Other friends now willingly stepped in. Johann Adolph Hasse, the German composer, and his wife, Faustina, the celebrated diva, had always had a tender spot for Andrea since the days when Uncle Andrea, the old patriarch, had still been alive and they had been frequent guests at Ca’ Memmo. Their daughters, Beppina and Cattina, had grown, and now they too had become friends of Andrea and Giustiniana. The Hasses were a joyous, fun-loving family, and they were more than happy to connive with the two young lovers. On the appointed day, Giustiniana would tell her mother she was going to pay a visit “to the Hasse girls.” Andrea would arrive there shortly before her, to be whisked up to the girls’ room on the second floor. This way Giustiniana could go upstairs and meet Andrea even if she had the misfortune of being accompanied by her mother.
More surprisingly, the consul himself agreed to give Andrea the keys to his box at the Teatro San Giovanni Grisostomo, a rather traditional establishment with an uninspiring program—which suited Andrea and Giustiniana just fine. They met there at their leisure and made sure the little curtain was drawn. They were seldom tempted to watch the play. “Of course it has become my favorite theater,” Andrea now said after having criticized the San Giovanni Grisostomo for years. “That box is very comfortable indeed. Oh, I hope we shall go there often. . . . There is such peace and quiet. . . . And of course the privilege of not having to listen to the performances, which are usually so bad.”
Now that the marriage cavalcade was moving again, Andrea was “immersed in the pleasure of our present condition.” He could not get enough, even when they were not together:
As I lay in bed alone for so long I thought of the days when we will be together, comforting each other at night. This idea led to another and then to another and soon I was so fired up I could see you in bed with me. You wore that nightcap of yours I like so much, and a certain ribbon I gave you adorned your face so sweetly. You were so near to me and so seductive I took in your tender fragrance and felt your breath. You were in a deep sleep— you even snored at times. You had kept me company all evening long with such grace that I really didn’t have the heart to wake you up . . . but then a most fortunate little accident occurred just as my discretion was exhausting itself. You turned to me at the very moment in which you dreamed of being in my arms. Nature, perhaps encouraged by habit, led you to embrace me. So there we were, next to each other, face to face and mouth to mouth! Your right leg was leaning on my left leg. Little by little the beak of the baby dove began to prick you so forcefully that in your sleep you moved your hand in such a way the thirsty little creature found the door wide open. Trembling from both fear and delight, it entered oh so gently into that little cage and after quenching its thirst it began to have some fun, flying about those spaces and trying to penetrate them as far as it could. It was so eager and made such a fuss that in the end you woke up.
The greatest intimacy came naturally to them. The playful tone softened the raw sexual desire. And the writing too, one feels, prolonged and completed their pleasure. Andrea returned to his room at Ca’ Memmo one evening, his head filled with sexual thoughts about Giustiniana. He considered masturbating but then thought better of it: “I felt terribly in love with you. . . . But I didn’t want to force nature for a third time, having it forced with such profit in the morning.”
During the spring of 1758 Andrea’s letters were filled with a mixture of sexual exuberance and serious talk about their future life as husband and wife. When the lighthearted side of his personality took over, Andrea reveled in the pursuit of pleasure. But his serious side, which carried the weight of tradition and family responsibility, was never far behind. He begged Giustiniana, for the sake of his reputation as well as her own, to be more circumspect in her public demeanor and always wary of that “malicious world” out there, which preyed on the smallest glimmer of gossip. Sometimes this sanctimonious carping irritated Giustiniana’s rebellious spirit, but Andrea pressed on regardless, teaching her the ways “of this Venetian world of ours, as a good friend would.” When he did not write to her as a playful lover, he took the approach of a philosopher-husband whose passion should always remain firmly fastened to reason: “Believe me, my little one, a simple rapture would not have led me to risk everything I have in order to marry you. What led me to do it was the clear and perfect picture I have of my Giustiniana, the deep and well-founded respect I have for her, and a sentiment far stronger than the most virtuous and sincerest of friendships. And all of this has led me to pursue my goal with as much prudence and patience and industry and foresight as I could muster.” Had he been more fickle, had his love been “not as deep as it is,” he might have tempted her “to run away” with him during one of their many moments of despair. Or he could have found “an honorable way” out of their relationship: “Yet these thoughts never even entered my mind. I have remained constant. I feel as strong and resolute as I did on the very first day—before which I had already reflected on our fate far more than you could possibly imagine.”
In early summer Venetian society prepared itself once again for the yearly ritual of the villeggiatura. But it was hard for the Memmos and especially the Wynnes, who did not own an estate in the country, to firm up their plans at a time when the negotiations on the marriage seemed to be reaching a critical stage. Mrs. Anna discarded the idea of renting a place, instead accepting another invitation from the Reniers to spend some time at their house in Padua. Andrea decided he would stay in Venice, where Signor Bonzio would be examining the marriage contract, and made plans to ensure he and Giustiniana could be in constant communication while they were apart. After four and a half years of subterfuge, Andrea had become a master at handling the intricacies of maintaining the flow of their correspondence: “I will draw two small lines under the name of the county. That will tell the postmen in Venice [the letters are from me]. . . . They will deliver them in the morning. . . . If anyone should check at the Padua post office or the Venice post office, they will find nothing—it will not be your writing, the letter will be addressed to a Venetian gentleman, there will be no poste restante, hence no reason to suspect anything.”
The rest of the Memmo family left town to seek respite from the heat. Pietro was so frail that Andrea wondered if he’d make it through the summer. He gave Giustiniana a touching description of their leave-taking: “I think he will stay out at our villa for a long time because it is good for his health. . . . After lunch I kissed his hand, which is not something we Memmos usually do. After that blessed moment we were unable to speak because our eyes filled with tears.”12
Life in the city slowed down considerably. Except for the great Festa del Redentore on the third Sunday of July, there were no major festivities. The theaters were closed. The palaces on the Grand Canal were empty. The botteghe and the malvasìe were less crowded than usual. Andrea did not have much to do except run a few errands, browse among the picture dealers, and make sure Signor Bonzio had everything he needed. “Early this morning I went by Tonnin Zanetti’s shop13 to see some drawings by Titian and cultivate a priest who might prove useful to us one day. As I savored those magnificent drawings I thought, ‘If only I could have Giustiniana, who is so far away from me.’ That’s the way it always is. You’re always in my heart, and I would feel so undeserving of you if I did not think about you constantly.” Alone in the stifling heat of the city, he marveled at how things were turning their way: “Do you know that it is nearly impossible to be blessed by that good fortune that God is preparing to bestow upon us after all our grief? To discover such kinship between us, to see reason and virtue guide our love and give true and everlasting pleasure . . . these are things that don’t often come along. Oh, when will we be together, my dearest little one? And what delight I shall feel in pleasing you, in making you happy, in loving you! How sweet your company will be.”
His happy thoughts soured, though, when he was told about a sudden change of plans: the Reniers had invited Giustiniana and a few other guests to leave Padua and travel to t
heir villa at Mirano, another little town by the Brenta. Mrs. Anna would have to remain in Padua with Tonnina, who was convalescing after a brief illness, and it was a little odd that Giustiniana should have been asked to go without a chaperon. Andrea was miffed. After all, the Reniers knew very well that he and Giustiniana would soon be married. Even more irritating to him was the fact that Giustiniana herself felt inclined to go. “Do as you please,” he wrote to her peevishly, “but I want you to know that I don’t like this idea at all. . . . It is never a good thing to generate suspicions, and it would be utterly foolish to do so given our circumstances. . . . [Renier] should respect the fact that I don’t like you to go around without your mother.” He then took his complaint directly to Alvise Renier, listing “all the reasons why I dislike the idea of this little trip” and lamenting the indifference with which he felt Alvise could abuse him. Andrea expected to be treated with greater respect by Alvise, who was quite a bit younger than he. To treat his wife-to-be in such a fashion, he concluded bitterly, was nothing less than “the act of an uncivilized lout.”
Giustiniana was in a difficult spot. She wanted to please Andrea but felt he was being excessively protective of her and making things difficult. The Reniers had been kind to her family, and she didn’t see the point of making such a fuss. Andrea sensed that Giustiniana had neither the strength nor the inclination to say no to the trip to Mirano. He made some mild threats: “You will not have any news from me until you return to Padua. . . . And you will not see me until you come back to Venice.” In a final taunt he asked her to please tell him quickly whether she was going to Mirano or not so that he could make arrangements “to spend the next fifteen days or so in some other place and get some exercise, which I really need.” He added a postscript that was typical of Andrea. If there was no way out, if she really had to go to Mirano, “then I hope you will at least make the effort of staying close to Bonzio’s lover, that woman Donada, and to Bonzio himself if he should also come out there. Cultivate them as much as you can, and remember to always call him ‘Your Excellency.’ ”
In the end Giustiniana went to Mirano. Andrea swallowed his pride and informed her that he had little choice but to join her there as soon as possible: “I’ve explained to my young friend Renier that he cannot treat me like a radish. . . . I am sorry for everything I said to you. . . . It was all on account of the pain I felt. . . . To calm you down, and to bring you completely onto my side . . . I see no other solution but to come straight to Mirano.” Before leaving Venice, he made arrangements to take a room above the haberdashery in the main square of the little town and sent new instructions to Giustiniana: “As soon as you get [to Mirano], go to the bottega in the square and ask the owner for a letter addressed to a certain Battista. . . . I love you, my soul, I love you to excess. For this reason I will come to Mirano. . . . I must run now, hopefully to hear good news about our papers. . . . Everyone says we are already married. . . . Our wedding is all people are talking about.”
As soon as he reached his destination, he dashed off a note to Giustiniana, who had only just arrived at the Villa Renier herself: “I love you so much that I had to come despite all the objections. I am writing to you from Mirano, my soul, I am here, at the bottega, on the right-hand side of the arcade, near Signora Laura Angeloni’s haberdashery, just as I had said to you. I will not move from here. I don’t want to cause a scene that might make people talk about us. . . . I cannot wait to see you. Forgive my sloppy writing, my love, but I sleep as I write.”
The following morning Giustiniana arranged to walk by the arcade during the promenade. Andrea could hardly contain the joy of seeing her after so many weeks: “My God, what consolation. . . . I am out of my wits now that I am near you again, that I have seen you. I actually felt I was holding your hand tightly and talking to you and kissing you. . . . You can imagine the state I’m in right now! What shall we do, my little one? . . . Tomorrow is market day. If possible, I would like to see you at the very least. How are you? My God, this is killing me. . . . My mind, my soul, my entire body are in such turmoil now. . . . Oh Christ, I have this huge desire to press you against my chest! By God, I cannot stand it anymore. . . . I wish we could be alone for half an hour and live out our love’s apotheosis.”
That night Andrea let himself into Villa Renier. At last he felt Giustiniana in his arms again, shivering with happiness and desire. This was how it was going to be—a life together, filled with their love for each other.
News from Venice suddenly shattered Andrea and Giustiniana’s dreamy world in Mirano. The examination of the marriage contract had come to a halt. This time it had nothing to do with Mrs. Anna’s demands or hesitations: her own past had surfaced to cast a disreputable shadow over her daughter’s future. Sifting through old records, Bonzio had discovered that in the early 1730s, before Sir Richard had arrived in Venice, Mrs. Anna had been “deflowered by a Greek”—these were the actual words the primario later used with Andrea. She had become pregnant, and nine months later a baby boy had been handed over to an orphanage. Mrs. Anna’s family had apparently taken the Greek man to court, but it was unclear whether the trial had ever taken place because Bonzio’s office had been unable to locate all the documents.
Andrea was stunned. Now it was clear to him why Mrs. Anna had been so shifty and difficult. All the while, as she had bad-mouthed Andrea and his family and made up excuses to slow the process, she had in fact been hiding this secret. Andrea was furious with her. He rushed back to Venice to see the primario. “The meeting lasted for two hours,” he reported back to Giustiniana, who was, if possible, even more distraught about the revelation than he was. “Bonzio had an extremely serious expression on his face. He seemed disgusted . . . and very well informed about everything that can be prejudicial to us: the year of the trial, the name of the Greek, the place where the suit was filed, the intervention of the avogadore, the boy sent to the orphanage, and, especially, every detail about your mother’s life.”
It is possible that the unctuous Bonzio had his own reasons for being upset. At the start of such negotiations it was expected—and certainly the Memmos had assumed the same in this case—that at some point it would be necessary to oil the bureaucratic machine a little by passing a few sequins to the primario under the table. Indeed, the general feeling among those who knew about the Memmo-Wynne negotiations was that with a bribe of one hundred sequins “the contract will surely be approved.” Over the previous months, however, Mrs. Anna’s delaying tactics had disheartened Bonzio and his colleagues to such an extent that, according to Andrea, “they did not expect to receive a single coin from her.” She had added insult to injury by telling people such as Zandiri, who had spread the word, that the Memmos would get the contract approved only by “drowning” Bonzio in gold. According to Andrea, the primario’s conclusions, while delivered to him in the most obsequious manner, could not have been more discouraging: “Your Excellency,” Bonzio had said to him, “if we were to find a document in which Mrs. Anna herself publicly declares to have been deflowered by that Greek, what could Your Excellency possibly want us to do? These are not matters for arbitration. We depend on the laws absolutely, and they are very strict, and if it turns out there was a public dispute at the Quarantìe14 a mere twenty-five years ago—for it seems there was an appeal at the Quarantìe even if the case was never actually examined there— well . . . what would Your Excellency expect us to do in that case? Our honor is publicly committed, and we would find ourselves publicly exposed, and people would be right to assume that Your Excellency ‘is drowning the primario in gold,’ as they say.”
The message was clear, and the concluding allusion to Mrs. Anna’s comment made Bonzio’s little speech even more devastating. Once again, all their painstaking work had been torn apart. But unlike the Smith imbroglio, this storm would never blow over. Everyone knew that. The damaging court papers Bonzio referred to in his talk with Andrea were never actually produced. It is possible the primario did not even look for
them. It was not worth his trouble anymore; enough of Mrs. Anna’s story had been resurrected from the dusty Venetian archives to seal the fate of the marriage petition, which never even reached the final stage.
“This is our situation,” Andrea summed up sadly. “Could our misfortunes be any worse?”
CHAPTER Five
On the morning of October 2, 1758, Mrs. Anna and her five children, accompanied by Signor Zandiri and Toinon, left the familiar city of Padua in two hired carriages—one for luggage, one for passengers—and took the road to Vicenza, their first stop on the long, uncomfortable journey across Europe. It would take them three to four days just to reach the end of Venetian territory, which extended westward all the way to the city of Brescia and a little beyond. Then they would travel through the Duchy of Milan and the Kingdom of Piedmont, make the arduous crossing of the Alps, descend toward Lyon, and finally head straight north for Paris. It was a daunting prospect, and not just because of the length of the journey (three to four weeks) and the size of the party. The cramped circumstances and the loud clatter of the carriage as it sped along the uneven dirt track made travel by coach an exhausting experience. The posts along the road, where horses were changed and the passengers could stretch and take a breath of fresh air and have a meal, were often rather seedy places. There were bound to be delays as well—a wounded horse, a broken wheel, a sudden rainstorm. And then there was the tedious everyday paperwork: rooms had to be booked and horses hired, and the right documents—passports, entry permits, exit permits—had to be in order every time one crossed a border. Zandiri was there for that; Mrs. Anna, believing it was more prudent and practical to travel with an adult male, had asked him to come along and manage the trip as far as Paris.
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