Playing by Heart

by Carmela Martino

  Meanwhile, know that my heart will be satisfied with no suitor but you. I can hardly wait for our future together to begin.

  Your greatest admirer,

  Emilia Teresa Salvini

  Once the ink was dry, I folded the sheet and sealed it, pressing my monogram into the hot wax. I placed the letter inside Bellini’s portfolio, on top of the one he had addressed to me. I shut the portfolio and stroked the soft leather. I had to hide it somewhere. If Father learned of our relationship too soon, it would ruin all our plans. But I was too tired to think of a good hiding place. I slid the portfolio under my pillow for now. I’d find a better place in the morning.

  I blew out the candles and climbed into bed. Despite the late hour, though, sleep would not come. I couldn’t stop thinking about Bellini. He was working so hard to shorten the time until we could be together. I wanted to find a way to help him.

  ***

  I must have eventually dozed off because I woke to the sound of someone screaming followed by cries of “No, no. This can’t be happening!”

  I rubbed the sand from my eyes. “What in the name of heaven?”

  Maria was already pulling on her dressing gown. “It sounds like Adriana.”

  Her words were like a splash of water on my face. I jumped from bed, slipped on my dressing gown, and raced after Maria.

  When we reached Adriana’s bedroom, Father was coming out. “Stay with her,” he said. “I will fetch the midwife myself.”

  We hurried into the room. Adriana was praying, saying over and over, "Lord in heaven, please help me. Please, please, help me.” She lay in the middle of her huge bed clutching her abdomen. She appeared to be in labor, but it was much too soon. The baby wasn’t expected for several months.

  Adriana screamed again.

  “Hush, Signora Madre,” Maria said. “Calm yourself.” Maria sat down beside Adriana and took her hand. “All this screaming will only make things worse.”

  “But the pain.” Adriana choked down a sob.

  Maria said, “Emmi, run and fetch some wine.”

  I hurried to the parlor. Did Maria mean for me to fill a glass or bring the whole bottle? Adriana screamed again. I grabbed both bottle and goblet and ran to the bedroom.

  Mademoiselle Duval was in the room now. “I will keep the little ones away,” she said to Maria then left.

  I poured wine into the goblet and handed it to Maria. She pressed it to Adriana’s lips. “Drink,” Maria commanded. “It will calm you.”

  Adriana took a sip. “Grazie.” For a moment, her face relaxed. Then her back arched, and she cried out, “Dear Lord, have mercy.”

  “More,” Maria said, holding the goblet to Adriana’s lips again.

  Adriana obeyed. She relaxed again but then her forehead broke out in a sweat.

  Maria pulled back the bedcovers. I covered my mouth to stifle a gasp. Blood had stained the bottom sheet bright red.

  Maria pretended not to notice. “Here, Adriana,” she said, “let me slide you closer.” After shifting Adriana over, Maria laid the top sheet over the stain.

  Nina came in with a tray. “Cook has brewed some valerian tea.” Nina set the tray on a table. She poured a cup of the tea and stirred in some honey. As she handed the cup to Maria, I whiffed the tea’s horrid aroma. The scent reminded me of the night Mamma told me of her disturbing dream. Only days before she died.

  I swallowed hard. I couldn’t stay here.

  I hurried downstairs to our family chapel. Isabella was already there, praying a rosary.

  “How did you know?” I asked as I knelt beside her.

  “I ran into Mademoiselle Duval in the hallway when I went to find out what was happening. She wouldn’t tell me anything. Is Adriana going to lose the baby?”

  “I fear so.” I knelt beside her. “Let’s pray together.”

  Partway through the first decade, my mind wandered. Poor Adriana. She’d confessed wanting this baby to be a boy. That way Vincenzo wouldn’t feel so outnumbered by all the girls in the family. I suspected her true motive was to please Father—he had hoped for another son the last time Mamma was with child.

  Thinking of Mamma made my heart tighten. Could it already be over a year and a half since she left us? Oh, Mamma, I wish you were still here.

  I pressed my fist to my bodice in a silent mea culpa. I should be praying for Adriana. Her life was in jeopardy now, along with her baby’s.

  ***

  I have no idea how long we knelt in prayer before Maria finally came to the chapel to give us the news. Adriana’s baby lived only long enough to be baptized. As soon as our stepmother learned it was a boy, she began wailing. The midwife tried to calm her with assurances that she’d be able to have more children in time, but Adriana was inconsolable. She didn’t stop wailing until the midwife gave her a sleeping potion. Poor Adriana.

  “I’ll look in on her one more time,” Maria said. “Why don’t you two go back to bed?”

  We left the chapel in silence. Upon returning to my bedroom, I suddenly recalled Bellini’s portfolio. I hurried to the bed. The portfolio was still under my pillow. Inside, the music scores sat on top, undisturbed. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  I realized then that the scores themselves gave no clue to my relationship with Bellini. I took them out and placed them in my desk. Then I hid Bellini’s letter in the chest containing my trousseau—it seemed an appropriate place. Finally, I took the portfolio, which now contained only my sealed letter to Bellini, and went in search of Naldo. I asked him to have the leather case delivered to Bellini right away.

  “I shall do it myself, Signorina,” Naldo said. He seemed to welcome an excuse to go out. An eerie silence had settled over the house in the wake of the baby’s death.

  Relieved of the burden of the portfolio, I returned to bed. Despite my concerns for Adriana, exhaustion overcame me and I soon fell asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Six: A Healing Balm

  In the following days, Adriana fell into a deep melancholy. She refused to get out of bed. She ate little. She barely spoke. For the first time since we’d met, I found myself missing her chatter.

  Try as he might, Father couldn’t coax my stepmother out of bed. Finally, he sent for Adriana’s father. Alfonso Grilli left his clerk in charge of the business and came to stay with us. Grilli planted himself beside his daughter’s bed early in the morning and chattered away until late at night. He spoke about his business, the weather, the state of the silk industry. Adriana remained listless. After a week, Grilli gave up and went home. I think it pained him to see his daughter so despondent. I know it pained me.

  One day, I found myself sitting at the harpsichord playing Mamma’s Sonata. Adriana’s grief had roused my own—I missed Mamma more than ever. I felt as though the scab on my heart had been torn off. The sonata was my healing balm.

  When I’d finished playing, I looked up at the portrait of the cerulean Madonna holding the infant Jesus. Today the motherly love in her eyes made me think of Adriana. After carrying her baby boy for so many months, she must have already grown to love him.

  Perhaps hearing my sonata might be a balm for her wound, too.

  I went to Adriana’s room. She lay in bed, staring up at the canopy. Her pale skin and shrunken cheeks put me in mind of a ghost.

  “Buon giorno, Signora Madre,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “How are you today?”

  She didn’t answer. But she didn’t turn away either.

  “I have something I want you to hear.” I sat down on the edge of the bed. “It’s the first sonata I ever wrote.”

  Adriana remained silent, but she seemed to be listening. What could I say to get her out of bed? She probably wouldn’t believe me if I told her my music would help ease her sadness. In truth, I wasn’t sure it would. I knew only how the sonata had helped ease mine.

  “If you come with me, I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone,” I said, “not even Maria.”

  Adriana looked at me expectantly.

>   “You have to come hear the music first,” I said. “And then I’ll tell you my secret.”

  Adriana gave the slightest nod.

  “Good.”

  Adriana tried to sit up so I could help her into her dressing gown, but she was terribly weak. How would I get her to the harpsichord salon?

  “I don’t think you’re strong enough to walk,” I said. “Shall I see if Father will carry you?”

  Adriana nodded.

  I found Father in his study. “Adriana has agreed to come to the harpsichord salon to hear me play.”

  He raised his right eyebrow. “How did you manage that?”

  “I promised to tell her a secret if she listened to a sonata I wrote—the one I composed in memory of Mamma. I thought the music might help ease her sorrow.” As I said the words, I cringed inside. What if Father thought my plan ridiculous?

  Father stood. “Well, if nothing else, a change of scenery should do her good.” He followed me back to Adriana’s room.

  He, too, tried to sound cheerful as he said to Adriana, “I understand you’d like to hear some music.”

  She nodded.

  “A splendid idea!” Father lifted Adriana into his arms. I gathered a blanket from the foot of the bed.

  When we reached the harpsichord salon, Father set Adriana down on a sofa near the fireplace. I covered her with the blanket while Father stoked the fire.

  “I leave you to your private concert,” Father said to Adriana. “I’ll return in a little while.”

  After he left, I said, “I had a great deal of difficulty composing the sonata I’m about to play for you. Perhaps you’ll be able to guess why.” I sat down at the harpsichord and began the first movement, which expressed the depths of my sorrow at losing Mamma. I didn’t look at Adriana. I wanted her to feel free to cry unobserved.

  The lighter, second, movement was a pleasant interlude. Then came the third movement, with its odd mix of joy and anger. Was that how Adriana’s grief felt?

  As I neared the end of the piece, I gazed at the painting of the cerulean Madonna. I let myself again feel the embrace of Mamma’s love. The calm it brought me flowed through my fingers and into the music.

  I played the last chords then let my hands fall to my lap. I paused for a moment before turning to Adriana. She sat hunched over with her knees pulled to her chin, her hands covering her face. Her shoulders shook. Was she sobbing?

  I hurried to her side. “Are you all right, Signora Madre?”

  Adriana took a handkerchief from the pocket of her dressing gown and swiped at her tears. “You wrote that for your mother, didn’t you?” she said, her voice rough. “After her death.” Adriana blew her nose into the handkerchief.

  “Yes. I call it Mamma’s Sonata.” I pulled up a chair and sat down. “After Mamma died, I couldn’t play at all. I didn’t think I could ever again enjoy music, or life, without her. Then Maestro Tomassini wrote to console me. In his letter, he called music ‘the best medicine for sorrow.’ So I made myself play. I tried to find solace in the music, but I couldn’t. Nothing I played came close to expressing my grief.”

  “It’s more than grief,” Adriana said. “It’s anger and guilt, too.”

  “Yes. I learned that while writing the sonata. Yet even in the midst of the sorrow and anger and guilt, there was light. The light of remembering Mamma’s love. I finally came to understand her love will never die.”

  Fresh tears fell from Adriana’s eyes. “But my baby died before I could love him.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe that.” I put my hand on her knee. “I believe you loved him from the very beginning, from the moment when you knew you were with child. Isn’t that so?”

  Adriana nodded, drying her cheeks. “I’d already chosen his name: Alfonso, for my father. In my mind, I called him Alfonsino.”

  “You can go on loving Alfonsino, just as I have gone on loving Mamma.”

  Adriana blew her nose again, then said, “Is that your secret? That you still love and miss your mother?”

  My throat tightened. My response came out in a whisper. “Yes.”

  “That’s no secret, Emilia. I knew it at our first meeting. I know all of you still miss your mother. I’m not surprised, for I continue to miss my own Mamma, even after all these years. But the others have managed to find room in their hearts for me. You’re the only one who has kept me shut out.” Adriana put a hand on mine. “You realize, don’t you, that letting me into your heart doesn’t mean you have to stop loving your mother.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes. Blinking them back, I said, “I must confess, I have missed your chatter.”

  Adriana smiled. “I suppose that’s a start.” She curled her legs under her. “I believe Maestro Tomassini is right. Music is the best medicine for sorrow. Would you play the sonata for me again?”

  From then on, Adriana joined me in the harpsichord salon every day for her dose of “medicine.” Her appetite slowly returned as did her strength. But she no longer seemed as childlike as before.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Gabriella’s Sitting Room

  Upon learning of the death of Adriana’s baby, Antonio Bellini sent a letter to me via Maestro Tomassini to express his condolences. He also wrote:

  I revised my violin concertos with your comments in mind. Maestro Tomassini is quite pleased with the new versions. In fact, he has asked me to perform them at a private concert a few weeks from now. I could not have hoped for more. By God’s grace, this will lead to lucrative commissions.

  I cannot tell you how happy your letter made me. However, I realize it is improper for us to maintain a correspondence, as we are not yet betrothed. That is why I have sent this to you by means of the maestro. From now on, I will save my pen for my work. You continue to inspire me—I have already completed three more violin concertos, and I have begun a concerto grosso. I hope your own work is going well.

  Even though I am unable to write to you as I would like, know that you are in my thoughts and prayers daily.

  Your faithful and devoted servant,

  Antonio Carlo Bellini

  I thrilled at Bellini’s news about the private concert. How I wished I could be there! And how kind of Bellini to mention my own work. In truth, I’d written no new music since baby Alfonsino’s death. Now that Adriana was better, it was time I returned to composing. If only I could use my music to provide for our future, as Bellini was doing. But I couldn’t imagine anyone paying for music composed by a woman.

  Instead of creating more serious pieces like the ones I’d written for Father’s meetings, I began composing lighter, more joyful music. I started writing songs of praise and thanksgiving but soon found myself working on love songs. The words and melodies came easily. I needed only to think of Bellini for inspiration.

  ***

  Not long after Gabriella returned from her honeymoon, I went to visit her at Count Cavalieri’s palazzo. A footman wearing livery in the blue and red of the Cavalieri coat of arms led me into Gabriella’s sitting room. The room was larger than our parlor at home and furnished in the Chinese style. A tall, six-paneled screen divided the room. Black and gold geometric designs adorned one side of the screen. The other side bore a painting of tall, exotic-looking birds surrounded by plants and flowers.

  Even the tea the maidservant offered me was Chinese, served in fine porcelain cups trimmed with real gold.

  “That will be all for now,” Gabriella told the maidservant.

  “Your home is quite impressive, Gabriella,” I said when we were alone. “I’ve never seen such a large sitting room.” I raised my cup toward the paneled screen. “And the furnishings are so intriguing.”

  “I’m getting rid of it all,” Gabriella said, “the furniture, paintings, even the chandelier. My husband has given me permission to redecorate whatever rooms I desire, save for his study and the ballroom.”

  “Why would you want to part with such lovely things?”

  “I feel as though I’m living with a ghost,” Gabriella
said. “The count’s first wife picked out all this.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “I want to make the room, and this house, my own.”

  I wondered if Adriana had felt the same way. I’d never considered how being surrounded by Mamma’s furnishings might have made my stepmother uneasy. “As soon as Adriana moved into our home, she redecorated her bedroom and sitting room,” I said. “Until then, I’d simply disliked my stepmother. But after she had Mamma’s things taken away, I despised her.”

  “Hmm. I hadn’t thought about how my stepdaughters might feel,” Gabriella said. “I can’t imagine they’d really care. They’re only three and five.”

  “It could mean even more to them,” I said, “as they may have little to remember their mother by.”

  “You do have a point. Perhaps I’ll wait awhile longer before I redecorate.” Gabriella took another sip of tea. “Heaven knows I have enough other things to occupy my time now that I am the wife of a senator. Which reminds me—a few days ago I had the privilege of attending a private concert at the home of one of my husband’s friends.” Gabriella gave a sly smile. “And I witnessed a magnificent performance by a certain azure-eyed violinist.”

  My heart leapt at the mention of Bellini. “You saw him? How did he do?”

  “Well, in truth, he seemed rather nervous at first. But he soon settled into the music.”

  I set down my cup, tapping my foot impatiently, as I waited for more details.

  Gabriella drank the last of her tea and set her cup down, too. Finally, she said, “Bellini made a most favorable impression on us all, especially Archbishop Stampa.”

  “The archbishop was there?”

  Gabriella nodded. “He seemed quite enthralled with your young man’s music. The archbishop even called Bellini aside to speak with him after the concert.”

  “Heaven be praised,” I said. “This is just what Bellini was hoping for.” I told Gabriella of my letter from Bellini, and how he hoped the private concert would lead to lucrative commissions.

  “No doubt the archbishop will soon be offering such a commission, if he hasn’t already.” Gabriella grinned. “So tell me, is your father any closer to becoming a nobleman?”