Shortly before leaving Paris, Giustiniana received a letter that caused a pang of anxiety to rip through her. Andrea declared he could not wait to see her. He offered to come out to meet her, possibly somewhere in northern Italy. This was so unexpected. And what did it really mean? She was tempted to send him a detailed itinerary of their trip. “I will trace the road we will follow and the time it will take before I will see you again,” she wrote, suddenly overcome with excitement. By the time the Wynnes left Paris, though, she had given up on the idea. She was afraid of building up her expectations. She never sent him the details.
Nevertheless, the fantasy of Andrea appearing along the road smiling sweetly and beckoning her into his arms stayed with Giustiniana throughout the several-day trip to Lyon. Her heart was full of him when she arrived in the city. She went looking for his muffs during their brief stopover, and this time she found them. She packed them in her trunk with the idea of buying a nice gift box when she got to Italy. As she put them away, she felt the strangeness of holding in her hands something that would soon belong to him. “I hope you will be happy with them,” she wrote.
Her desire for Andrea now became overwhelming. During the long, difficult passage over the Alps, she dreamed he would be waiting for her in Turin. They would take walks together in the Valentino Park. They would look at the pictures in the Palazzo Reale. They would go to the theater together. The theater! Did he remember the sweet hours they had spent together in their favorite Venetian theaters?
Andrea was not in Turin; how could he have known when she would be there? Giustiniana hoped he would be in Milan, where they arrived at the end of October. Instead, she found two letters waiting at the house of the Resident. In one letter Andrea told her he had found a house for them in Padua. It belonged to the family of Niccolò Erizzo, the former Venetian ambassador to Paris. They would be able to stay there while her mother sought a house in Venice. He offered to help Mrs. Anna look for one as soon as she arrived. In the second letter he apologized for not being in Milan. But she had not written him the details of the trip as she had promised. He could not understand why she had been so mysterious. Did she imagine he would have gone looking for her, clueless, in the taverns of Piedmont and Lombardy? Besides, the gossipmongers were already feasting on the news of her return.
Giustiniana did not hide her disappointment. She wrote to him in Italian now, but she still used the formal voi:
I did not write to you from either Paris or Turin because, without my realizing it, a fantasy took hold of me that you would come to me. Forgive me for thinking it; I have since come to appreciate your not having acted so foolishly. . . . I thank you for your nice thoughts and for your friendship; but I fear you, and I do not wish to appear so very weak. Let people say what they want about me in Venice; it is not in Venice I must or even want to live. I have entirely lost the pleasure I once felt in being there, and I know I will not regain it. During the time I spend there, it is likely that I shall live a withdrawn life. I am only trying to find some peace of mind, and I am sure you will not make my life difficult. I want you to know that while I shall always be grateful for your company I am determined not to see you too often, even if you should insist. I respect your new ties. You have made me believe that I am responsible because I was the one to recommend them. Now I say you may even strengthen those ties since I must live happily with them. In fact, I beseech you to do just that, for without them God only knows what the two of us would be vulnerable to. I leave tomorrow morning. I will be in Padua within six days at the most, and I don’t expect to see you there either. . . . Farewell. . . . Do not meet me there; I forbid you to. We shall see each other eventually, I will embrace you, and I will always be your friend. Will this not satisfy you? Have you ever expected anything different—or will you ever? Leave me to my peace and quiet; and let this be my biggest debt to you. . . . Farewell again.
Giustiniana had arrived in Italy with her dream of a life with Andrea still alive, but the signals coming from Venice were not what she had hoped for. She sensed the danger ahead, and she was looking to protect herself. If the end of their love story were indeed nearing, she would need “peace and quiet” to manage her emotions with dignity. But even as she prepared herself to let go, she could not extinguish all hope.
The following morning the Wynnes left Milan headed for Padua. They stopped in Brescia. They spent two days in Verona, where they visited the Venetian rappresentante, Alvise Contarini, “who treated us with the greatest kindness.” Giustiniana took advantage of their stay in that city to buy an elegant box for Andrea’s French muffs. They continued on to Vicenza, and the landscape became more and more familiar. The Wynnes had traveled the same road two years earlier at exactly the same time of year. As they coasted along the same fields, passed through the same villages, stopped at the same taverns, it felt to Giustiniana as if her life were winding back in time. Memories came flooding back as the coach sped along the road. Her longing for Andrea grew sharper.
Giustiniana had specifically asked him not to come to Padua. “Ve’l proibisco,” she had commanded. “I forbid you.” Yet she must have hoped he would not listen to her and would read her words for what they really meant.
The dusty carriage splattered its way into the courtyard of Ca’ Erizzo around lunchtime on November 5. The servants came out looking surprised. It appeared they had not been informed about the Wynnes’ arrival after all. Giustiniana showed the letter in which Andrea told her that Chevalier Erizzo would let them stay in the house. The housekeeper grudgingly allowed them in upon the promise that a notice from the master of the house was on its way. The six Wynnes plus Miss Mendez stepped out of the carriage one by one, horses were led to drink, trunks were unloaded, servants raced about getting the house ready. In the general confusion, Giustiniana tried to keep at bay the sadness she knew would otherwise engulf her completely.
There was a letter from Andrea waiting for her inside. She tore it open. He sent his greetings. He hoped the trip had gone well and that the house was adequate. He also complained about Giustiniana’s “style” of writing. Why was she sending such confusing messages to him? Why did she forbid him to come to Padua?
The pain was searing. She wrote back that same night:
Why, dearest Memmo, why humiliate me so the very first moment of my arrival? Why not see me before passing judgment on me? Do you know why I forbade you to come meet me? Because I’m still fearful of my mother; because one day she says one thing and the next day she says another. . . . You deplore my “style”? But my dear Memmo, would you have obeyed me if I had written to you more tenderly? Forgive me. Come see me anytime you want. But be easy on me. My only wish is to be your friend. Help me keep my resolution. . . . Farewell, dear Memmo. Forgive me for my brevity. I long to see you. You are and always will be my best friend. I will be here for a few days: take your bearings calmly. Try to understand what I’m saying to you. Know my heart. Do you really think I can be any different from what I am? Oh God, I have so many things to tell you! . . . Please tell Signora M. I send my most respectful greetings. . . . Farewell.
She hoped Andrea would show up the following day or the day after that—it was only a half-day trip up from Venice. But he didn’t. Nor did he send a word of explanation. Meanwhile, Mrs. Anna had slipped into one of her foul moods. She was tired, she said, and the family was such a burden. She threatened to stay in Padua instead of going on to Venice to secure a house. At the end of a difficult day Giustiniana sent off a bitter note to Andrea—in French again:
Mon cher frère,
I hoped to receive news from you today, but you have not written to me. I am delighted to find you at fault! I hope you will now agree we are even. . . . I shan’t write to you. . . . I will pay a little price for it, no doubt, but I also hope to profit by your indifference.
In the morning she received a surprisingly tender letter. There was little in it to justify new hope: Andrea did not put into question his relationship with M. But he admitted
that he had not come to Padua yet because he was unsure how he might react when he saw her. His words suggested that he too was confused, a vulnerability that touched her. She seized this chance to regain some emotional balance of her own.
Mon cher frère,
I take comfort in the fact that you seem calmer and more certain about my friendship. I have always treasured your sincerity, and, believe me, I treasure it even more when it springs from such delicate feelings. And to hear that you still fear me is no small glory. What is more, I am your true friend. I have proved it to you so far, I believe. I swear I will remain so until I die. . . . Should this friendship please you, rest assured it will be yours forever.
When you say you want to protect me, I feel the power of your gentleness. I’m also grateful for the e fort you are making in not coming out to see me. It’s your decision, and I respect it. However, I can’t but laugh when I hear that so many people are closely watching every move you make, and it will be wonderful to tell them all at last how wrong they were to think that you would leave Signora M. and attach yourself to me again. I know the country too; but I swear I never intended to defy its customs upon my return or to expose you to slander, disapproval, or embarrassment. I will stay but a short while, and during that time I will only seek peace and quiet. So I don’t really care if people know me for who I am now—an enemy of falseness, of seduction, of things contrived, and above all of things that can cause damage by hurting the souls of delicate people. . . . How you wrong me, dear Memmo, in not treating me as a true friend! . . . I praise, I admire your gratitude, your friendship, your commitment to the gracious M., and I must be the first to applaud them. You needn’t fear I will come looking for you or force you to deceive her. She can be at ease and trustful—and who, more than she, deserves to be so? . . . Of course the sacrifice you made for her in not coming out to see me displeased me. But now I swear I feel my soul is large enough to make her a gift of my own displeasure. You are worthy of her, she of you, and the more so for your mutual commitment. . . . But more to the point, Memmo, . . . give yourself some credit for my feelings for you. Make sure she understands the full value of your sacrifice. She is safe; of this you can be sure. . . . Farewell now. And be glad I treat you as a friend.
Giustiniana made it clear, however, that being his friend did not mean she would assist him in his amorous intrigues. “If I can help you in any way, I shall, with all my soul. But I’ll be truthful: I’m simply not up to attracting [M.’s] husband’s attention for your sake.” Had Andrea actually made such an indelicate proposal, or was she merely trying to forestall a request she saw coming? Whatever the case, she really didn’t have the heart for that sort of thing anymore. “I’m afraid that since leaving Italy I no longer see the point of these games. . . . I will do whatever else you ask.”
Andrea expressed the hope that Giustiniana and M. could be “good friends.” She replied without a shred of irony, “It goes without saying that I’m with you. You can imagine my strong desire for such a thing to happen. [M.] is a lovely person.” Giustiniana’s offer of friendship showed remarkable self-control. It also gave her the moral high ground. Andrea again brought up the subject of Knyphausen to add some ballast to his side of this difficult correspondence. She replied with less ambiguity than in the past. Marriage was not a likely outcome, she explained, on account of her own disinclination: “I do not believe I will make a commitment so easily. Whatever my feelings are for the baron, I will work to arrange my life in such a way that he will always be pleased to regard me as his good friend. As for me, I value that man’s friendship immensely.”
Mrs. Anna traveled to Venice on November 8, leaving Giustiniana in charge of the family. “May God protect you,” she quipped in a note of encouragement to Andrea. “My mother is very wicked.” But time and circumstances had blunted the old animosity. When he went to pay his respects and offer his help in finding a house, his erstwhile enemy appeared genuinely glad to see him; she certainly was grateful for his practical assistance. Giustiniana was happy to learn that the two were getting along so well: “Do continue in the same way. To make her less wild if nothing else.”
Encouraged by so much cordiality, Andrea wondered whether he might ask Mrs. Anna’s permission to visit her daughter secretly in Padua, conjuring up an excuse for the sake of M.’s peace of mind. Giustiniana put her foot down. A visit by Andrea would have put her in an awkward position vis-à-vis M., when she wanted to make as smooth a return to city life as possible. “I absolutely insist that you remain in Venice. No matter what excuse you might contrive in order to come here, your friend will not approve of it . . .; and you would risk losing moments of happiness I would not be able to pay back. . . . You can easily see how the danger would be far greater than the gain. . . . What difference does it make if we see each other in Venice or Noventa21? The distance between us is always the same, whether we are separated by a mile or by the thickest wall.”
M. was indeed growing wary of Andrea’s solicitude toward Mrs. Anna and the Wynne family. She suspected him, quite rightly, of being in touch with Giustiniana. The messages traveling between Venice and Padua became increasingly garbled: “Mon cher frère, I . . . believe we don’t understand each other much; but since I am willing to believe anything I can assure you that you will have little trouble in persuading me of anything. I do not doubt your sincerity. In fact, I sometimes feel you are too sincere. It’s consoling to hear that the mere mention of my name creates such an impression on your friend, not to mention the glory gained by my self-esteem.”
M.’s flare-ups reminded Giustiniana of her own “agitation” when she had first fallen in love with Andrea nearly seven years before and the pain and the pleasure she had felt at the time. “Do you remember, Memmo, the old, fleeting jealousies in the early days of our love? Oh, the sweet and blessed moments we enjoyed when peace would break out again! . . . Rejoice in what you have.”
It was Miss Mendez’s turn to make the half-day trip to Venice. Giustiniana reminded Andrea to take care of her: “Be so generous as to give her all the enlightenment a newcomer to the country will need in order to see all the major points of interest, get some learning, and have fun at the same time. . . . I shall be as grateful to you as if the kindnesses I ask of you were addressed to me.” She tried to press Andrea’s large muffs into the box she had purchased in Verona, but they wouldn’t fit. So she asked Miss Mendez to pack them with her own clothes and give them to him in Venice. “Don’t ask me what the price was,” she wrote to him in an accompanying note. “I had money in Lyon, and I always meant for them to be a gift.”
Each day Giustiniana felt lonelier. She was tired of being stranded in the dank and inhospitable house of the Erizzos. The late autumn cold chilled her bones. The wet weather sapped her spirit. She was saddened to learn about the death of King George II (he had died October 25). The rumors about Frederick of Prussia’s health affected her even more. But it was not the news from abroad that depressed her so much as the ambiguous, hopeless notes she kept receiving from Andrea. He seemed so defensive—always asking forgiveness, always making excuses: M. forbade him to see her . . . M. forbade him to write to her. . . . How was she supposed to react? How was she supposed to feel?
A deep sadness was taking over. Nearly two weeks had gone by since she had arrived in Padua exhausted but also exhilarated at the thought of finally setting eyes on Andrea. The fantasy she had fed during the long trip home dissolved little by little. The remaining ambiguity in Andrea’s letters only hurt her more. She could not bear the confusion anymore. She yearned for some final clarity— even as she dreaded it.
Mon cher frère,
. . . I haven’t written to you. Why I haven’t written to you I don’t really know, and I hardly know what I should be writing now. There are times I understand you, and there are times I don’t. There are times I think you despise me, and there are times I think you are my friend. Now you treat me as your confidante, now it looks as if you are in love with me. I kno
w the circumstances you find yourself in, and you know mine. Why all the intrigue? If your good friend forbids you to write to me, give her satisfaction. . . . A friend must be sympathetic, and I would be quite an ungrateful one if I expected you to sacrifice the slightest pleasure for my sake. I was so struck by this idea yesterday that I didn’t want to write to you anymore. Believe me: let us speak the truth. If we meet, I will behave with the grace that my immutable friendship as well as the memory of my gratitude will inspire. But you have to live in Venice, and I don’t. You have to cultivate the Venetian spirit, its genius, its weaknesses, and I don’t—though I can accept all these attitudes and prejudices in you. So write to me about the king of England, write to me about the war or other news. I shall be happy. But don’t write to me about other things, I beg you. And let us stop deceiving or hurting each other. Farewell.
During the next several days Giustiniana did her best to contain her anger for fear of making things worse between them. “I read and I keep myself busy trying not to get too bored,” she wrote with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “Nothing much happens here, but I find that if I keep my expectations low time goes by just the same.” On November 17 she received another rambling letter from Andrea. As usual, he was full of tenderness but also vague, evasive, inconclusive. This time she let him have it:
Mon cher frère,
Such a long letter! So many justifications! And such sweet expressions! But Memmo, shouldn’t I find it offensive that you should think such a letter necessary? Do you doubt my friendship to such a degree? Do you really think I would fail you? You force me to speak! You want me to explain the situation of my heart? Well, then, I should adore the baron, yet I love him less than he deserves. But I am his friend and I will remain so for eternity. You want me to speak about you? All right, I’ll give myself away. Your words, the letters I received from you during the last period in London and during the journey back, led me to believe that your commitment to me only involved your head. So I nourished the sweet illusion that I would find you again, not as my lover—for that was no longer suitable for either of us—but as my friend. . . . To do you a favor, I forbade you to come meet me as you had promised; but still I flattered myself that at least in Padua the first man I set eyes on would have been Memmo. It seemed to me I had a thousand things to tell you and a thousand things to hear from you. I thought about it a lot. I liked the idea. It often troubled me as well. I arrive; and I do not find you. Instead I hear a lot of talk about responsibilities, affections, feelings apparently stronger than those I thought you harbored. I must fight my first impressions. You force me to do so every day. I humiliate my vanity. I destroy my expectations. I vanquish my self-esteem. I even sympathize with you when you do not fly here to see me because love is apparently stronger than our very tender friendship. I make an e fort and I gain control over myself. But I remain in a terrible mood, and my courage fails me. This is why I have been so erratic. This is the reason for my slights, for my nonsensical letters. But I’ll put an end to it, I swear. You have sympathized with me a thousand times, and I sympathize with you and I forgive you. Perhaps I should even thank you since God only knows where all that excitement I felt when I arrived in Padua might have led if it had been encouraged in any way; whereas you know we must love each other only as friends. I have done a thousand crazy things. You had to take on a new commitment, for which you asked my advice and my approval. I too have a commitment, and I would be desperate if I could not keep it. Venice is not the country for me. I cannot live there with the freedom to which I am now accustomed; and then I cannot see myself living in a place where people affect superior airs with me or feel they have to extend their protection to me. I’m not sure yet where I’ll go, but I have plans and I won’t tell you about them because there is nothing more ridiculous than plans that are divulged too soon. A passion between us would be a real curse, and I know it might be rekindled in me. So again I thank you for having put me in a position to renounce such a passion forever.
A Venetian Affair Page 29