “Oh, excuse me.”

  Father and Messer Zonico sit across from each other at the study table.

  “Welcome back,” I say to my tutor uncertainly. I clasp my hands together and wait. Why did he not tell me he had returned?

  “Take a seat, Donata.” Father now recognizes me easily. It is not simply the fact that Laura would never come into the library like this. It is also that Laura and I have decided to no longer look exactly alike. My hair is in a single braid down my back every day. Laura’s is however she wants, but never a single braid.

  I take the chair beside Messer Zonico.

  “Messer Zonico has reminded me of important facts.”

  This is a good beginning. I want to look at my tutor’s face to learn what I can from his eyes, but I don’t dare.

  “The daughter of our fine poet Pietro Bembo lived her life in a convent,” says Father. “She studied Greek and Latin there.”

  My insides fold and wither. “If my wishes matter at all, Father, I do not want to enter a convent, though I would gladly study Greek and Latin for the rest of my life.”

  “Your mother and I have already concluded that a convent is out of the question.” Father clears his throat. “My words lead toward a different end.” Father looks at Messer Zonico. “Would you like to tell her of some of the other women you mentioned to me?”

  Messer Zonico touches his beard, which I now notice is thin—sweetly thin, like Noè’s.

  I swallow the lump of longing that rises so faithfully every time I think of Noè. I blink at the burn in my eyes.

  “Bembo’s daughter was named Elena, by the way,” Messer Zonico says quickly. His eyes radiate intensity.

  A rush of gratitude fills me. Somehow this small act, this naming of the woman, is an immense kindness. I lean toward Messer Zonico.

  “Marcella Marcello was a wife and a scholar,” he says evenly. “And her daughter Giulia, who married Girolamo della Torre, was a superb scholar of Plutarch’s works. Cassandra Fedele was known for her beauty and her accomplishments in Latin. Modesta da Pozzo, the wife of the citizen, Filippo de Zorzi, even today writes poetry.”

  “I’m glad to know these things,” I say. I look at Father, hoping he has absorbed their import. “Thank you for telling me. Those are reputable women, wonderful women. I want to be like them, Father.”

  Father nods.

  That’s all the encouragement I need. “I want to study with Messer Zonico,” I say, speaking so fast he cannot interrupt, “and then be a tutor to Antonio’s children. And, if I’m good at it, if Antonio approves, then I’d like to tutor other nobles’ children, too.”

  “We can’t talk about that now, Donata.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tutors must be people of impeccable reputation—for study of the sciences is study of the Lord’s work. A good tutor is trusted to instill that respect in his students.”

  I rush around the table and fall to my knees before Father. “I will instill the utmost respect for the Lord and His work in my students. You know I will. Please, Father.” I put my cheek on his knee. “Please. We are a wealthy family—and Venice is practical. That frivolous denunciation can be overcome.”

  “Precisely, Donata. Yet again you’ve proven how well you understand our homeland. I didn’t say we could never talk about it—I said we couldn’t talk about it now. Your reputation must be rehabilitated,” says Father, “and your credentials must be beyond reproach. To that end Messer Zonico has spent the past week at the University of Padua, pleading your case.”

  “My case?” I sit back on my heels, dumbfounded.

  “The university has admitted women into its classes before,” says Messer Zonico, “but no woman has ever formally entered a program leading to a degree. I requested that you be allowed to enter the doctoral program in theology when you are finished with your tutorials.”

  I cannot speak.

  “My request was denied,” he says. “They believe it is inappropriate for a woman to obtain a degree in theology. But they were sufficiently impressed with my description of how much you have learned in so little time that they have agreed to allow you into the doctoral program in philosophy.”

  Never did I dare to dream of this. I look from Messer Zonico to Father, who is smiling at me. I throw myself into Father’s arms.

  Father pats my hair. “You’ll need at least another two years of tutorials before you are ready for the university, Donata. And in that time, you will have to earn the right to your studies.”

  I stand and put my hand on Father’s shoulder. “I will earn that right gladly. What must I do?”

  “Your brother Bortolo turns seven in August. There’s no doubt he’s bright and ready for tutorials. On the advice of Messer Zonico, Vincenzo will aid Bortolo in mathematics. Messer Zonico will tutor Bortolo in all other subjects except writing, where you will serve as Bortolo’s aide, always under the supervision of Messer Zonico, of course.”

  I look at Messer Zonico. The twitch of his lips threatens laughter. Me, an aide in writing. I grin. The man has a sense of humor I am only too happy to discover. “Father,” I say, “you haven’t made a mistake. I will do my very best with Bortolo.” I hesitate. Should I ask now? “Paolina is older than Bortolo,” I say. “And she’s bright, too, Father. As bright as Bortolo.”

  Father looks at me sharply. “Does she want tutoring?”

  “I’ll ask her. And if she does, I’ll do everything I can to aid her, too, Father.”

  Father drums his fingers on his right knee, in that way of his. Then he slaps his knee in a gesture of decisiveness. “I’m sure you will. Maybe you will tutor little Maria and my grandchildren someday as well.” He takes my hand. “But, no matter what, you have important skills that the family needs. You have a sharp sense of business. And your brother Antonio, with his gentle ways, will benefit from having you by his side.”

  Me, helping Antonio? But why not? I do care about the way business is run. I care about the way all Venice is run. Why shouldn’t it be possible for me to help my brother? I remember Messer Zonico’s words at my very first tutorial: “Venice believes anything is possible, so long as we praise the Lord.” And I do praise the Lord, as a true daughter of Venice. “I will study my hardest, Father. I will prove myself useful in business.”

  “I have no doubt you will prove yourself useful in many things, Donata. And I also have no doubt that I cannot guess yet what they will be.” Father laughs.

  Messer Zonico laughs.

  But my mind is already racing ahead, guessing.

  Author’s Note

  This story is dedicated to the spirit of Elena Lucrezia Cornaro Piscopia, scholar, musician, artist. Many people of her time considered her no more than a trained monkey. In spite of this, she persisted and became the first woman ever to be awarded a doctoral degree: Doctor of Philosophy, University of Padua, 1678. This story is also dedicated to the spirits of the women in the centuries before (like the Donata of this story) and since who have longed for such an opportunity but were not so fortunate.

  Much has been written on the history of Venice, and not all works agree, sometimes reporting dates for events that can differ by decades or even centuries (such as the dates when certain canals were filled in). Whenever possible, I checked primary sources, including autobiographies, legal documents, portraits and other art of the period, and maps of the period. And I consulted with several historians (again, not all of whom agreed on the pertinent data). What errors remain are entirely my fault.

  While most details of daily life and history are as close to accurate as I know how to make them, the individuals in this story are fictional, as is the Palazzo Mocenigo (which isn’t even on the same side of the Canal Grande as the museum of that name today). Any similarities to people or personal events of the late 1500s in Venice are fortuitous.

  OTHER BOOKS BY DONNA JO NAPOLI

  Three Days

  Changing Tunes

  The Bravest Thing

/>   Jimmy, the Pickpocket of the Palace

  The Prince of the Pond:

  Otherwise Known as De Fawg Pin

  Shelley Shock

  Shark Shock

  Soccer Shock

  On Guard

  When the Water Closes Over My Head

  The Magic Circle

  Zel

  Song of the Magdalene

  Trouble on the Tracks

  For the Love of Venice

  Stones in Water

  Sirena

  Crazy Jack

  (with Richard Tchen) Spinners

  Beast

  Albert

  (with Richard Tchen) How Hungry Are You?

  The Hero of Barletta

  The Angelwings series

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  Copyright © 2002 by Donna Jo Napoli

  Map copyright © 2002 by Virginia Norey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Napoli, Donna Jo.

  Daughter of Venice / Donna Jo Napoli.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Frustrated with the restrictions her gender imposes on her life, fourteen-year-old Donata, disguised as a boy, sneaks out of her noble family’s house to roam the streets of late sixteenth-century Venice and then must confront the repercussions of her actions.

  [1. Sex role—Fiction. 2. Venice (Italy)—History—16th century—Fiction. 3. Italy—History—16th century—Fiction. 4. Family life—Italy—Venice—Fiction. 5. Jews—Italy—Venice—History—16th century—Fiction.] I. Title.