I thought of Zia Delia and cringed. If my performance didn’t go well, I could be sent away to a convent, too. And not just as a student.
“Father has praised you so highly,” Lady Gabriella said, “I expected you to have a halo and wings.” The gleam in her eyes contradicted the mask of seriousness she’d suddenly put on. “I’m relieved to see no trace of either.”
“Lady Gabriella—”
She placed her hand on my arm. “Please, call me Gabriella.”
“Very well then, Gabriella.” Her mask melted, and she smiled as I continued. “I was about to explain that you must have me confused with my sister. She’s the one who wears the halo in our family.”
I nodded toward Maria. She stood in a circle made up of the count and countess, Lord Raffaele, Father, and the maestro. That’s when I noticed Antonio Bellini had slipped back to his corner of the room. He sat again tuning his violin.
Gabriella followed my gaze. “That Bellini is an odd one. Do you know much about him?”
I shook my head. “I’ve only just met him.”
“A shame he’s so cold,” Gabriella said. “I’d like to be able to stare into those azure eyes of his.” Gabriella giggled, and I couldn’t help giggling, too. I soon learned Lady Gabriella was fifteen, and her father was working on a marriage match for her. No wonder she had boys on her mind! But I had to admit, there was something about Bellini’s eyes.
When the first guests arrived, Maestro Tomassini signaled his nephew. Bellini put his violin to his shoulder and began to play. Behind my clasped hands, I traced circles on my thumb with my index finger—it would soon be my turn.
Gabriella called my attention to the other side of the salon, where the count and countess were greeting their guests. “That’s Marquis don Cesare Volpi,” Gabriella said, indicating an elderly man who was just arriving. “He is one of the richest noblemen in all of Lombardy.”
Although the marquis’s face was lined with age, he had the gait of a much younger man. He seemed to have little need for the ebony walking stick he wielded.
Gabriella drew closer and whispered, “His son and heir is as handsome as the old man is conceited. Lord Lodovico Volpi would be an excellent match, one I hope Father is considering for me.”
“Has your father said anything?”
“Not yet. But Mother has been nudging him in that direction.” Gabriella snapped open her fan. “Imagine the wedding we would have. I would be the envy of all Milan.” She made a show of fluttering her fan haughtily. We both laughed.
I couldn’t resist glancing back at Bellini. His eyes were closed as he focused on his playing. And such playing. I didn’t recognize the piece, but parts of it reminded of the murmuring streams of Vivaldi’s Primavera concerto. A strange feeling stirred within me.
Gabriella tapped my arm to draw my attention to the next group of arriving guests. She delighted in sharing bits of gossip about each person. The distraction of her chatter kept me from fretting too much about my impending performance.
By the time the governor appeared in the doorway, the salon had grown crowded. Governor Otto Ferdinand von Traun cut an imposing figure. He wore a pearl gray military uniform decorated with gold and silver medals, a dress sword, and white canvas gaiters that extended from above his knees to his boot heels. As interim governor of the Duchy of Milan, he ruled the city proper and the surrounding region of Lombardy, extending all the way north to Switzerland. He was also commander-in-chief of the Hapsburg forces in the region.
Four tall uniformed men followed the governor into the salon then stationed themselves beside the doors.
Governor von Traun greeted Gabriella’s parents. After a brief conversation, he surveyed the room. The governor stood with his right hand on the hilt of his sword, his lips pursed.
My throat tightened. “He doesn’t look happy to be here,” I said, my words a hoarse whisper.
“That’s just his normal expression,” Gabriella said with a flip of her fan. “Probably from so many years as a general. He’s really not as stern as he seems. I’ve made him laugh many times.”
“I’ll be glad to make him smile.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry,” Gabriella said. “He loves music.”
Her words gave me little reassurance.
Count Riccardi led the governor to the seat of honor—a high-backed armchair upholstered in red velvet and positioned near the center of the room. Once the governor was settled, the count nodded to Maestro Tomassini. The maestro signaled his nephew to stop playing.
Father appeared at my side. “It is time, Daughter. Are you ready?”
I answered, “Sì, Signor Padre,” though I felt far from ready. I wished I’d been able to practice my whole performance one more time.
“Dear friends,” Count Riccardi called out, raising his hands for quiet. The gesture reminded me of Father, the day Maria made her speaking debut.
As the count waited for his guests to settle themselves, I recalled the hot summer evening when Maria first spoke at one of Father’s meetings. He had invited scholars and noblemen from across the Duchy to gather in our garden. They’d chattered away as Father stood on the wooden stage erected especially for the occasion. That’s when he had motioned with his hands for quiet.
Father had held his chin high while my sister took her place beside him. He was no doubt confident everyone would be impressed by how well Maria, who was only nine at the time, could speak Latin. Maria, on the other hand, wore a tight, worried expression and clutched the gold cross at her neck. No women (or girls) had been invited to the meeting so I watched from a hiding spot behind our hedge of blooming red oleander. I was there for Maria’s sake, to give her moral support.
After introducing Maria, Father stepped down from the stage. My sister looked out at the audience seated before her—some of the most important men in the Duchy—and froze.
You can do this, Maria, I thought, but she didn’t move. The audience grew restless. I peeked out from the hedge and waved. When Maria spotted me, I smiled my encouragement. She gave a slight nod, took a breath, and began.
She spoke entirely in Latin, which I knew little of back then. But she’d told me the speech was about the importance of educating girls.
When Maria finally finished, the audience applauded enthusiastically. My heart swelled with pride. My sister had shown them what an educated girl could do!
Later that evening, after Maria and I had climbed into bed, she shared some of the details of her talk. Most of it had to do with the reasons why girls should be allowed to study subjects usually reserved for boys, such as history, astronomy, and mathematics. At eight years old, I had no interest in such subjects. I fought to keep my eyes open as Maria rambled on about the accomplishments of learned women.
Then Maria sighed and said, “Oh, Emmi, you and I and Isabella and baby Paola are so blessed.”
“Blessed?” I perked up. “How?”
She found my arm in the darkness and clutched it. “Blessed to have a father who is an enlightened thinker. He told me tonight that instead of sending us to convent school, he plans to hire the best tutors for us. If we work hard and excel, we’ll be allowed to study the same subjects as Giovanni.”
“What!” I wriggled from her grasp. “I don’t want to study any of those things. All I want to learn is music.”
“Music?”
I didn’t know how to explain it to Maria. I heard music everywhere—in the whispering of the wind and the rustling of the trees. Even in the footfalls of our sister Isabella when she ran down the hall. I felt as though I’d been born to make music.
“Yes,” I answered. “I want to play the harpsichord. Giovanni taught me what he knows, but it’s not enough.” In truth, I could already play more proficiently than our older brother.
Maria was quiet for a moment. Finally, she said, “Then you should have a music tutor.” My heart quivered with hope at the conviction in her voice. “I will speak to Father about it tomorrow.”
Maria was true to her word, and for that I’d forever be in her debt. Father would never have hired Maestro Tomassini otherwise. Of course, Father had required me to study Latin, too. But Abbot Zanetti eventually convinced him my time would be better spent developing my “stupendous” musical talent. Back then, I’d assumed the abbot had exaggerated my abilities just to be rid of me.
Now, as Count Riccardi prepared to introduce me to his guests, I told myself he, too, must believe my talent stupendous, or he wouldn’t have asked that I perform tonight.
This was my chance to prove him right.
Chapter Six: Musica Lieta
With the guests finally settled in their seats, Count Riccardi spread his arms wide, as though embracing the whole palazzo. “I am immensely grateful that all of you could join us tonight on this Feast of Epiphany to welcome our illustrious new governor to Milan.” Count Riccardi bowed to Governor von Traun. The governor gave a slight nod but kept his lips pressed together in a tight line.
Count Riccardi said to his guests, “I have arranged a fabulous program for this evening, thanks to my friend Carlo Salvini. He has agreed to allow his two eldest daughters to demonstrate their amazing talents for us. I have no doubt you will be impressed.” A murmur went through the crowd. I clutched my hands together.
“We will begin with his second daughter, the wonderfully gifted musician, Emilia Teresa Salvini.” The count gestured toward me.
Father nudged my elbow.
I made my way to the harpsichord. As soon as I was settled on the bench, the maestro tipped his pointy chin at me. It was time.
I took a deep breath. My fingers trembled as I touched the keys. I prayed silently, Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, help me. I took another breath. Then I played the opening notes of Pachelbel’s Canon in D.
Despite my practice, the keys on Count Riccardi’s harpsichord still felt strange. Fortunately, the canon’s stately adagio opening gave me time to adjust. I can do this, I reminded myself. The keys gradually grew more comfortable, and the piece’s repeating patterns calmed my nerves.
The music seemed to calm the audience, too, for their murmuring stopped. When I reached the end, they applauded enthusiastically. They responded equally well to the Handel suite I played next.
Buoyed by the approval, I began the Pergolesi sonata, the most familiar part of my program. But the familiarity did more harm than good, for I fell into my old habit of playing it too allegro. I dared not look at the maestro. He was no doubt scowling.
The audience’s applause was not as enthusiastic this time. Maestro Tomassini had said the governor favored lively music. Perhaps he didn’t mind that I’d played a little too quickly. I glanced his way. The governor’s lips were still pursed. My chest tightened.
Then I remembered what Gabriella had said about making the governor laugh. I hoped the sprightly saltarelli would at least bring a smile to his face. But first I had to sing. I cleared my throat.
I knew several versions of the Magnificat, but the maestro’s new arrangement was especially lovely. The Latin lyrics were the Virgin Mary’s own words after learning she would be the mother of Our Savior. Her heartfelt words combined with the moving music to fill me with awe and reverence. I tried to convey those feelings as I sang:
“My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord
and my spirit rejoices in God, my salvation.
For He has shown me such favor–
me, His lowly handmaiden.
Now all generations will call me blessed,
because the mighty one has done great things for me.
His name is holy,
His mercy lasts for generation after generation
for those who revere him.”
A hush fell over the room. As I sang the last measures, a sense of overwhelming gratitude for the talent God had given me, however meager it was, washed over me. I blinked back tears.
The audience must have been touched, too, for they applauded vigorously. I said a silent prayer of thanksgiving.
Now, it was time for the saltarelli. I took a deep breath to gather all my energy for the tricky fingerings.
My eyes fell on the Latin inscription just above the keys: MUSICA LIETA DONO DIVINO. Joyful music is a divine gift. During our rehearsals, the maestro had said the saltarelli were, at their heart, joyful. Expressing that joy was as important as getting the fingerings right.
My hands sprang to action. I resisted the urge to play too allegro, as I’d done with the Pergolesi sonata. Focus on the joy, I told myself. I imagined the music so moving the guests that they stood and danced. The thought gave me new energy.
I took a quick breath at the end of the first saltarello before diving into the second. By the time I began the third, I felt myself perspiring in very unladylike fashion. I’d found the music’s heart!
When I reached the end, I finished with a flourish then dropped my hands to my lap.
The sudden applause startled me. My pleasure in playing had made me forget the audience. I glanced at the governor. He was smiling! Everywhere around the room I saw smiles, even on Father’s face.
Count Riccardi came to stand beside me. “Thank you, my dear. That was quite wonderful!” The genuineness of his compliment added to the joy in my heart.
I curtsied to the count. “Thank you, my lord.”
He gestured for me to curtsy to his guests. Their renewed applause sent shivers of happiness down my spine.
When the applause finally died down, Count Riccardi said to everyone, “Let us pause now for some refreshment.” He waved toward a long table at the far end of the salon. “In a few moments, we will have our second performance.”
Then he said to me. “Pardon me, my dear. I need to attend to the governor.” Count Riccardi walked away wearing a broad smile.
Gabriella approached at the same time as Maestro Tomassini.
“That was splendid!” Gabriella said. “How did you learn to play so beautifully?”
I held my hand out toward the maestro. “The credit goes to my excellent teacher.”
Maestro Tomassini’s eyes widened at the compliment. “Yes, well …” He seemed at a loss for words. “At least you did not embarrass either of us.”
I resisted the urge to laugh with joy. Coming from the maestro, that was great praise. Then I recalled what he’d said about his nephew being one of his best students. I looked around. Bellini was nowhere in sight. I sighed in disappointment. I’d thought he might comment on my playing, as one musician to another.
Count Riccardi, who stood beside the governor now, waved for me to join him. Just then, Father appeared at my side. “I believe the governor wishes to speak with you.”
As I followed Father across the room, I hoped for a word of praise or approval, but he said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the governor.
To my great relief, Governor von Traun was still smiling. He didn’t seem so intimidating now. After Count Riccardi introduced us, the governor said, “Thank you for a most charming performance, Signorina.”
At least, that’s what I think he said. He spoke with such a heavy German accent that I had a hard time understanding.
He added, “I especially enjoyed the saltarelli you played at the end. They were well executed.”
I silently praised God for the gift of musica lieta. “Thank you, Lord Governor.” I curtsied as deeply as I could.
He said to Father, “I congratulate you, Salvini. Your daughter does you proud.”
“Thank you, Lord Governor.” Father bowed low. “I hope you will be as pleased with her elder sister’s performance.” Father nodded toward Maria.
“I can hardly wait.”
The governor insisted Father and I sit close by to watch Maria with him. As a servant brought over two chairs, I held my breath. Now, at last, Father would surely express his opinion of my performance.
He remained silent until we were settled in our seats, then said, “Well, Daughter, you’ve succeeded in impressing the governor.”
I wa
ited for something more. What had he thought of my playing?
Father gave a small, satisfied smile.
I let go of the breath I’d been holding. He’s pleased with my performance, I told myself. But was he pleased enough to spare me from the convent?
Chapter Seven: Prodigy
Now it was Maria’s turn. She stood in front of the harpsichord as Count Riccardi introduced her to the guests. He called her a “language prodigy,” saying, “She is a shining star, much like the light that guided the magi to the infant Jesus on the first Epiphany.” The count bowed to Maria, then returned to his seat beside Governor von Traun.
Maria cleared her throat and took a deep breath before addressing the room. “Today I will recite a selection from Homer’s Iliad. It is the story of Hector, a brave Trojan warrior who gives his life in defense of his city.” She turned to the governor. “I have translated the poem from the original Greek into German. I hope I have done the story justice.”
Maria’s voice faltered at first. Her cheeks were even paler than usual as she struggled to find the rhythm of the German words. She glanced at Abbot Zanetti. Her tutor lifted his chin while gesturing with his right hand. Maria raised her hand in imitation and began using it to emphasize her words. She gradually gained confidence.
I knew a little German but not enough to follow what she was saying. Judging from the bored expressions, few of those in the audience understood. The monk sitting across from me frowned. Behind the monk, a foppishly dressed young man stifled a yawn. The broad-shouldered woman beside him fidgeted with her fan.
Father’s gaze was fixed on Maria. He nodded, occasionally murmuring her words to himself. Maria’s voice rose and fell then rose again. She had found her rhythm.
Unlike Father, the governor did not nod or speak. He only listened.
As my sister’s voice grew more commanding, the governor sat up taller. From Maria’s expression and gestures, I guessed she was in the midst of describing a battle scene. Her cheeks now flushed with color.
The monk across from me stopped frowning. The fop became attentive. The woman stilled her fan.
Playing by Heart Page 4