The Four Seasons: A Novel of Vivaldi's Venice Page 17

  “Yes.”

  Chiaretta sank into a chair. “Virgo Dei genitrix,” she said, crossing herself. The priora did the same, bowing her head and praying along with her. When they had finished, Chiaretta opened her eyes and stared at the priora. “I am going to be married,” she said, trying out the thought.

  The priora smiled. “Claudio has been very worried you would think he was not sincere when the negotiations took so long, but I have his permission to explain to you now. The terms of your departure from the Pietà were by far the least of the difficulties, though the Congregazione will be paid handsomely, I assure you. But Claudio is a member of one of the noble families, and a marriage involving any of them cannot take place until the betrothal is registered with the Avvogadori di Commun. If both bride and groom are not both from noble families, the registry rarely happens.”

  “You mean it might not have worked out? Why didn’t you tell me that before?” Chiaretta felt the heat seeping into her cheeks. “It’s been—” Torture, she thought to herself but restrained her anger.

  “Because to Claudio, the outcome was never in doubt. The members of the Avvogadori change every year, and this year his family has many supporters. It just took time to work around the rules.” The priora sat down across from Chiaretta and leaned forward for emphasis. “Nevertheless, it is a great accomplishment. A registered marriage means that your children will be recognized. Your sons will be part of the senate, and your daughters will be able to make good marriages. Without that”—she shrugged—“it would be quite simple. We would not permit you to leave, and he would not ask.”

  The priora looked Chiaretta in the eyes. “Claudio is a good man. He will make a fine husband. You will face difficulties, I’m sure, from people who believe he should have chosen one of their own daughters. And I have heard Claudio’s mother is unconvinced. You will have to be strong, but I know you are. I’ve seen that your whole life.”

  The priora got up and walked over to the cassone. “Just keep reminding yourself that registry ends the matter. If the Avvogadori di Commun says you are good enough for Claudio Morosini, you are.” She bent over and inserted a key into the lock. “Would you like to take a look?”

  Inside the cassone, all Chiaretta could see was a black cloak and veil, on top of which had been laid a prayer book with an elegant tooled leather cover. “This is for a bride?” she asked. “It looks more like I’m becoming a nun.”

  “Your white gown will come later, for your wedding.” The priora put aside the cloak and veil, revealing a black dress in the bottom of the cassone. “Take it out,” she said. “Let’s have a look.” The dress had a heavy velvet skirt and a bodice and sleeves of damask embroidered in black with hints of gold. The placket in the middle of the bodice was made from tucked white silk trimmed with lace that extended up to her collarbones. “It’s beautiful,” Chiaretta whispered, holding it up in front of her. “Is it mine?”

  “Of course.” The priora laughed. “Suitable for a proud bridegroom to introduce you to his family. He will be coming tomorrow to take you to your betrothal party. You’ll need to cover yourself with this”—she held up the cloak—“and until you’ve been married one year, you’ll also wear this.” The priora picked up the veil and put it over Chiaretta’s head.

  When the priora pulled the veil away, she saw Chiaretta’s face was flushed. “It’s all so strange,” Chiaretta said, covering her face with her hands and feeling her breath bathe her fingers.

  “Come along now,” the priora said. “Let’s try on this dress. That should make any pretty young bride feel happy.”

  Claudio’s face showed his delight when he entered the priora’s study the next afternoon and saw Chiaretta standing in front of the fire, waiting for him. Antonia, who had recently been married, had come that morning with lotions and oils, rubbing them into every inch of visible skin until Chiaretta glowed and smelled like something between a forest and a flower arrangement. Then she had brushed Chiaretta’s hair, securing it at the sides with some ornaments she had brought from home, before rubbing the smallest hint of color onto Chiaretta’s lips and cheeks and helping her into her dress.

  This time the gondola had indeed come just for her. A small oil lamp cast a glow over the colored pillows and patterned throws Claudio had put in the felce to keep them warm. Seated inside, they kept a nervous distance from each other while Antonia, wiggling with enthusiasm, chattered on about the good fortune that was making a sister of her best friend.

  When they arrived at the dock at the Palazzo Morosini, torches had been lit even though the afternoon shadows had just begun to deepen. On the piano nobile, the reflected glow of candelabras on side tables gleamed in the mirrors behind them. Servants moved among the guests with small glasses of wine while a trio of male musicians, sitting where Chiaretta had often performed, played in the background.

  “Here they are!” Bernardo Morosini boomed. “Where is my wife?”

  A stout woman with a fleshy neck spilling out around the edges of her bodice started across the room toward them. Her hair, lightened to blond, formed a ruff around her face. The gold threads in the green brocade on the sleeves and front placket of her dress caught the torchlight at an odd angle as she came toward them, creating an acid glow that vanished only when she stood in front of them.

  “Giustina,” Bernardo said, “meet your new daughter.”

  “I’ve heard you sing,” Giustina Morosini said, in a tone devoid of emotion.

  “Thank you.” Not until after she said it did Chiaretta realize Giustina’s words were not actually a clear compliment.

  “Tell me, dear, is there a firm date yet, for the wedding? I feel so poorly informed,” Giustina said, casting a cold glance at Bernardo.

  Claudio intercepted the question. “The Congregazione insists that we wait a year. I’m sure I told you that.” Whether Giustina sensed it or not, Chiaretta could hear his annoyance, and the thought cheered her up considerably.

  “Oh, that’s plenty of time, then. I am sure you will find there is a great deal to learn.” Giustina’s smile seemed to have more practice than sincerity behind it and was followed by a quick departure to greet an arriving guest, but nevertheless Chiaretta decided that, overall, the first encounter had not gone as badly as it might have. Bernardo took her arm, and telling Claudio that he was abducting the bride, he led her across the room to introduce her to some of his guests.

  After a few minutes Claudio came to tell his father that dinner was ready to be served. “But don’t worry,” he said to Chiaretta, “my one contribution to the menu was to make sure there were no oysters.”

  Claudio went over to the musicians to help him bring the guests to attention. “Before we sit down, I’d like to share a moment with all of you,” he said, gesturing to Chiaretta to join him.

  When the guests were quiet, Claudio smiled. “I am a very happy man,” he said. “I am marrying an angel.” He kissed Chiaretta on the cheek. “And though there are many customs we will be forgoing, there is one too important to overlook.”

  As he spoke, Antonia came up next to them and held out a long, flat case that he opened to reveal a strand of pearls. “For my bride,” he said.

  Chiaretta’s hand flew to her mouth in surprise as Antonia came up to her. “Aren’t they beautiful? Put them on!” she said. “You wear them from now until your first anniversary, like mine.” She reached up to touch the strand around her own neck.

  Claudio came up in front of her, moving to one side so the guests could see better. “May I?”

  Chiaretta nodded, and Claudio fastened the clasp. As the guests applauded, she reached up to stroke the pearls, lined up one after another circling her throat, heavy, perfect, and cold.

  When Chiaretta came back to the pietà that night, she was intercepted at the door by a figlia di commun who told her not to go to the ward but to report instead to the priora’s quarters.

  The priora was dressed in a wool robe, her hair tied loosely back for bed. “I have h
ad your things removed from the ward,” she said. “It invites daydreaming for the other figlie to see you coming and going in these clothes. And jealousy too. While you are here, you will need to wear your uniform and follow your regular schedule.”

  The priora gestured to the pearls. “They’re beautiful. If you’d like to keep them yourself you can, or you can leave them with me for safekeeping.”

  Chiaretta had already put her hand to the back of her neck. Unused to the weight, her neck had grown stiff over the course of the evening. “I’d like you to keep them here,” she said. Her eyes burned with fatigue, and she tried to suppress a yawn.

  “May I go to bed?” she asked, looking around as if her new bed might be found in some corner of the priora’s study.

  “I’m sorry,” the priora said. “It’s late. I’ll take you there now.”

  As they went out the door, she turned in the opposite direction from the ward that had been Chiaretta’s home, taking her into another wing.

  “There are several empty rooms on this hall,” the priora said. “This used to be Luciana’s. You will stay here until your marriage.”

  Large even at half the size of the priora’s study, the room had a neatly made bed against one wall and a sitting area with a chair and table in the middle. In another corner were several cabinets and a small writing desk. A prie-dieu stood nearby, centered under a niche in which stood a small statue of the Virgin clasping her hands over her heart and looking heavenward.

  “I’ll light the lamp for you and help with your dress,” the priora said. “And tomorrow I’ll instruct the figlie di commun who serve the giubilate to look in on you to see if you need anything.”

  The priora left, and Chiaretta crawled into bed and fell asleep. When she woke up later, the oil in the lamp was gone and the room was black. She cried out in terror of the dark and got out of bed to feel her way to the door. In the hallway, the moon shone through the windows, making the pieces of furniture look like beasts. She shut the door and got back into bed, pulled the blankets over her head, and lay awake until morning.

  Chiaretta begged to be allowed to go back to the ward, but the priora was firm. “It’s not just the clothing, or the hours you will be keeping,” she told her. “The figlie aren’t entirely ignorant of such matters, but it isn’t healthy for them to be focused on”—she searched for the right words—“on what marriage means.” She sighed. “I’m sorry to say this, but even though you are still a virgin, there is still some sort of ”—she put up her hands and exhaled in frustration at the limitations of language—“taint. I guess that’s the best word for it. So, much as I sympathize, going back to the ward is out of the question.”

  “Then please let Maddalena come and stay with me! I’ve never slept alone. Maybe she could leave her things where they are and just come at night. There’s plenty of room for another bed.”

  Before the day was over, Chiaretta found her plea had been answered.

  “I’d probably never see you otherwise,” Maddalena said that evening as she got into the bed that had been moved into the room.

  As it turned out, Maddalena saw Chiaretta almost as often as she had before. Chiaretta’s daily schedule was affected less than they expected during the first few months of her engagement. The Carnevale season started the first week in October, with a short break the two weeks before Christmas, and then built in intensity in the weeks leading up to Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. Carnevale was a time of sanctioned debauchery and excess, altogether unsuitable for the wards of the Pietà, even the betrothed ones. Chiaretta’s invitations were scrutinized, and the merest hint of exposure to the unsavory meant she would not be going out at all.

  Most of the approved invitations were to the afternoon conclaves of the Morosini women and their friends. Claudio rarely made an appearance, and Chiaretta often went days without seeing him. Antonia had not been at all concerned or surprised by her brother’s absence. “He’s getting married,” she said, “but he still wants to get commissions for paintings from everybody who sets foot in Venice for Carnevale, and he talks as if the Teatro Sant’Angelo and the Pietà are always ten ducats away from bankruptcy. And you have no idea how much work this Venetian Republic is. Every man in the city is in one meeting or another half the time they’re awake.” She rolled her eyes. “Besides, these parties are so overrun with gossipy old hens that a man with any brains at all would pretend to be busy even if he only had an appointment with his tailor.”

  Neither Claudio nor Antonia could understand how excruciating these visits were for Chiaretta. The conversations were lost on her. She didn’t know any of the people being gossiped about, and she often couldn’t understand what they had done that was worth so much discussion. This one had gone to a party with foreigners. That one was seen far too often in the company of his wife in public. This one was so drunk he fell down the stairs of the Ridotto. Chiaretta hated the false affection even more. “Dear Chiaretta can’t possibly know what we mean,” the women would say from time to time. The point was clear. She was not one of them.

  One afternoon at Antonia’s house, Giustina and several others excused themselves to go to another floor to examine fabric samples from Antonia’s husband, Piero’s, export business. Antonia and Chiaretta went up to her apartment to talk privately.

  “He’s a Morosini and you don’t even have a last name,” Antonia said as they discussed yet another snub. “What do you expect? It’s not just you getting used to them. It’s the other way around too.”

  Antonia had a point. When the time came for Chiaretta to return to the Pietà, she told her friend she wanted to find the other women to say good-bye. On a lower floor, they heard the voices of Giustina and her friends drifting into the portego through a door left ajar.

  “Such a disappointment,” one of them was saying.

  “And of course so many of us had hoped—”

  Antonia held Chiaretta back.

  “I know.” The voice was Giustina’s. “So many marriageable daughters of good families to choose from. And of course Bernardo was so busy fawning over her, he was no help.”

  “Let’s go,” Antonia mouthed.

  Chiaretta shook her head and resisted the pull on her arm.

  “Claudio is quite the stubborn one. I suppose that’s why he’s such a good businessman,” said another of the women. “And actually, I find her charming. She may surprise you.”

  “My aunt,” Antonia whispered. Relieved that she had at least some support, Chiaretta drew nearer the doorway. “She’s quite modest—certainly not spoiled,” the aunt went on. “They raise them well there.”

  “To marry a butcher, perhaps,” Giustina said, and several of them laughed.

  Chiaretta stepped back as if to avoid a bludgeon. Antonia whisked her up to her apartment again to give her a chance to compose herself.

  “Why is your mother so mean?” Chiaretta sobbed. “I can’t help who I am.”

  “My mother is a she-wolf,” Antonia replied. “I couldn’t wait to get married and leave home. Everything offends her.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

  Antonia was perplexed. “Tell you what? And what difference does it make? Would you have said to Claudio, ‘No, I can’t marry you because your mother is a witch who stirs a pot in hell’?”

  “I’ll have to live in the same house.”

  “It’s a big house. And don’t worry. Leave it to me and Claudio. We have practice with this. Years of it.” Antonia laughed, but then her brow furrowed and she fell silent.

  “Chiaretta, do you know anything about your parents?” she finally asked.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “Well, it’s just an observation, but everybody knows that many abandoned babies are fathered by our illustrious Venetian noblemen.” She shrugged. “Sorry to say, I even noticed a few at the Pietà that looked a lot like some people in my family.” She wiggled her high, broad forehead. “The Morosini brow, you know.”

  Chiaretta l
ooked at her, puzzled. “My point,” Antonia went on, “is that there’s a pretty good chance you—a lot of you—have a noble father. Maybe that’s why Claudio was able to get the Avvogadori to go along with the marriage. Maybe there’s been some information shared in secret. Or maybe not, but it’s a possibility.”

  At the Pietà, the figlie did not know enough about their parentage to make it much of a subject for thought, and Chiaretta had not considered the possibility that either or both of her parents might be among people she had passed on the canal, or even sung for.

  “Look,” Antonia said. “Don’t let your heart get sad about my mother. The next time you see her, just say to yourself that you might not be able to name your father and grandfather and God knows how many generations back, but there’s a good chance they’re as noble as hers.”

  Chiaretta pondered what Antonia had said as the morosini gondola took her back to the Pietà. When she came to the priora’s study to leave her pearls, she asked for a few minutes of her time.

  “I’d like to know what records there are about me,” she said. “About how I came to be here.”

  The priora gave Chiaretta a fleeting smile, as if she had suspected the question might come. “Normally we refuse such requests,” she said. “That knowledge has no bearing on a figlia’s life here, and could cause more harm than good. But I suspect I know why you’re asking. I can’t promise I’ll share everything with you, but perhaps I can find out something.”

  A few days later, Chiaretta had her answer. “Your mother appears to have been a courtesan,” the priora said, “and from the condition in which she left you, she probably lived quite well. From that I think we can conclude her patron—presumably your father—was either a nobleman or a wealthy merchant, but my guess would be the former. She was ill and knew she couldn’t raise you and your sister. I read the letter she left, and I can tell you with certainty that she loved you.”

  Tears sprang to Chiaretta’s eyes. “She left a letter?”