“Si, madonna.” With that, he turned and retreated the way we had come.
I opened the door and slipped inside.
“Who was that you were speaking to?” Vivaldi asked, his voice hushed, taking my arm when I entered and drawing me further into the room, away from the windows. “Did someone follow you here?”
“No, no,” I replied quickly. “You need not worry. That was Giuseppe Rivalli, my servant. He is to return later so he can take me home, and—”
“You told someone about this?” he demanded. “Adriana, what were you thinking? No one must know, no one! Do you know—”
“I had no choice!” I cried. “He caught me coming home the last time—and be thankful that it was him, believe me, for if it had been anyone else, my father would doubtlessly have beaten me bloody by now.”
He flinched at my words.
“He will not betray us, caro mio,” I said, stepping closer to him and cupping his face in my hands. “Have no fear. I would trust him with my life, and yours.”
He reached up and took my hands firmly in his. “Are you certain?”
I nodded.
He sighed. “Very well, then. If you say so, cara.”
* * *
Neither of us could sleep that night. We lay awake, hoping Giuseppe would never return.
“I have a question for you, Tonio,” I said finally, turning to him.
He glanced at me, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “Si?”
“I have been wondering when I shall get to play the violin again,” I said. I grinned mischievously. “I have, after all, tendered you your payment thus far.”
He winced. “Do not say that,” he said. “You make yourself sound like a…” He trailed off.
“A whore,” I finished for him.
He nodded uncomfortably. “Nor does it make me sound much better.”
I shrugged. “I would rather be your whore than the wife of some insipid patrician.”
He looked mildly scandalized by my words. “You should not say such things.”
“Why not? It is true.”
“Yes, but … even so,” he said, apparently unable to tell me exactly why I should not say such things. He sighed. “So you wish to play, do you?”
I nodded eagerly, a child’s wide grin spreading across my face.
He smiled in return. “Good,” he said, rising from the bed. “Get up and dress yourself, and we will play.”
Once we were both dressed, we went downstairs, where Vivaldi located my violin and handed it to me, smiling.
I immediately ran through a scale, happy to hear the rich, lovely sound coming from the strings. “I am afraid that I will get terribly out of practice now that I cannot play at home.”
He plucked several sheets of parchment from his desk and set them on the music stand in front of me. “The only way to avoid that problem, then, is for you to come here more often, cara.” He gestured to the pages before me—an A-minor concerto. “This is something I have been working on. Try it.”
After glancing over it once, I took a deep breath to steady myself and began to play, noting how quickly the piece started out. I found that it never let up: it was one rapid succession of notes after another, leaping higher and then plunging back down. I knew Vivaldi and his music well enough to know that no one else could have written it.
Much as I tried not to think about what I was doing, what I was playing, I found myself forced to slow down at several points to work my way through certain tangles of notes; even so, I made a few small mistakes along the way, my fingers clumsy from disuse. I had a good idea of what the maestro would have to say when I was done, but so be it.
When I reached the end of the piece and glanced at Vivaldi, he gazed back at me impassively and said, “Play it again.”
I complied, my fingers becoming much looser this time, my playing smoother. Once finished, I started again, determined to play it through perfectly. The third time was the best yet; I was able to play it as fast as was required, though I did make perhaps two or three noticeable mistakes. When I finally stopped, out of breath and invigorated, I admitted, “That may take a bit more practice.”
He nodded, selecting another sheaf of papers from the table. “Yes,” he agreed distractedly. “Leave that for now, and try the next movement, the largo.” He placed the pages upon the stand and motioned for me to begin.
This movement was much slower, more languid. I moved through it with relative ease, playing it smoothly and cleanly. Once I had finished, I looked up triumphantly, expecting him to exclaim over how well I had played it. Instead, he merely shook his head and, with a scowl, said, “Dreadful.”
In my shock, it took me a moment to find my voice. I stuttered, “What?… Why?”
“Dreadful,” he repeated, his voice even. “I had not expected you of all people to fall into this particular trap, but you did. I thought you knew better, Adriana. What have I been teaching you all this time?”
“What do you mean?” I demanded, bewildered and slightly hurt.
“You played the allegro much better,” he informed me. “Do you know why?”
“But I made several mistakes in the allegro,” I reminded him. “I made no mistakes at all in the second movement.”
He shook his head. “It is not about whether you made mistakes or not. It is about the emotion of the music, Adriana, and the feeling with which you play it.”
I waited silently for him to elaborate.
He sighed at my inability to grasp what he was saying. “Think of how you played the allegro. You made mistakes, yes, and you were frustrated. You wanted very much to be able to play it perfectly, and because of that desire, that frustration, you played with hunger, and gave a liveliness and edge to the music.” He moved across the room to where his own violin was kept and removed it from its case. “But because the largo is slower, and you had more time to think about each note, and how you would get to the next one, you did not pay as much attention to them, nor to the piece as a whole. I could hear the place in each and every long, drawn-out note where you gave up on it, where you stopped caring about it.”
I opened my mouth reflexively to protest, but he was right, and I knew it.
He set his violin into position and lifted the bow. “Listen.” Without so much as glancing at the music on the stand, he began to play.
It sounded like a different piece of music altogether from what I had just played. He held out each note lovingly, gently, tenderly, moving on to the next one with a certain reluctance, as though unwilling to let the previous one go. It sounded almost like a love song, wistful whispers tinged with sadness, as when one is thinking of one’s beloved, yet cannot go to them. The thought was irresistible: Had he written this for me?
Yet the slow, languorous, sensuous strings of notes also made me think of the sun shimmering on the many glassy waterways of Venice, of the summer heat hanging low over the canals. Perhaps it was just as much a love song for this beautiful city, where one breathed in music from the air.
When he finished, he looked up and met my eyes. “Now do you see?” he asked softly, as though to speak any louder would be to disturb the spell the music had cast over the room. Over me. “There is more to it than just the music, just the notes—there must be, if it is to be worth listening to. I have told you that there is more to virtuosity than technique. I know that you love music more than anything, so you must let that passione infuse every note you play. You must let your listener hear it.”
“Yes,” I replied, my own voice hushed. “Yes, I see.”
He nodded. “Then play it. Play it like the virtuoso that you are.”
So I did.
This time I paid close attention to each and every note, to its sound and cadence and meaning, its place in the larger context of the melody. I began by playing carefully, gently, as if each note were a fragile, hesitant breath drawn in the silence. As I went on, I let my bow sink ever so slightly into the strings, giving each note a sense of urgency I hadn’t heard before, t
hat I hadn’t seen hiding between all of the markings on the staff. The longer notes cried out for a bold, vivid crescendo that would make the room ring, but each time I resisted, allowing the sound to swell ever so slightly before returning it to the place of almost unbearable softness where it had started.
When I reached the end of the piece, I remained still for a moment, eyes closed, until the last note faded completely from the air. Only then did I open my eyes and slowly lower my instrument.
The look on Vivaldi’s face was one of pride and gratification and affection. It was a long time before he spoke, yet there was no need for words just then. “Yes,” he said finally. “That is what music is.”
The spell was abruptly broken by several sharp raps on the door. I almost jumped out of my skin before seeing Giuseppe through the window. I let out a sigh of relief and motioned for him to come inside.
I turned back to Vivaldi. “I must go, I am afraid,” I said, handing my violin back to him.
He took it, nodding. “Next time you come, we play again.”
I smiled. “Of course.”
His gaze shifted to Giuseppe, who was standing awkwardly yet defiantly inside the doorway. He nodded tightly. “Signor Rivalli.”
Giuseppe inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Don Vivaldi.”
I had the uncomfortable feeling that there was much more they wished to say to each other, yet thankfully each held his tongue. I fetched my cloak from the chair where I had left it, facing Vivaldi as I settled it about my shoulders. “Two nights hence, then, amore mio?” I asked, my voice low.
He nodded. I could tell that he wanted to take me in his arms and bid me a proper good night, but did not because of Giuseppe’s presence. “Si. Addio, cara.”
16
L’ESTRO ARMONICO
And so we fell into a routine, if such an ordinary, pedestrian word can be applied to something so heavenly. We would make love, then spend the rest of the night playing music; or sometimes we would begin with music that would turn into lovemaking. I did not know which I loved more.
Vivaldi continued to give me some insight into the composition process, and how music and chords and notes must be put together, often using his own compositions as examples.
Soon enough, I was able to play the allegro of the A-minor concerto almost as well as Vivaldi, or so I fancied. The third movement, another allegro, was equally difficult, but I loved it just as much as I had the first. “I may have to name this ‘Adriana’s Concerto,’” he joked one night.
I laughed. “I am honored. But I do not think that that would help our bid for secrecy very much, do you?”
“Perhaps not,” he said, smiling.
“Since you are satisfied with my progress on this concerto, then, what will you give me to play next?” I asked, dropping into one of the chairs by the fire.
He laughed. “So demanding! You learn faster than I can write, cara.”
I scowled at him.
“I see I will have to come up with something for you next time,” he said, sitting in the other chair beside me.
“You shall have plenty of time, for it will not be for several nights,” I reminded him unhappily. “My father is dragging me to that atrocious marriage market masquerading as a ball.”
A troubled look entered his eyes. We had never said it aloud, but both of us knew that my marriage, whenever it should occur, would be the end of our love affair.
I quickly changed the subject. “There is something else I would like to learn to play, Tonio.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And what might that be?”
“Do you remember the first lesson I had with you, when I asked you to play for me?”
He nodded. “Si.”
“Do you remember what you played that day?”
He nodded immediately. “Si, I do.”
“I would like to play that.”
“Why?” he asked. “Why that one?”
I tried to think of how to explain. “It was more than beautiful, it was … captivating. Brilliant. Consuming. How long will you sit there grinning at me like a fool as I try to think of more words?”
He laughed aloud. “I was just thinking … it is interesting. And strange.”
“How so?”
“Of all the concertos I have written, I believe that one is my favorite,” he told me. “I suppose that is why I played it for you that day.” He paused, considering. “It is written for four solo violins and cello continuo, but I can teach you certain sections of it, if you wish.”
Suddenly I was not so sure. “I do not know. Perhaps I would rather hear you play it again.”
He laughed. “You do not wish to play it yourself?”
“I do not know if I can do it justice,” I said. The bold, passionate melody swept through my memory again. What if I could not play his favorite concerto as well as he wished?
He sighed. “You can, Adriana. I know you can.” Yet all the same, he rose and went to fetch his violin from its case. “However, since you ask it, I shall play it for you, my lady,” he said, sweeping me a gallant bow.
It was just as breathtaking as I remembered it—perhaps more so, now that I was hearing it again in all its liveliness and color and resonance, and not just in a pale memory. The piece had so much life, so much intensity when played by one violin that I could not imagine how immense it would sound when played by four, with an entire orchestra surrounding it. It was intricate, but certainly not more difficult than anything else he had given me to play. But I was afraid that, were I to attempt it, it would lose some of its spellbinding magic, some of the power it had over me to quicken my heart and still my breathing. If I tried to unravel it, note by note, surely it would no longer affect me thus.
I would leave it precisely where it was: in Vivaldi’s capable hands.
When he ended the piece, I rose from my chair, stepped close to him, and kissed him. “I will leave it to you, amore,” I said. “No one will ever be able to play it quite the way you do, and I do not wish to try.”
He set his instrument on the table behind him and took me fully in his arms. “Far be it for me to argue with a beautiful woman,” he murmured.
“Then do not.” I drew away from him, loosening the laces on the back of my gown as I moved toward the staircase, pulling it seductively down to reveal my bare shoulders. “Follow me, and do exactly as I say.”
* * *
“What will you do with all these concerti, then?” I asked later, as we lay in bed together. “Will you have them performed, or published, or…”
“Some of them have already been performed by the coro at the Pietà,” he said. “Others are newer. I am looking into having them published, though, yes.”
“Truly?”
“Si. There is a group of twelve—several of which you have already played—that go quite well together, or so I like to think. Our favorite is one of them,” he added.
“And what will you call this collection?” I asked.
“Well, if I cannot call it I concerti d’Adriana,” he teased, “then I suppose it is fortunate that I have another title I like. I was thinking of calling it L’estro armonico.”
L’estro armonico. The harmonic inspiration. “The name suits,” I said, smiling.
“I am glad you think so.”
“Oh, I do. And furthermore,” I added, “I think that that name shall become quite well known—not just in Venice, but throughout Europe.”
“You truly believe that?” he asked.
“I know it,” I said. “And I thought you knew better than to argue with a beautiful woman … especially one who is naked in bed with you…”
He wrapped his arms around me and shifted me so that I was straddling him. “My mistake,” he said. “You must help me to make sure that I never make it again, mia bella.”
17
PARTITA
The dreaded evening of the festa at Ca’ Foscari arrived, and the preparations for it commenced as soon as I rose that day. Meneghina d
rew me a bath and washed my long hair; once it dried, she arranged it in as stylish and elaborate a fashion as she could manage. She braided many small locks of hair and wound them around my head like a crown, leaving the rest of my hair to fall in loose curls down my back. Through the crown of braids she wove several delicate silver chains set with diamonds, which my father had ordered for the occasion. At my insistence, Meneghina then used only the barest traces of cosmetics on my face. I had no desire to be as thickly painted as a clown upon the stage.
The gown, which my father had gone to such pains and expense to have made for me, had arrived several days before, and I adored it in spite of myself. It was every bit as beautiful as the dressmaker had promised, with its froths of silver lace and embroidery. It looked as though it had been breathed from the very winter air.
Once my hair and makeup were complete, Meneghina laced me into my corset, petticoats, and finally the gown. The finishing touch was a necklace of elaborately worked silver set with sapphires, and earrings to match—a gift from my father to my mother many years ago.
My father was called in. As he entered my bedchamber and saw me standing before the dressing table, he stopped dead, an almost stricken look on his face. “Adriana,” he said. “You look … you look just as beautiful as your mother. She would be very proud.”
I was taken aback by his words. I must have looked very much like my mother for him to mention her. “Thank you, Father,” I said sincerely.
Extending his arm to me, he said, “Shall I escort you down to the gondola, figlia mia?”
Meneghina settled my fur wrap about my shoulders, and I crossed the room to him and took his arm. He led me down the stairs to the ground floor and out to the dock, where the gondola bobbed patiently.
As my father helped me into the gondola, I felt my pessimistic spirits lift a bit. My father was being so cordial, and I was wearing the most beautiful gown I had ever set eyes on, about to go to a party given by members of Venetian high society, the likes of which I had never before been permitted to attend. I was weary of being shut up in my gloomy palazzo, seeing nothing of my city or those who inhabited it. That had changed once I had started venturing to Vivaldi’s house, and it would change again tonight, though in a different way.
The Violinist of Venice Page 8