Thirteen
Tearing the Cloth
Though it was now obvious to both Jane and Vincent that Biasio must have been involved in the theft, it was less obvious how much Querini had known. The furtive look in his eyes had been coupled with a certain amount of fear. It was hard to say if it was fear of being caught by the authorities or fear of reprisals for speaking to Jane and Vincent.
Though they had no more discoveries, the speculation alone served to distract them both from time passing as three weeks turned to four, which was the earliest they could hope to hear from the Prince Regent. But at the end of that time, they still had no word from England.
Jane’s family would just be reaching Prague, so it would be another two weeks before there was any hope of a return letter, longer if there were early snows in the passes. From Lord Byron, they had no word at all.
Vincent had written to Byron’s landlord, separately, not quite trusting that the capo had actually sent the letters. The landlord had been good enough to return a reply that, yes, Lord Byron was away and that, yes, if they came to Venice he had instructions to let them use the apartments. They showed the letter to the magistrate, but he declined to allow them to leave Murano.
November continued to pass with still no word from family, Lord Byron, or the Prince Regent. The concern that they might be gone from Murano before the choir performed had so little foundation in reality that Jane was able to contrive another service with them. Vincent went out every day and came home in the evenings, often with his shirt still sweat-dampened from his labour.
His spirits, however, remained subdued.
As Jane was returning home from the convent, the day was a fine autumnal one favoured by the golden light so beloved by the artist Titian. She turned her path from her usual walk through the streets to stroll along the canal and then to the broad square where the larger pleasure craft moored. The Pulcinella booth was often there, and Jane thought she might take in the show before returning to their lodging.
The view of Venice, so close, was particularly fine that afternoon. High, white clouds gave just enough punctuation to the sky to make its blue more brilliant. The Pulcinella booth had a small crowd in front of it, laughing with delight. A smaller crowd had gathered at the opposite side of the square to watch another street performer, but Jane had eyes only for the puppet show.
She was halfway across the square when a dragon rose above the other street performer’s audience. Its roar echoed across the pavement and stopped her progress. The audience applauded the glamour, although one little boy ran screaming across the pavement, to the amusement of all save his mother. The dragon vanished, fading from view as artfully as it appeared. She could not see the glamourist beneath the figure, but she knew his work as intimately as she knew her own.
Vincent was busking.
This was the glamour that he had been doing. The merchants for whom he had been working.
He had not lied to her directly, but he had certainly done everything in his power to make himself appear to be employed by someone, rather than entertaining on the street. Jane was more than a little vexed that he had hid it from her. She would have liked to have watched him work. Perhaps she could even have helped.
But why had he not told her? As he himself said, all work was noble. So why had he hidden it from her?
As she watched, an enormous bridge appeared overhead, complete with water and buildings on either side. The rapidity with which it appeared made Jane suspect that Vincent had built the scenery in advance and hidden it within a Sphère Obscurcie until he needed it. Now a workman, rendered in silhouette, walked on to the bridge for the opening scene of the famous shadow play The Broken Bridge.
Even knowing Vincent’s strength and power as a glamourist, Jane was still impressed by what she saw. To make a figure move was more than many glamourists aspired to. It was difficult to manage the innumerable threads that composed a figure, even in miniature. What Vincent did now was doubly difficult.
First, the figure was larger than a man. He was rendered in only black, to be sure, but with such exquisite detail that even his hair seemed to move as he raised his pickax over his head and brought it down upon the bridge.
Second, Vincent was working the figure high over his head. The farther from a glamourist the threads stretched, the harder it was to control them, and the greater the strain upon the performer. She had seen him lay folds of glamour upon the ceiling of a ballroom, but those had been layers of stationary fabric, which he could tie off when he needed to rest. This? This was nothing short of a marvel of endurance and artistry.
He brought in the second figure, the Traveller, who wished to cross the bridge but was stopped by the hole in the middle. Though Vincent focused his attention on one figure or the other, the fact that he was managing two of them, and at this scale, filled Jane with no small amount of concern. She had seen Vincent work past his limits before.
The Traveller said, in perfect Italian. “Excuse me sir, is this the road to Venice?”
“Naw. This here don’t go nowhere but to the canal. Tra-la-la.”
He had adapted the play from its London environs to the locale and the changes, small though they were, brought laughter from the crowd. The shadow play continued as the Traveller tried to cross the river, only to receive increasingly rude responses from the Workman. When the end of the play came and the Traveller kicked the Workman into the river, Vincent caused the illusion of water to seem to splash over those watching. They jumped and shrieked, then laughed when they realized how they had been taken in.
Applauding, people tossed coins into a hat upon the pavement. As the crowd dispersed, Jane could see her husband at last. His coat lay draped upon a stone bench behind him, and he worked in his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, with the collar open at his throat. The fabric clung to his skin, and sweat plastered his hair to his brow. A bright flush of effort lit his cheeks, and even from where she stood, Jane could see the great gasps of air he was taking in. Vincent bowed to his audience, pausing to answer a question from one and receive a compliment from another. As he stooped to collect the money in his hat, he saw Jane.
The flush on his cheeks vanished as if he were stricken. For a moment, all animation in his features froze. Vincent looked down, and then continued to collect the coins that his performance had garnered. A performance that would be worthy of Carlton House in London, and he had received a few cents for it.
She could imagine the thoughts that must go through his head. My father predicted that I would wind up in penury, performing on a street somewhere. All work was noble … but to be a street performer, given his history? This was why, even as he brought in funds, his spirits remained low. It must be destroying him.
Vincent stood, pocketed the money, and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. Other than the brief moment in which he had made eye contact with Jane, he gave no sign that she was there. He addressed his audience with a ready smile that was as much an illusion as anything crafted of glamour. He appeared to be soliciting requests for a tableau vivant.
Jane sat down on a bench on the opposite side of the square and watched Vincent work. His routine, she could see, was clever in the way it was constructed. By moving to a smaller scale intended for close-up viewing, he was able to calm his breath without a substantial break in performance. Also, the tightly packed group of observers drew the attention of passers-by, so he gradually accumulated an audience of some dozen people.
But still more people walked past without noting the glamours that he raised above them. Some stopped, but not many. Still, as the audience grew, so did the size of the illusions he crafted, until he ended the set with another shadow play. This time, he performed The Haunted Inn, in which a merchant finds increasingly disturbing and amusing ghosts at the inn where he has taken lodgings. In the final scene, a haunted bed chased the merchant down the street. Vincent made the illusions appear to vanish into the distance.
With a bow, he thanked his audience
and stood, head down, as the passers-by continued on their interrupted errands. Jane had watched, as transfixed as any of the other members of the audience, though she wanted to stop all those who had walked past without taking note of Vincent’s extraordinary work.
How could anyone fail to recognise the exceptional nature of his craft? Yet scores of people had strolled past without even turning their heads.
Across the square, Vincent shook himself, then stooped to pick up the hat. He tipped it to pour the coins into his hand, not troubling to count the money before putting it into his pocket. He stood slowly, with clear effort. Vincent held still in an attitude that she recognised all too well as that of a glamourist waiting for the grey spots in his vision to pass. She had done the same countless times herself, after far less strenuous work than this.
Jane started across the square, fearful that he had misjudged his limits, but Vincent turned to pick up his coat. He shrugged it on as casually as if he were preparing to go on a hunt at a country estate. Head still down, he walked across the square to meet her, setting his hat upon his head as he did.
“Good evening.” Vincent glanced back toward where he had performed, but avoided looking at her. “I did not lie. The crowd is mostly composed of merchants.”
Jane fell in beside him as they turned their steps to home. “It is quite a good show.”
He snorted.
“The shadow plays in particular astonished me.”
“Jane, I would—may we talk about something else?”
“Of course…” She began to tell him of her day, but found herself tailoring her stories to leave out the work she was doing contriving the glamourist choir and to focus instead upon a particularly troublesome student. Vincent grunted or nodded in response whenever she paused. To someone who did not know him, he would have seemed fully engaged, but Jane could see that he wore a mask as carefully controlled as the figures in The Broken Bridge.
He listened to her, nodding at the appropriate moments, but his attention was turned inward. When she paused in her recital, he said, “I spoke with one of Signor Nenci’s apprentices.”
“Who?” The change in subject caught Jane off guard, and she did not recognise the name.
“The glassmaker we first approached about the Verre Obscurci.” The breeze had dried the sweat on Vincent’s brow, and he walked with his hands tucked into his pockets. “Querini used to be an apprentice of Nenci’s. I wanted to see if I could learn anything.”
“I take it you did.” Jane raised an eyebrow. “And are you now going to drag it out to fill me with suspense?”
He smirked, shaking his head. “Querini had only recently started his glass factory, which we knew. The apprentice said that it was a matter of some curiosity as to how Querini could have afforded to start the studio. He boasted at first about a ‘large commission,’ but the apprentice did not know what it was.”
Jane gave a shiver that had nothing to do with the wind. “Likely us.”
Vincent nodded. “He had also never heard of Biasio, and given the tight-knit nature of the community, that seems…”
“Unlikely, at best.”
“Exactly, unless Biasio was hired by Sanuto to steal the Verre Obscurci technique.” Vincent walked a few more feet before continuing. “There is one other thing of note. Querini announced his intention to set up his shop only a few weeks after we wrote to Byron asking him if we could visit.”
“After we wrote, or after Byron received the letter?”
“Both. The timing is such that someone in London could have read our letter and written here, or someone here could have read the letter after it arrived at Byron’s.”
“Surely you do not think that Lord Byron is involved.” Jane’s stomach turned at the thought. “He was the one who warned us about the pirates.”
“It is not in his character as I know it. But he was in dire financial straits when he left England.” Vincent shook his head. “Still, I think it is more likely to be someone who had access to his mail. Mr. Hobhouse, for example, or Marianna, or even il Dottore.”
The next thought that occurred to Jane made her wince. “And then there is the timing of his departure.”
“Yes, that is quite convenient as well.” Vincent stared at the ground as he walked. His brow was contracted, as if the very thought pained him.
* * *
Jane went twice more to see Vincent perform, until it became clear to her that it troubled him to have her watch. Though he made an effort to hide the fact that his spirits were depressed by being a street performer, neither would he hear of stopping. In truth, as they moved farther into November, Jane had good reason to be glad of the coins that he brought home.
Murano had been a delight in the late summer, with its golden light reflecting off the canals and the tumult of flowers in the window boxes. The autumn, though, was cold, grey, and dreary. Their little garret had a draught that would have overwhelmed a larger fireplace than theirs. In spite of Jane’s efforts to find the holes and patch them by shoving cloth into the spaces between plaster and the window or pasting paper over the cracks, the room was perpetually cold. With their combined efforts, they were able to afford wood for the hearth in spite of the scandalous price it fetched on an island with no trees. Like most of their food, the fuel for the fire came from the mainland.
As the season went on, the crowds that watched Vincent became scarcer, as well. Grumbling at the fickle nature of the Crown, Vincent sent another letter to the Prince Regent, and Jane sent another to her parents, since by this point they should have left Prague and be en route to Copenhagen. More than once, Jane thought of using the coins from the sale of her wedding ring, but those were set aside to recover the band, and Vincent would not hear of spending them. She was grateful for the work the nuns had given her, else they would have been cold and hungry.
She was therefore vexed when she realized that her “flower” had arrived. Before, it had never been more than a minor inconvenience and an excuse to spend a day or two reading in her room. Now, though, Jane could ill afford to spend the day at home as it would affect her wages at the convent. She tore a length of stained muslin into rags with more force than was strictly necessary.
“What is the matter, Muse?” Vincent paused in the process of pulling his boots on.
Jane stared at the cloth in her hands. After three years of marriage, surely he knew what the signs were. Though, to be fair, her monthly time had always been somewhat irregular due to the toll that glamour took upon her body. Even when her time arrived, there were usually only two days in which it was not possible for the cloth to contain her courses. And of course Jane usually had a maid who would prepare the cloth for her.
She sighed and ripped another piece of cloth to size. “It is my time of the month.”
“Well, that is good news.”
“Good news? How is it good? I cannot work today.”
“Why not?” A moment later, he looked anew at the cloth and reddened. “Ah. Ah, yes. I see.”
“And even if that were not the case, I can assure you that this is not a time of delight for me.” She tore another strip from the cloth. “Why should you think it is good news?”
“Because, it means you are not—” He shook his head and drew his boot the rest of the way on. “It does not matter. I am sorry that you are uncomfortable.”
Jane gripped the cloth in her fists. It meant that she was not with child. Given their straitened circumstances, of course Vincent would think that it was good news.
He stood. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Jane forced her fingers to relax. “Would you be willing to stop by the convent and let them know that I will not be able to be there today or tomorrow?”
“Of course.” Crossing the room, he stopped to kiss her on the forehead. “Shall I stop in later to see how you are?”
She shook her head and stacked the rags into a neat pile, but waited until Vincent left before attempting to make herself somewhat mor
e comfortable. Without a book to pass the time, this would be a long and unpleasant day.
* * *
Jane sat by the window, where the light was best and picked out the stitches in her other dress. She had played with glamour for a while, but, having reached a point where she was too winded to continue, she had decided to remake the dress for some variety. The years spent in needlework in her parents’ drawing room had some practical application after all. Jane would never have guessed that while embroidering chair seats.
The door downstairs slammed, and she heard the unmistakable sound of Vincent climbing the stairs. He ran up them two at a time. Something had happened. Jane put her sewing aside and stood as he flung the door open.
His face was wind-reddened from his run and his hair looked as though an owl had mauled it, but he was smiling. “We have a letter. A parcel, in fact.”
He was smiling. Jane found herself unable to speak, could only clasp her hands against the incongruous desire to meet his smile with tears. She swallowed. “From?”
“Your sister. I have not opened it. Thought you would kill me if I did.” From his coat pocket he pulled a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper and glued shut. “Thought it would kill me to wait, so I ran. Must have seemed a madman.”
“The light is better by the window.” Jane pushed her sewing aside to make room for him and took the parcel. It showed the wear of its journey, with water stains at the edges of the paper and a great smear of mud along one side. She had expected her father to reply to their inquiries, not her sister. Turning it over to tear it open, she paused. The return was from Vienna, but her family had already visited there. They should be in Copenhagen now.
Wetting her lips, she pulled off the paper. Inside was a cloth bound book and a letter.
Vienna
7 October 1817
Jane, Lady Vincent
My dearest sister,
You must be surprised to see that we have returned to Vienna instead of continuing on to Prague as we had planned, but I have had a Happy Change in circumstances, which I am certain that you might guess at, and made the Mistake of intimating that to Mama, who can now think of nothing but my health, and she was set for us to return to England, if you can imagine that, but Alastar—the dear—convinced her that Vienna would do as well since he has so many friends here from when he was abroad with his parents, which includes a Doctor of Good Repute, who attended the Empress Marie-Louise during her lying in—is that not a Wonder—and he shall attend me as well!
Valour and Vanity Page 16