Venetian Mask

by Rosalind Laker

  It was after Marietta returned from a concert in Padua that she found an invitation from Domenico, inviting her to dine. She had been a guest at the homes of the other governors many times, and she could only suppose that Domenico felt obliged out of courtesy to follow their example. Nevertheless she was thrown into a turmoil of agitation. Why should he decide to do this now when everything in her life was running so smoothly? She could only hope that there would be many other guests and she would need exchange only a few minutes of conventional conversation with her host.

  She had exerted her authority as prima donna to gain the chaperonage of only one nun when she went out. Sister Giaccomina was her choice and they enjoyed being together without Sister Sylvia’s tetchy company. When the evening of the invitation arrived they set off on their own in the Torrisi gondola, which had been sent to collect them.

  Domenico was waiting to meet them under the portico of the arcaded water-gate entrance to his palace, which struck Marietta as unusual, for it meant he had withdrawn from his other guests to await their arrival. His well-groomed powdered hair set off the light tan of his skin that seemed never to have faded since his long sea-voyages.

  “Welcome to my house,” he said in greeting.

  “It is a pleasure to be here,” Marietta replied formally. She glanced about at the andron’s faded frescoed walls as he led her and her companion along the richly patterned Persian carpet that ran the length of the marble floor. She guessed it had been laid specially for this evening as the waters of the Grand Canal would rise into this area whenever rough winds chose to play havoc, and mostly without warning.

  The three of them made conversation as they ascended a grand staircase under an arched and gilded ceiling set with blue as if the sky were being allowed to show through. At the top was an anteroom where large double doors stood open to a great ballroom exceeding in splendor any that Marietta had previously seen with the sole exception of the Ducal Palace. Using the double height of two stories with two chandeliers, each six feet in diameter and sparkling in their candlelight like waterfalls, it gained further dimension through its masterfully painted walls, which gave one the illusion of seeing far beyond into vistas of classical parks and flower gardens. The Torrisi coat of arms, set off by gilded drapery, dominated the main wall. Since this salone de ballo was quite deserted except for the footmen at its doors, Marietta could not resist pausing in the middle of the pink terrazzo floor to twirl around, her sea-green skirt flowing out, her pearl eardrops dancing, to gaze upward with delight at the trompe l’oeil frescoes depicting a gallery of musicians some of whom actually appeared to be leaning over into the room.

  “Where are your singers, Signor Torrisi?” she asked gaily, letting her gaze rise still higher, to the ceiling that curved upward from the frescoes into a painted allegory of the virtues and achievements of the Torrisis.

  “There is no one except you, Marietta. In fact you and Sister Giaccomina are my only guests this evening.”

  She glanced at him quickly, suddenly alert to some extraordinary situation. Sister Giaccomina also looked surprised. But there was nothing in his cool grey eyes to indicate why they should be the only guests, and he continued to converse easily, pointing out what he thought might be of interest as he led them through a tapestry-lined salon into another of coral silk. She noticed no less than three portraits of his late wife, one full-length and almost life-size depicting Angela in an oyster satin gown and a plume-trimmed hat. Then they came to what was clearly a dining-room for the gathering of a few close friends, for the table was circular and presently laid for three under an azure taffeta-silk baldachin that was draped from six fluted columns. Silver shone and goblets of blue Venetian glass glittered on the damask cloth while the scent of white tuberoses hung fragrantly in the air.

  The dinner was planned to perfection. Sister Giaccomina did justice to every course, sometimes closing her eyes briefly in delight as she savored the first forkful of yet another new dish. Domenico was a relaxed host, full of good talk, but Marietta was becoming steadily more wary. She thought of the Persian carpet, the curious compliment paid her in the ballroom, the place of honor she had been given at his right hand when the nun was her senior—and, dominating all else, a conviction impossible to shake off that there was more to come. What did he want of her?

  When he asked her, during the course of conversation, something about her first coming to Venice, she mentioned that she had seen the Torrisi villa from the river barge. “I remember there was a crowd of merry young people disembarking to enter the building.”

  “They could have been my brothers and their ladies. Only the youngest, Antonio, is left in Venice with me now. Franco is in the New World where he imports goods from Europe; Lodovico married in England without the permission of either my father or the Senate, which bars him from coming home; and Bertucci was fatally wounded in a duel with a Celano.” He shook his head. “It was one of those tragic affairs when both duelists died afterward from the injuries each had inflicted on the other.”

  “How terrible for both families! Could not that event have brought everyone together in reconciliation?”

  “You would never persuade a Celano to that view.”

  She thought to herself that a Torrisi would be equally implacable, but that could not be said when she was a guest at his table. If they had been on neutral ground it would have been another matter.

  When eventually they rose from the table, it was to go into the book-lined library where priceless thirteenth- and fourteenth-century volumes with exquisite illustrations were laid out on tables for display. Sister Giaccomina clasped her plump hands in wonder. She was a scholar of early editions, not through any training but through her own interest over the years. Her lashes became wet when he showed her and Marietta a small illustration of the founder of the ospedale, Brother Pietruccio d’Assisi, feeding hungry little children from a bowl.

  “Such a treasure!” the nun exclaimed. “How rare! Is it of his own time?”

  “I believe it to be.”

  “Then that must be exactly as the dear man looked! What a kind face! Do you see, Marietta?”

  “I do.” Marietta, studying the beautiful little painting in blues and reds and gold, thought how different her own life would have been if all those hundreds of years ago a good man had not been moved to pity by the plight of those who everybody else had cast out.

  Sister Giaccomina had seated herself at the library table, prepared to peruse other pages, and Domenico moved a candelabrum nearer for her to have a better light.

  “Do you know,” she said, “Brother Pietruccio would cry ‘Pity! Pity!’ as he begged from door to door to get money for his foundlings’ home. That’s why the Ospedale della Pietà is so named.” Her voice took on an indignant note. “It was not he who had the children’s little feet branded with a P to make them remember all their lives what they owed the Pietà, but the rich, haughty men who financed the ospedale after him and wanted their charity acknowledged.”

  Marietta exchanged a smile with Domenico, who knew these facts as well as she. As they both expected, the nun went on to rail against the old custom, introduced by those same self-centered benefactors, of calling the children Dust or Gibbet or Stone or some other degrading name to remind them of their humble origins. Marietta spoke up.

  “I, for one, am very thankful that custom was abolished along with the branding a long time ago.”

  Sister Giaccomina gave her a fond smile. “In your case, child, it would be as the English playwright wrote—a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Then she turned in her chair to thank Domenico as he placed a powerful magnifying glass, which he had taken from a drawer, at her right hand. “Oh, that’s just what I need!”

  “If you have no objection, Sister,” he said, “I’ll leave you with these books while I take Marietta away with me for a little interlude.”

  For a moment Sister Giaccomina was uncertain. Then she reminded herself that Signor Torrisi was a g
overnor and therefore a guardian of the virtue of the Pietà girls. She nodded. “I shall be most content here with these beautiful books.”

  Marietta would have preferred to stay, but she had no choice but to go with him. He took her to a corner salon facing the Grand Canal where the walls were honey-colored and there was a sensually beautiful painting of Zephyr and Flora. Here as elsewhere the candle-glow enhanced the setting, but as it was a room of moderate size, it also created an intimate atmosphere. The windows were open to the warm May night. She took a chair where she could see the star-sprinkled sky and he drew up another. As always, the sound of music rose from various sections of the city. She listened, using her fan slowly. It was a gift from an admirer and its brilliants caught the candle-glow. She was aware that in spite of Domenico’s relaxed position, one arm looped over the back of his chair, long legs crossed at the ankles, he was alert and waiting. But for what? More than ever she was aware of him as a marvelously handsome man.

  “There was little music in my life before I came to Venice,” she remarked by way of ending the silence between them. “Only my own singing.”

  “I was in the village of your birth not all that long ago.”

  “Were you?” She realized he would have learned of her origins from the Pietà records. For the first time in many years she experienced a painful stab of nostalgia, but then all her feelings had been honed in uneasy anticipation this evening. “How did it look? I have never been back.”

  “Mask decoration still goes on there. Would you like to see it again?”

  She smiled to herself. There was one thing about her he would not discover in the files. Maybe this was the time to tell him. “I should like to see the workshop where my mother and I spent so many hours and where I saw your gilded mask for the first time.” Although she was not looking at him she could sense the impact her words had made, for there came the rustle of his silken coat as he leaned forward abruptly in his chair. He listened attentively as she listed all the evidence that had brought her to the conclusion that it was definitely the Torrisi mask that had been in her care. She did not ask the reason why he had had it made, for if he wished her to know he would tell her. “So there was a link between us,” she concluded, turning her head at last to look at him, “long before you kept your word about not giving me away to the authorities.”

  He was too logical and reasoning a man to accept her connection with the mask as anything but coincidence, but curiously it was as though everything were falling into place. Angela, who was highly sensitive in so many ways, had been extremely accurate in her judgement of character, even warning him correctly more than once of political enmity in delicate affairs of state. “I will take you back to your village, Marietta. It can be arranged.”

  She shook her head. “I thank you, but no. When I do go back it must be in my own time and when I know it to be right for me.”

  “Some day when you are no longer at the Pietà?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Have you thought of what you want for the rest of your life?”

  She gave a nod, looking back at the window. “I don’t intend to stay at the Pietà longer than another two years. Then I shall take to the concert stage and travel throughout Europe.”

  “What of marriage?”

  “That is not for me. The man I would have married did not come back for me.”

  “The Frenchman.” It was a statement, not a question. After that night at the ridotto, because of his wife’s consuming interest, Domenico had sent one of his best spies to follow Marietta and Alix wherever they went. When their failed elopement was duly reported, Angela was filled with compassion. It was then that she had insisted they attend as many concerts as possible where Marietta was singing. He had been so used to Angela’s whims that he did not question her wish that they go masked on each occasion, although he wondered why it was always a bauta and never his gilded mask that his valet put ready for him at her instruction. After he received the report from Lyon on Desgrange’s marriage he had closed the file and locked it away. But Marietta could not know any of this.

  “Yes, my Frenchman,” she replied, not entirely sure where this conversation was leading. “When I tire of journeying I shall settle somewhere, probably Vienna, and teach.”

  “What could be better than to teach children of your own to sing?”

  She rested her head back on the high padded upholstery of the chair. “I can’t argue with that, but as I have said, my plans do not allow for it. Several very talented new singers are coming on fast at the Pietà and it wouldn’t be fair for me to rival them by continuing to perform in this city. Adrianna set a good example. She made three guest appearances for the Pietà after she left, and then slipped from public view into family life.”

  “Does she not sing at all now?”

  She smiled. “Only lullabies to her little children.”

  He returned her smile. “What fortunate offspring to have such a voice to sing them to sleep. You see her quite regularly, I believe.”

  “I do. I have two wonderfully good friends in Adrianna Savoni and Elena Celano.” Then she hesitated. “Is that name allowed to be spoken in this house?”

  “You may say whatever you wish.”

  “In that case,” she said more boldly, mischief in her eyes, “I will ask you a question that has long been in my mind. As a governor of the Pietà why haven’t you had the lock of the calle door changed? You must realize that I came and went by that route and also that I still have a key.”

  “I guessed you had. Maybe I have been hoping to meet you again at a ridotto.”

  She closed her fan. Although she knew his remark had been a jest her face was serious. “I have never told you how much I appreciated your not giving me away to the Pietà authorities. You could still have done it when you took office there.”

  “I have never wished you any harm. Nor will I to my life’s end.”

  She could see he was not jesting now. Tension filled the air. “That was a very dramatic statement to make,” she said cautiously.

  “I never spoke more truly.” He leaned nearer and took her hand into his. “You and I have both known sadness in different spheres of lost love.”

  “Why do you say that?” She drew her hand from his, her eyes defensive, almost hostile.

  “No Pietà girl would take the risks you took to be with a man unless he mattered to her above all else. Then suddenly he was gone. You were no longer together. I saw you from a distance more often than you realized. Once even in the midst of a Carnival throng in St. Mark’s Square.”

  She looked down at her fan. He had mentioned a moment she would never forget. “I admit what you suppose about Alix and me. That’s all I can say.”

  “It’s not what is past in your life or mine that I wish to speak of now or in the future. I want to say to you that happiness can come again. It would not be the same for either of us, because first love is unique and nobody would wish it otherwise. But I am asking you to consider becoming my wife. I don’t expect an answer now, because you need time.” He would have preferred her to raise her head, for her lashes were lowered still and he could not read her eyes. “Before too long I shall ask you again to marry me. In the meantime I hope I may show you that we could have a most rewarding life together.”

  She was not as astonished by what he had asked as she might have expected to be. No doubt the signs she had observed of the importance of her visit this evening had prepared her. She liked him for having made no false declarations of loving her already. At least he was being honest. Since he had no heir he needed to marry again, but whereas any other woman would have been complimented by being his choice, she wanted to be much more to a husband than a bearer of children. She chose her words carefully as she finally looked up to meet his eyes.

  “I can give you my answer now. As I told you, my plans are made for the future. So even though you have given me time to think matters over, I have to tell you that time will not change the dec
ision I have already made.”

  “Nevertheless, the idea is new to you as yet and when you know me better you may come to feel quite differently. My wishes concerning you are known to the other governors and they have presented no barriers.”

  “What of the Great Council? I know a nobleman may not marry any woman not in the patrician strata or without a vast dowry. Elena learned after her marriage that Cardinal Celano had spoken to the Doge himself, who in turn had swayed those senators who would otherwise have opposed the match.”

  “I also have friends in high places.”

  She saw it was useless to say any more. He was countering every opposition she put forward. “Let us return to Sister Giaccomina now, although I am sure that with those books she has lost all sense of time.” She rose to her feet and turned for the door, but he stayed her with a firm hand on her arm.

  “Then we need not make haste yet, Marietta.”

  Too late she saw that he intended to kiss her. Then his arms were strong about her in a crushing embrace and she was almost lifted from her feet as his mouth sought hers in the most passionate of kisses. Without willing it she gave herself up to the sensual experience of the moment. Having been awakened by love but denied its fulfillment, her body seemed to yearn toward him of its own accord, her arms going without her knowledge around his neck, her mouth giving when it should only have received. When their kiss ended her heart was hammering. She rested her brow against his shoulder and a tremor went through her as he put his lips to her temple.

  “Let me care for you, Marietta. I will do all in my power to ensure that you never have cause for regret.”

  Hastily she broke away from him, shaking her head. “Let us say no more now.”

  “As you wish.”

  As Marietta had expected, Sister Giaccomina had been so absorbed in studying Domenico’s books that she looked up in surprise at what she took to be their speedy return. All the way back to the Pietà in the Torrisi gondola, Sister Giaccomina talked of the volumes, not noticing that Marietta sat in silence beside her in the felze or that Domenico, who had insisted on escorting them, gave only perfunctory answers to her questions. Behind her veil Marietta studied him in handsome silhouette against the moonlit water. The violent attraction Domenico had shown for her was dangerous and perverse. In a moment of revelation as his mouth took hers, she saw that the antagonism he had always aroused in her had its roots in a fear of falling in love with another woman’s husband, a pointless love that would have wrecked her peace of mind and her work and even her life. Now that barrier was gone, but what he offered her—a marriage of convenience for both parties—that was not for her.