A Venetian Affair

by Andrea Di Robilant

  From a purely technical point of view he was also within bounds when, thanks again to the benevolence—and the sweat— of his gondoliers, he came down the Grand Canal and signaled to Giustiniana from the water. On days when she was confined to the house and they had no other way of seeing each other, Andrea’s sudden appearance at her neighbor’s window or the familiar plashing of the Memmo gondola down below was a welcome consolation. “Come by the canal as my mother doesn’t want me to go out,” she would plead. “And make an appearance at Ca’ Tiepolo as well, if you can.”

  They developed their own sign language so they could communicate from a distance during the evening walk at the Listone or at the theater or, later in the night, at the gambling house. “Touch your hair if you’re going to the Ridotto,” he instructed her. “Nod or shake your head to tell me whether you plan to go to the piazza.” These little signals sometimes caused confusion if they were not worked out in advance. They also had to be given very discreetly, lest they set off Mrs. Anna’s alarm bells. “When you left the theater,” Andrea wrote anxiously, “you signaled something to me just as your mother turned around, and I think she might have noticed that. If this were the case it could damage us, since she might also have noticed all the other gestures we had made to each other from our boxes.” Despite his occasional burst of bravado, Andrea remained deeply worried not just by what Mrs. Anna might have seen but also by what she thought she might have seen. He went to such extremes to avoid creating false impressions that he sometimes sounded like an obstinate stage manager. “You must realize that if your mother catches you laughing with someone she can’t see, she will assume that you are laughing with me,” he once said to her in a huff. “So try to be careful next time.”

  Andrea fretted constantly about how dangerous it was to write to each other. If their correspondence ever fell into the wrong hands, there would be an explosion “that would reduce everything to a pile of rubble.” Still he deluged Giustiniana with letters and notes, often filling them with practical advice and detailed descriptions of his frantic chases around town. “We are completely mad. . . . If only you knew how afraid I am that your mother might find out we are seeing each other again.”

  It was a glorious adventure. There were times when they managed to get close enough to steal a quick embrace in an alcove at the Ridotto or in the dark streets near the theaters at San Moisè, and the thrill was always powerful. “Last night, I swear,” Andrea wrote to his beloved the morning after one of these rare encounters, “you were so heated up, oh so heated up, such a beautiful girl, and I was on fire.” But in the beginning they tended to hold back. They made their moves with deliberation. They kept each other at a safe distance: lovemaking was mostly limited to what their eyes could see and what their eyes could say.

  It is easy to imagine how, in a city where both men and women wore masks during a good portion of the year, the language of the eyes would become all-important. And what was true in general was especially true for Andrea and Giustiniana on account of the rigid restrictions that had been imposed on them. Andrea was being very literal when he asked anxiously, “Today my lips will not be able to tell you how much I love you. . . . But there will be other ways. . . . Will you understand what my eyes will be saying to you?” What their eyes said was not always sweet and not always clear. With such strong emotions at play, it could take days to clear up a misunderstanding precipitated by a wrong look or an averted gaze. One night, Andrea returned to Ca’ Memmo after a particularly frustrating attempt to make contact with Giustiniana. It had taken him all evening and a great deal of effort and ingenuity to find her at one of the theaters. Yet in the end she had displayed none of the usual complicity that made even the briefest encounter a moment of joy. In fact, she had been so annoying as to make him wish he had not seen her at all:

  Yesterday I tried desperately to see you. Before lunch the gondoliers could not serve me. After lunch I went looking for you in Campo Santo Stefano. Nothing. So I walked toward Piazza San Marco, and when I arrived at the bridge of San Moisè I ran into Lucrezia Pisani!4 I gave her my hand on the bridge, and then I saw you. I left her immediately and went looking for you everywhere. Finally I found you in the piazza. I sent Alvisetto ahead to find out whether you were on your way to the opera or to the new play at the Teatro Sant’Angelo, so that I could rush over to get a box in time. Then I forged ahead and waited for you, filled with desire. Finally you arrived and I went up to my box so that I could contemplate you—not only for the sheer pleasure I take in admiring you but also in the hope of receiving a sign of acknowledgment as a form of consolation. But you did nothing of the sort. Instead you laughed continuously, made loud noises until the end of the show, for which I was both sorry and angry— as you can well imagine.

  A few days later Andrea tracked her down after yet another chase along crowded streets and across canals. This time the reward was well worth the pursuit:

  I caught sight of your mother and hoped you would be with her. I looked for you left and right. Nothing. Your mother left, I followed. She went to San Moisè, I went to San Moisè. In fact, I got so close to her that we would have bumped into each other at the entrance of a bottega if I had not been so quick. . . . [Later] I waited in vain for Alvisetto, whom I had instructed to follow your mother. . . . Then I got your letter telling me that you would be going to San Benetto, so I rushed over only to realize with regret that you had already arrived and that the opera had begun. . . . Oh Lord, what will Giustiniana say. . . . Let’s see how she will treat me. . . . Goodness, there she is, that naughty girl [who wouldn’t look at me] the other evening. . . . Will she look at me this time or won’t she. . . . Come, look this way my girl! . . . And little by little I began to feel better. And then much better when I moved into that other box because I could see you and you could see me so well and with no great danger that your mother might notice every little gesture between us.

  As an overall strategy, Andrea felt it was important to convince Mrs. Anna that the love between him and Giustiniana had indeed subsided and that she could finally let her guard down. It would be easier for them to find ways to see each other. So whenever Mrs. Anna took her daughter to a place where there was a good chance they might see him, Giustiniana was to feign complete disinterest:

  Sometimes, in taking risks, one must be willing to be la dupe de soi-même. So arrange things in such a way that she will feel she is forcing you to go to all the places where she knows you might run into me, such as San Benetto or the Ridotto. . . . And when the weather is nice, show little interest, even some resistance, to taking a walk to the square. . . . Believe me, our good fortune depends on the success of our deception. . . . To avoid coming to San Benetto, all you have to do is tell her you don’t feel well. As for the Ridotto, you can say, “In truth, Mother, it bores me too much. Besides, we have no one to speak to and I don’t feel like playing [cards]. And we don’t make a good impression anyway, walking around with no other company. So let me go to bed.” And if she refuses and takes you out with her, you will see me and she will say, “Giustiniana doesn’t fret about Memmo anymore.”

  In public Andrea and Giustiniana behaved like two strangers. Yet if their relationship was ever to develop, if they were to make arrangements in order to meet somewhere safely and actually spend time together, they were going to need more reliable allies than Alvisetto—friends willing to take the risk of giving them cover and providing them with rooms where they could see each other in private. Andrea worked hard to identify those who might be most useful to them. He gave precise instructions to Giustiniana as to how she should behave to bring this or that friend over to their side. But his instructions were not always clear. When Giustiniana innocently told a potential ally that she no longer loved Andrea when in fact Andrea had asked her to say the opposite, he gave her a sharp rebuke: “As soon as I do a good piece of work, you ruin it for me. The truth is . . . and I am very sorry to have to say this, you have not been up to my expectations.”

/>   Andrea could be equally hard when he thought Giustiniana was not keeping enough distance from possible enemies. He was wary of the young Venetian nobles who hung around the Ridotto and who delighted in gossip and intrigue. It was important not to give them a reason to unleash their malicious tongues. As a rule, he explained to Giustiniana, “it is good for us to have the greatest number of friends and the least number of enemies.” But there was no need to be closer to that crowd than was strictly necessary. And he criticized her when he saw her displaying too much friendliness to acquaintances he did not consider trustworthy.

  He was especially suspicious of the Morosinis, who had always sided with Mrs. Anna in her battle against the two lovers—merely to spite him, Andrea thought. The Wynnes were often lunch guests at Ca’ Morosini on Campo Santo Stefano, and Giustiniana’s persistent socializing with the enemy infuriated Andrea. She had to choose, he finally said to her, between him and “those Morosini asses”:

  I know it is a lot to ask, but I can ask no less. . . . I must put you through this test, and I shall measure your love for me by it. . . . Giustiniana, I shall be very disappointed if you disregard my wish. I have never met anyone so impertinent and so false toward both of us. . . . They like you merely because you amuse them. . . . By God, you will not be worthy of me if you lower yourself to the point of flattering these . . . stupid enemies of mine . . . these rigid custodians of Giustiniana who spy for your mother. . . . They are evil people with no human qualities and no respect for friendship. . . . Forgive me for speaking this way to you, but I am so angry that I cannot stand it anymore.

  In the early stages, Andrea had a patronizing tone toward Giustiniana and a tendency to take control of every aspect of their relationship. He was, of course, several years older than she, and it was fairly natural that he should take the lead while she deferred to his judgment. But over the months she grew more confident in her ability to conceal and deceive. And in spite of Andrea’s occasional hectoring, she began to enjoy plotting behind her mother’s back. She took a more active role in planning their meetings and often marveled at her own audacity: “Truly, Memmo, I do not recognize myself. I do things I never would have done. I think in ways so different that I do not seem to be myself anymore.”

  It was Giustiniana who eagerly informed Andrea that N., a friend on whom they had worked hard to bring over to their side, had finally agreed to let them meet at his casino, one of the little pleasure houses that were all the rage in those years and were Venice’s very practical answer to a diffuse desire for comfort and pleasure. (There were as many as 150 such casini in the city, which were used as boudoirs, as seditious salons, and—quite often—as discreet love nests.) “I’ve made arrangements for Friday,” she wrote self-confidently. “We can’t see each other before. I didn’t feel I could press him and so I let him choose the date. He has become my friend entirely and confides his worries to me and even vents his domestic frustrations.”

  Their excitement grew every day in anticipation of the moments they would spend together. It was not enough anymore to exchange loving glances and signals from afar. If Giustiniana had become much bolder in just a few weeks, it was because her yearning was now so powerful. She longed to be kissed by Andrea, to be held in his arms. And their scheming was finally producing results. Here is Giustiniana, three days before their secret appointment at N.’s casino:

  Friday we shall meet—at least we know as much. But my God, how the time in between will seem interminable! And afterward what? Afterward I shall think about our next meeting so that I shall always be having sweet thoughts about you. . . . Tell me, Memmo, are you entirely happy with me? Is there any way I can give you more? Is there something in my behavior, in my way of life that I might change to suit you better? Speak, for I shall do anything you want. I cannot think of anything more precious than to see you happy and ever closer to me. I never thought it was possible to love with such violence.

  The following evening Alvisetto appeared in Giustiniana’s room bearing a reply from her lover. “My soul,” Andrea wrote, “what a complete delight it will be. Love me, adore me. . . . I deserve it because I know your heart so well. Oh Lord, I am so dying to see you that I am jumping out of my skin.” Alvisetto also handed to Giustiniana a small, delicately embroidered fan— a gift to make the waiting more bearable. In order to avoid raising Mrs. Anna’s suspicions, Andrea suggested that Giustiniana ask her aunt Fiorina to pretend the fan was for her. In the past Mrs. Anna’s sister had shown a certain amount of sympathy for her niece’s predicament. Andrea, always in search of reliable allies, felt this subterfuge would not only allay whatever doubts Mrs. Anna might have about his gift but also give them a sense of how much Aunt Fiorina was prepared to help them in the future.

  On Thursday, the day before their meeting, Alvisetto delivered a long, tender letter to Andrea:

  And so, my dear Memmo, tomorrow we shall be together. And what, in the whole world, could be more natural between two people who love each other than to be together? I could go on forever, my sweet. I am in heaven. I love you. I love you, Memmo, more than I can say. Do you love me as much? Do you know I have this constant urge to do well, to look beautiful, to cultivate the greatest possible number of qualities for the mere sake of pleasing you, of earning your respect, of holding on to my Memmo. . . . Be warned, however, that your love for me has made me extremely proud and vain. . . . Where does one find a man so pleasant, so at ease in society, yet at the same time so firm, so deeply understanding of the important things in life? Where does one find a young man with such a rich imagination who is also precise and clearheaded in his thinking, so graceful and convincing in expressing his ideas? My Memmo, so knowledgeable in the humanities, so intelligent about the arts, is also a man who knows how to dress and always cuts quite a figure and knows how to carry himself with grace . . . he is a man who possesses the gift of being at once considerate and bold. And even if at times he goes out of bounds, he does it to satisfy the natural urges of his youth and his character. And therein lies the path to happiness. You are wild as a matter of principle, as a result of hard reasoning. Aren’t you the rarest of philosophers? . . . And what have you done, what do you do to women? Just the other day N. said to me: How did you manage to catch that fickle young man? And I was so proud, Memmo.

  As for the fan, she added, “I will ask Fiorina to accept it in my place. I don’t know whether she is on our side or not, but at least she seems willing to fake it.”

  The morning after their meeting at N.’s, Giustiniana, enthralled by the sweetest memories of the previous evening, wrote to Andrea entirely in French—not the language she knew best but the one she evidently felt was most appropriate in the lingering afterglow of their reunion:

  Ah, Memmo, so much happiness! I was with you for close to two hours; I listened to your voice; you held my hand, and our friends, touched by our love, seem willing to help us more often. After you had left, N. told me how much you love me. Yes, you do love me, Memmo, you love me so deeply. Tell me once more; I never tire of hearing you say it. And the more direct you are, the more charmed I shall be. The heart doesn’t really care much for detours. Simplicity is worth so much more than the most ornate embellishments. You are the most charming philosopher I have ever listened to. . . . If only I could be free . . . and tell the world about my love! Ah, let us not even speak of such a happy state. Farewell, I take leave of you now. When shall I see you? Tell me, are you as impatient as I am?

  She added teasingly:

  Oh, by the way, I have news. My mother received a marriage proposal for me from a very rich Roman gentleman. . . . Isn’t it terrible, Memmo? Aren’t you at least a little bit jealous? And what if he is as nice as they say . . . and what if my mother wanted him. . . . I can’t go on. Not even in jest. . . . I am all yours, my love. Farewell.

  CHAPTER Two

  Andrea and Giustiniana were so secretive during the first months of their clandestine relationship that only a handful of trusted friends knew what
they were up to. As Andrea had predicted, Mrs. Anna eventually began to lower her guard and focus on possible new suitors for her eldest daughter. By the fall of 1754 the two lovers were seeing each other with great frequency and daring. They now had several locations at their disposal. N.’s casino was often available. Meneghetto Tiepolo had given them access to an apartment on the mezzanine of his palazzo. They also went to a woman named Rosa, who lived in a small and very simple house near the Wynnes and often let them have a room. Setting up a secret encounter was often the work of several days. It took reliable intelligence and good planning. Alvisetto shuttled furtively between the Wynnes’ house and Ca’ Memmo, delivering letters with the latest arrangements or news of an unexpected change of plan. Much was written about the dropping off and picking up of keys.

  The feverish preparatory work, coupled with the constant fear of being caught, made their encounters all the more passionate. “How could they be so stupid,” Giustiniana noted with delight, “not to realize what refinement they bring to our pleasure by imposing all these prohibitions? [At the beginning of our relationship] I was always very happy to see you, of course, but the emotions I feel now, the sheer agitation, the overwhelming feeling of sweetness, were certainly not as intense.”

  As their love deepened and their relationship became more sexual, jealousy too began to creep into their little world. Despite Mrs. Anna’s more relaxed attitude, Giustiniana was still not as free to move around town as Andrea was. This put her at a psychological disadvantage. Who was Andrea seeing when he wasn’t with her? She had his letters, of course, filled with detailed accounts of his daily activities. But how reliable were they? In her relative confinement in the house at Sant’Aponal she had plenty of time to work herself into a state of anxiety. A hint of unpleasant gossip was enough to send her into a rage.