Venetian Mask

by Rosalind Laker

  It had been a shock to discover among Angela’s papers the letter she had written to him only ten days before the barnabotti’s attack on the Grand Canal. The letter read:

  I have a premonition that I shall not survive my present pregnancy. That will mean you must marry again, my beloved husband, and I beg that you will let the woman be my choice for you. I want you to have a young wife who will truly love you as I have done and give you the sons that I have failed to provide. Marry Maestra Marietta of the Pietà. I have seen for myself that she has courage and is brave when the need arises. She already trusts you completely just as I have always done, and when she sings there is so much heart in her voice that I know her feelings run deep as the sea. That has nothing to do with the young Frenchman, although she might suppose it does. Love has made her aware of herself and if you can win her with your love all will be well. I, who have had my life enriched by our marriage, want only to bequeath you happiness.

  At the time, the letter had only added to his grief. It had been terrible to him that Angela should have harbored the certainty of her own premature death, never suspecting it would come to her other than in childbirth. He blamed himself for everything that had happened—for failing to notice in time the approaching barnabotti, for not knowing that this pregnancy was causing her such distress of mind, and even for not having created an opportunity when she might have talked to him instead of penning the letter. There was nothing for which he did not still feel responsible, which was why he felt compelled to follow her last wish. She had always known when other women attracted him, but she had been secure in his faithfulness and in that he had not failed her. So why had she not been able to see that the sexual magnetism of Marietta had created in him no more interest than any man might feel at the sight of a particularly desirable woman, whether she should be a Pietà girl or a courtesan?

  It was not so unusual that an unselfish woman who loved her husband should wish to choose her successor. His own grandmother had made such a request. Admittedly in the patrician class it was uncommon, simply because few marriages were based on anything other than material advantage, but he did not doubt that among the peasantry it happened more frequently. And it was typical of Angela with her generous little heart that even in the face of death her last consideration was for him.

  But he was not ready yet for another face at Angela’s place at the table, or on her pillow in his bed. His physical needs were satisfied well enough by masked and nameless married women seeking diversion and adventure for a few night hours, wanting from him only what he wanted of them. He would marry Marietta in his own good time. Meanwhile she could continue singing for the Pietà. She would only discover her destined path if the Frenchman should return in a second attempt to win her.

  Marietta glimpsed Domenico on the Lido where all disembarked after the ceremony of the Marriage to the Sea to proceed into the church, but he was not looking in her direction. She saw him again at the great banquet in the Ducal Palace where she sang afterward, but he was far from her at the long horseshoe table. That old antagonism toward him, which she had never understood, stirred in her again.

  IT CAME AS a surprise to all at the Pietà to hear that Domenico Torrisi had been appointed to the board of governors. Elena was concerned at first that her married name might cause her to be barred from the Pietà now that a Torrisi had a voice in its management, but the new governor did not impose any restrictions of his own. In fact he was rarely at the ospedale, attending only when a board meeting needed his vote to settle an important issue.

  “I suppose,” Elena said to Marietta, “that he considers the Pietà to be neutral territory as is the Hall of the Great Council when he and Filippo are both present on state affairs.”

  “We shall see if that theory holds when he learns that the choir is to sing at the Palazzo Celano next month.”

  To their relief Domenico did not intervene. It was a particularly happy evening for Elena to have Marietta and her other Pietà friends in her own home. Many of the girls were new to the choir since she had left, but they were equally welcome. Their angel-like voices seemed to dispel the unpleasant atmosphere that had lingered since the fierce quarrel Filippo had had with his mother.

  Elena told Marietta how it had come about. The Signora, who had been used to coming to stay whenever she wished, had arrived uninvited and unannounced with Lavinia, issuing orders left and right as she came. Filippo, returning home after long hours in the Senate where he had clashed in debate with Domenico Torrisi, was looking forward to a quiet supper with Elena. He liked to talk to her about the day’s happenings, and although he supposed she was sometimes bored she never showed it. So the sight of her sitting tense and strained in a salon with his mother and sister stirred his always volatile temper.

  “This is a surprise,” he said to his mother, his tone leaving no doubt that it was not exactly a pleasant one.

  “Since you have not been to see me, I had no choice but to come.”

  “For what purpose?” he asked after putting a dutiful kiss on her painted cheek and greeting his sister.

  “I thought you must surely have overlooked telling me that Elena is with child.”

  He glanced at Elena, who looked down, showing that she had been subjected already to his mother’s bullying in this matter. Her lack of conception was a subject he had raised with his wife often enough, and it always ended with Elena in tears and himself in a rage. Why she did not conceive was beyond his comprehension, for she was young and healthy and strong, but he had no intention of letting his mother twist the knife in the wound that was his more than Elena’s.

  “There is nothing to tell yet.”

  “Nothing?” Signora could freeze with her voice and her expression at the same time. “You have been married well over a year. Precisely how long do you intend to keep your kin waiting for an heir?”

  “You are going beyond your bounds, Mother,” he said warningly.

  She was too angry with him to care, remembering how he had once taunted her beloved Marco about proving his manhood. “Are you at fault?” she challenged bluntly. “Or is your wife failing to do her duty?”

  “Silence! I am master here! You’ll not speak to me in such a manner!”

  “Oh, yes, you are master.” Her own grief sounded in her mockery. “Had Marco still been head of this house, he would have given me a grandson in much less time.”

  Elena, unable to endure any more, sprang from her chair and ran in distress from the room. From a distance she could hear them shouting at each other. Then, after what seemed like an hour, all was quiet until she heard Filippo approaching. His mood would be terrible. Frightened, she trembled, hugging her arms in defense of what he might do. The door was flung wide.

  “My mother and Lavinia have gone,” he stated, temper still in his eyes, although mercifully not directed at her, “and I have told her never to come back.”

  “Where will they go?” Her trembling became more pronounced as she saw him lock the door and begin to take off his coat.

  “To one or other of my brothers, I suppose. It’s of no account to me. Nevertheless she is right. We must overcome this delay and have a child.”

  He took her by the arms and thrust her down on the floor with him. It was all over very quickly, but once more it was to be without result.

  Nobody would have welcomed conception more than she. Elena was aware of a deep yearning in herself for a child, a yearning that was quite divorced from her duty to produce a Celano heir. She needed to love and be loved; the whole of her warm nature craved it. Since Filippo neither invited love nor gave it, she had begun turning more and more to finding fulfillment in other ways, and the only outlet open to her was in social pleasures. In convivial company she was able to recapture the bubbling good humor of happier days. Women liked her and men were strongly attracted to her, so invariably, with her flair for fashion, her looks, her still innocent charm, and her ability to relate gossip in an amusing way, she was the center of atten
tion.

  As long as she could dance, attend receptions at the Pietà, play games of chance, see every new play and enjoy some dazzling new entertainment in the Celano box at the opera houses, she could forget the darker side of her life at times. There was nothing she liked better than to fill the palace with people for a ball or banquet, or an old-fashioned masque. Filippo was sociable himself and an hospitable host. Since flirting was a social grace, he never minded when he saw Elena bewitching someone with her charms. He knew she would neither wish nor dare to go beyond the realms of propriety. But he had no such code for himself. It suited him to let her go out with parties of friends now and again, for there were certain places of entertainment he liked to frequent that a wife should not know about. There was a rose marble salon behind a locked door in the palace where throughout past centuries certain of his forebears had indulged themselves in a similar way, but he preferred to go elsewhere.

  Chapter Nine

  ADRIANNA HAD A VISITOR, AN ART DEALER FROM LYON WHO was in Venice to purchase paintings. Her face became increasingly grave as she heard that he was obliging Alix by making this call. Once when they were alone together, Marietta had told her of her romance with the young Frenchman.

  “So, Monsieur Blanchard,” she said, “you say that Alix sent letters to Marietta through my name to the Savoni mask-shop. I assure you I never received them or I would have handed them over to her immediately.”

  “Alix was sure of that. It’s why I inquired as to where I might locate your private address, because Alix became certain the mask-shop had changed hands and that a lack of any correspondence from Marietta meant she had received none from him.” Monsieur Blanchard shrugged wryly. “Since you know that Marietta has written, I can only conclude Fate has been against these two young people from the start.”

  Adrianna guessed that out of courtesy the Frenchman had not suggested who in Lyon had been responsible for keeping Marietta’s letters from Alix. Most likely it was Madame Desgrange, since her poor husband had become, according to the visitor, almost completely senile. But Monsieur Blanchard had more to tell Adrianna about Alix. When he finished he held out a letter addressed to Marietta and a red rose that he had purchased in Venice at Alix’s request.

  “Would you give these to Marietta, senora?”

  “I will,” she said and took both from him.

  As soon as he made his departure, she hastened to leave for the Pietà. On the way there she marched into the mask-shop and cornered Leonardo in his office. A stormy scene followed when he admitted burning the letters and gave the reason why. It was the first time he had ever seen her so angry.

  “Such high-handed behavior and with such cruel results!” she declared furiously. “Give me your word that you will never again deceive me in any way.”

  He gave his promise. Peace in the house was all-important to him.

  At the Pietà, Adrianna was greeted warmly. All past ospedale girls, except those who had been in the favored musical elite, had to speak to old friends through grilles in the visiting salon, but Adrianna was like Elena in having unrestricted access at any time. She heard Marietta’s lovely voice as she approached the practice room to which she had been directed. At the door Adrianna paused, listening sadly before she drew a deep breath and entered. Marietta, accompanying herself on the harpsichord, broke off with a smile.

  “This is a pleasant surprise!” Then her face fell as she noted Adrianna’s drawn expression. She rose from the music stool. “What has happened?”

  “I want you to prepare yourself for some ill tidings about Alix.”

  Marietta turned pale. “Tell me.”

  Adrianna held out the letter and the rose to her, speaking in a choked voice. “Alix is married, Marietta. He is never coming back.”

  With an almost unnatural calm Marietta took the letter and went across to the window, not for better light but to withdraw a little while she read it through. It was a defensive letter of farewell in which Alix told of his father’s illness and the threat of family bankruptcy that had met him upon his return. He had written to her many times and could not understand why he had not received a single letter in return, since she had been able to write direct to him at his home. Had she deliberately forgotten him after the catastrophe of his departure? Maybe she had never forgiven him for it, in which case he would apologize for any inconvenience he had caused her. Then, as if tormented by guilt, his tone became sharper. No doubt their parting had been for the best, since their way of life, their backgrounds, their language, and even their countries were so different in every respect. By the time she read this letter he would be married to Louise d’Oinville, who had become his partner at the silk mill. In a final scrawled sentence he wished her well.

  Marietta folded the letter. She was rigid with shock and pain. Her tortured gaze went to the rose that Adrianna had placed on the harpsichord. It evoked vividly that Carnival night when Alix had declared his love for her. Why had he sent it? If his purpose had been to convey his remorse, it could not obliterate his broken promises and his shattering of her trust. He had abandoned her utterly! The sense of being betrayed overwhelmed her and she pressed a hand across her eyes. She scarcely heard Adrianna speak sadly to her.

  “Oh, my dear Marietta! What a disappointment for you!”

  Adrianna could not bring herself to reveal the rest of what Monsieur Blanchard had told her. It was his opinion that Louise d’Oinville had set her cap at Alix from the start. His desperate need to save the silk mill and keep his dependent parents and his sisters from the poorhouse must have made irresistible the young widow’s offer to invest part of her fortune in the business. “As you might suppose,” the art-dealer had added sagely, “one thing led to another and she was not the first bride to go to the altar with a baby on the way.”

  On a wave of compassion Adrianna went across to Marietta. “Draw on your courage, my dear. This agony of the heart will pass. Break cleanly from the past. Don’t languish over what might have been. You have your music!”

  Marietta lowered her hand and her eyes were bright. “Somehow I’ll follow your advice. I must! And I’m so grateful that you broke the news to me first. Alix never received any of my letters. But what of those that should have reached me?” Then she shook her head in forgiveness. “Don’t weep, Adrianna. I’m sure it was no fault of yours.”

  “I knew nothing about them until today.” Adrianna was deeply distressed.

  Marietta went to her. “There’s no blame to be cast on anyone. I loved Alix dearly, but Venice always stood between us.”

  Adrianna wiped her eyes. “That’s an odd thing to say.”

  “But it’s true.” Marietta did not elaborate and Adrianna had never been one to pry. She watched her friend hold the letter to a candle-flame.

  That night Marietta put on her moretta mask and her domino, pulling its hood over her head before taking the key to the calle door from her drawer. Lastly she drew the rose from the slender vase where she had put it and took it with her as she slipped soundlessly from her room.

  The velvet sky was full of stars and there were plenty of people about with lanterns or flaring flambeaux on their way to and from places of entertainment. Nobody paid her any attention as she retraced the steps she had taken with Alix. In St. Mark’s Square she stood to look up at the window above the arcade where on a certain Carnival night the flash of Domenico’s golden mask had been like a warning that she should leave Venice while the chance was hers.

  She hastened on until she came to a quiet place by the Grand Canal. There she put the rose to her lips before stooping down to let it drop gently into the water. Straightening up, she watched it go floating away on the moon-flecked ripples.

  “Farewell, Alix,” she whispered, remembering his smiling eyes, his sense of fun, and the laughter they had shared. Theirs had been a bittersweet love that was doomed from the start. Back at the Pietà she returned the key to a drawer, although she would never use it again.

  FOR THE NEXT t
hree years Marietta went from one success to another. Her mature voice, rich and lustrous, was like a siren call, drawing people from far afield to hear her. She visited other cities, sometimes with the choir or fellow soloists, but often as the solo performer. She had a splendid apartment at the Pietà, which was furnished to her taste, and an adequate stipend. No other love had come into her life although, like Adrianna before her, she had plenty of would-be suitors.

  She saw Domenico infrequently and liked best to keep out of his way. He never attended receptions at the Pietà as his wife had done, but occasionally he was in the audience when she sang, and now and again they came face to face when he was on his way to a governors’ board meeting. Marietta would acknowledge his bow and passing greeting, but otherwise they had not spoken since he had given her his promise on the night of the ridotto not to betray her.