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Lord Vanity
by Samuel Shellabarger
Part 1: Venice
Chapter 1
In 1757, the Villa Bagnoli, Count Widiman’s mansion on the outskirts of Mira, was not the most and not the least splendid of the hundred and forty country palaces between Padua and Fusina, which formed the core of the Venetian summer colony. Innumerable other such palaces lay in the neighborhood of Bassano, Vicenza, and Treviso; but the concentration of fashion and architecture appeared on either bank of the Brenta, where that stream becomes a navigable canal, the Naviglio di Brenta, extending from Stra to the sea. Transforming the flat countryside with parks, gardens and façades, the grandiose estates rivaled each other in magnificence and display. Among them, the Widiman villa could show its baroque front, elegant salons, and spacious gardens, without apology.
It was not for the sake of rural nature that the beau monde of Venice swarmed to the mainland when the short Ascension carnival in May had ended. Like every smart set, in each of its summer resorts before or since, it simply continued the winter’s social pleasures on a more lavish scale. Expense rocketed. Gilded coaches replaced the gondola. Along the Brenta, beaux and belles, on sumptuous canalboats towed by horses, visited from mansion to mansion. Stables were busy. People rode or drove of an afternoon to show their mounts and their equipages. In steaming kitchens, servants sweated to prepare the endless meals. Play ran deep around pam, basset, and faro tables. At night, dancing began in frescoed ballrooms; or there was comedy or burletta, for many of the villas had their private theaters; or the music of Scarlatti and Galuppi, exquisitely polished, appealed to more discriminating tastes. And, of course, outside in the formal gardens, between fantastically trimmed hedges of box and myrtle or beside the plash of fountains, couples made love. There were sighs and sonnets. There were hidden arbors, where sentiment could become passion.
It was the kind of life that Watteau liked to paint. It was the end of an age, expending in fireworks the toil and treasure of Venice’s thousand years.
On a particular night in August, it had occurred to one of Count Widiman’s guests that it would be amusing to dance out of doors rather than in the ballroom; and, as others acclaimed the idea, the Count had affably given the necessary orders. A flooring had been laid down in the garden, where a wide bay of lawn, formed by hedges, looked toward the terrace fountain in the background. Refreshment tables had been spread and resin torches set up. The wavering light gave a sense of mystery; it flattered costume and face as the dancers mingled in chiaroscuro. And approval expressed itself in superlatives.
Only the veterans of the eight-piece orchestra, who had sawed and puffed for a generation to the same interweaving of silks, jewels, panniers, white stockings and red heels, considered it merely another Brenta dance. To the leader, Marco Letta, it was a job that lasted till dawn, was well paid and, therefore, deserved his best efforts; but he preferred the musicians’ gallery in the ballroom. Torchlight, to him, did not compensate for the mosquitos that probed safely on his neck. Otherwise, there or here, what difference? Perfume and rice powder, rouge and patches, fluttering fans. So he swung his bow to the tune of “Sciogli le treccie, madonna” — he could play it in his sleep — and smiled at the eager face of the extra violin, a young supernumerary to whom all this was still new.
Marco liked the extra violin, named Richard Morandi, for his enthusiasm, which kept up the morale of the orchestra. He was a spirited youth of nineteen, who might turn out to be anything good or bad, but never dull. Marco liked him, too, with the indulgence of an old professional toward a gifted but unsteady amateur; for the fiddling job was only a makeshift to carry Richard through the summer. If Tito-Nani, the second violin, had been guilty of such notes as the extra sometimes produced, Letta would have pulverized him. In Morandi’s case, everybody laughed.
And, with liking, mingled a touch of deference. It was well known that Richard might have been a nobleman, if his French Huguenot mother, Jeanne Dupré, and the vague English diplomat who had seduced her in far-off Dresden had ever reached the altar. His nickname Milòr, by which he was currently known, and the French Richard, that never became Riccardo, testified to his birth. But he had more solid merits than that. He was the stepson of Vico Morandi, composer-director at the San Giangrisostomo theater, who had later married Jeanne. Richard had also been given some schooling by the Jesuits. He stood a peg higher socially than hack musicians because of his function as a part-time actor at the San Luca playhouse; and, though he was not yet a regular member of the cast and did not accompany the comedians on their summer tour, he would sometime belong to that troupe. He had even written a couple of scenarios for the commedia dell’ arte, which had been acted last winter at Chioggia. But, as he gave himself no airs on the score of all these distinctions and was hail-fellow with the rest of the orchestra, no one felt jealous.
A nerve-shattering squeak from the extra violin reached Letta, who hissed, “Deh! Can’t you keep to the tune?” and received an apologetic grin. Richard’s big left hand concentrated on its fingering; he puckered his lips; and “Sciogli le treccie” flowed smoothly on.
Letta continued to stare a moment in mock indignation, but he was actually wondering how a boy with an English father and French mother came to be so swarthy. The English visitors in Venice were usually blueeyed, pink-and-white people. As far as skin went, Richard might have been Spanish. He looked mature for his years; had a big-featured, raw-boned face, large, tawny eyes, and a shock of dark hair, forever slipping from the ribbon at the nape of his neck. The effect was Latin in a daredevil way, and striking rather than handsome. But Letta remembered that he had once met an Irish seaman of about the same type. Apparently there were some dark people in the North.
Having conquered his violin for a moment, Richard was gazing intently again at the dance floor. His expression brought to Letta’s mind the first patrician dance he had played at thirty years ago in the Contarini palace. Fiddling had been an adventure then, not a job.
“Psst!” he whispered, catching the eyes of the orchestra. “We’ll run into the air ‘Anima mia’. Same time.”
The tune changed.
But for Richard Morandi, the fashionable world was still unexplored. Of course, he had caught glimpses of it all his life: on street and piazza; in the regattas of the Grand Canal; in the public gaming rooms of the Ridotto during carnivals; in boxes at the theater; before lighted palace entrances, where liveried gondoliers delivered their masters at a banquet or reception. But he had never been so close to it as during the past month in Letta’s orchestra. The men and women especially fascinated him. Trained to the theater since childhood, he was an excellent mimic and had a quick eye both for types and individuals. Under the influence of his patron and friend, Dr. Goldoni the playwright, the great man at San Luca’s, he had formed early the habit of studying people; for to copy from nature, Goldoni instructed, was the only true method of either the dramatist or actor. And here tonight was a wealth of material.
A snuffbox, thought Richard, should be handled in just that way, if he was ever called on to act the role of a fine gentleman. So he would make his bow to a young noble lady with just that poise of leg and sideward sweep of the hands — not too extreme. And so he would bow to an older matron, paying tribute to her age and rank. So he would give his arm. So he would walk, turning out his toes at the proper angle. The actor in him admired the acting of the men and women of fashion. Their manners, he knew, were an exquisite, highly studied art.
And meanwhile, half-consciously, he was on the lookout for interesting characters and hints for plots. It was from casual, undeveloped situations that Goldoni drew his most popular comedies.
For example, this captivating young French countess, Amélie des Landes, whom Richard had often seen during the past month and whom everybody courted. How had she come to marry the seventy-year-old disaster, Monsieur le Comte, with the masklike face, who rarely left his eternal cards and cognac? She was gay and volatile and light as a butterfly, but indeed far from innocent — ethereally cynical, amusingly naughty. She and her husband could be put on the stage in a dozen ways. They were the first cosmopolitan foreigners whom Richard had seen close by. The Countess spoke perfect Italian. It was rumored that she had been educated at a convent in Rome, where her father, an Irish nobleman, and her mother, a French heiress, were prominent at the little court of the exiled Stuart prince.
And there, hotly attending her, was the young patrician, Marin Sagredo, big, handsome and arrogant, the most conspicuous beau on the dance floor. Richard, not for the first time, took note of him for future use. Belonging to one of the great families in Venice, Sagredo was kinsman to most of the others — the son, nephew and cousin of grandees. He had served three years as aide to the Proveditor General in Dalmatia and had brought back some of the savagery of that region; was noted for his recklessness, hot temper and insolence, for practical jokes of the cruel sort, and as a great fancier of women. With the keenness of dislike, Richard watched him now on his high red heels, patronizing and condescending, while everybody played up to him. He wore a white satin coat embroidered with gold; he had gold clocks on his stockings and gold flowers on his crimson waistcoat. His fobs tinkled as he moved. The side rolls of his wig were crisp as spun glass.
Richard’s thought, for a moment, became less objective. It was on such occasions — not too frequent, after all — that the consciousness of his birth sometimes ached. Here he was, chinning a violin at two ducats a week or, at best, a despised comico, when, as far as the blood in him went, he might have been the equal of such a gallant. Because his mother had not married her seducer and had so completely broken with him, Richard remained on the far side of a gulf separating him from the pomp and glitter of the world. Of course, he could tell himself that it did not matter, that he did not care about these things; but a youth of nineteen, hungry for living, does care about them, at least now and then. For Richard, the occasional ache represented a rift in himself. Why should he envy Sagredo and the other young bloods, vying with each other in pranks and Parisian clothes, schooling their horses in the manège on the Rio dei Mendicanti, fencing at Cavazzi’s salle d’armes, gambling at the Ridotto? He had other more interesting and attainable objects in mind. Think of Goldoni! Think of art and fame! Think of writing plays and burlettas known from St. Petersburg to Naples! Ashamed of envy, he stuffed it down below the level of thought. But the ache was nevertheless there.
He found himself looking at a girl who stood at one side of the dance floor, and gradually Sagredo faded from his mind. As far as he could judge in the light of the torches, she seemed an attractive girl of middle height, dressed very simply in white muslin and without powder on her hair. It was an age when the social world belonged exclusively to married or to older women; but, if this girl was married, she must be a very young wife, hardly out of the convent. It struck him even more that she seemed alone, without an escort or companion. He had been half aware of her for some time and realized now that he had seen no one speak to her, except a couple of the more elderly guests. “Dio!” he thought warmly. “She would be my choice, rather than one of those painted flirts.” He liked her fresh, clean look and simple gown, the fact, too, that she did not seem at all conscious of herself and was taking such obvious pleasure in watching the dance. One might have expected the set smile and painful awareness of a neglected girl, but she looked perfectly at ease.
The tune came to an end with a final cadenza; the orchestra broke off for a pause; and the babble of voices rose.
Richard tapped the second violin, Tito-Nani, on the shoulder. Tito was an old hand at the Brenta dances, knew everybody, and picked up all the gossip. “Say, who is that girl in white? There — she’s talking with the old gentleman. I haven’t seen her before.”
The other mopped his forehead. “Can’t tell you, Milòr. Pretty, eh?”
“Bellissima.”
Lio, the French horn, put in: “Quella piccina? She’s the girl that Cate, the maid, pointed out to me. A poor relation of Contessa Widiman’s. Daughter of Antonio Venier — you know (or perhaps you wouldn’t), the patrician who ruined himself by marrying a ballet dancer in Vienna. Quite a scandal years ago. The family turned their noble backs on him. His wife’s dead now. They say he lives in a tumble-down old palazzo on the Frescada Canal. Poor as a louse. The Contessa Widiman feels sorry for the girl. Invited her over here as a treat.”
“Unmarried?” asked Richard.
“Of course. Who would marry her? She hasn’t a bezzo.”
“I didn’t mean that. Unmarried girls aren’t seen at dances — not of her rank, at least. After all, she’s patrician.”
“Not according to law, she isn’t,” said Lio. “When a grandee, like Venier, marries beneath him, his children have no rank.”
“But why isn’t she in a convent?”
Lio shrugged. “Better ask her, Milòr. Cate says she’s had a queer bringingup. Wants to be a ballerina like her mother. — Dare you to ask her.”
“Va bene,” Richard grinned, “I will if I get the chance. What’s her name?”
“Maritza.”
Letta hissed. “Silenzio! We’ll take the tune ‘Bondì, Marina’. Contredanse time.”
The sawing started again. The white stockings and panniers moved to a different rhythm. The girl had disappeared.
“Spaniels!” thought Richard of the neglectful beaux. “Because a girl’s poor, because she isn’t dressed like a French doll, they freeze her out!” He sympathized with Maritza all the more as her position reminded him of his own. Both of them disinherited from birth; both of them on the wrong side of the gate and peering in through the bars.
But, with respect to the stage, here was a character made to order. Take a girl like this . . .
He fiddled away, lost in plots, until the next pause.
The dance floor cleared. Some of the dancers drifted past to the refreshment table. Sagredo, chatting with his partner, the French countess, paused in front of the orchestra. The lady’s gown, sprinkled with tiny rosettes, brushed Richard’s knee. He could breathe her perfume light as a gust of jasmine. But the nearness was only physical; as far as noticing him went, he might not have been there at all.
She smiled up at her escort and urged: “Well, well, don’t keep me in suspense. There she was in the arbor. And then — ?”
Like that of most other Venetians, Sagredo’s Italian had a strong local flavor. “Why, then,” he said, “I asked her, ‘Madama, per favore, why are you so ill at ease?’ — ‘Because, caro,’ she said, ‘to be frank, I am troubled by a flea.’ — ‘Che cossa!’ said I. ‘Let me assist you, anima mia. Is it on the leg?’ — ‘Alas, no, mio ben.’ — ‘Is it on the back?’ — ‘Sior, no.’ — Thus, delicately, I learned of what impudence the beast was capable. ‘Ah, madama,’ I begged, ‘am I not your cavaliere servente? Is it not my duty to rid you of this annoyance? I say allow me. Surely you, my love, are unconcerned with bourgeois prejudices.’ — We discussed the matter.” Sagredo flashed his teeth. “Now, recall, Contessa, that we were alone. What would you have done?”
The Countess parried. “What did she do?”
“Oe, madonna, I’m too discreet to answer that. But I’ll admit,” he leered, “that I was tempted afterwards to take as my private scutcheon a flea rampant on a — .”
“Fie!” She laid her closed fan against his lips, then flicked it open and eyed him over the top of it. “We poor ladies! We poor innocents! How scandalously you men speak of us! I’m trying to blush. What an amusing dog you are!”
The drawl in her voice set him on fire. “But you haven’t told me. Contessa, what you would have done!”
She laughed. “Ah, caro Marin, how shall I answer? It’s a hard choice between you and a flea. Come, darling, refresh me with an ice and tell me another story.”
Sagredo looked doubtful. He spat at random and the jet struck Richard’s cheek; but, though absently noticing it, he gave his arm to the Countess. They strolled on.
“Pezzo d’asino!” It was a moment before Richard found his tongue. By that time, the pair were a couple of yards off. As he started up, Tito-Nani’s hands clamped down on his shoulders.
“Don’t make a fool of yourself.”
“By God . . . !”
“He meant nothing.”
“Nothing! The swine! I tell you he was looking at me.”
“Yes, but he didn’t see you.”
“You mean I’m too low to be seen, too damned insignificant? Sangue di . . . !”
“Keep cool, Milòr. Whatever the reason, I tell you he didn’t see you. What can you do about it? Tear after him in that crowd? Explain that he spat in your face? Demand an apology? Lord! The apology you’d get! Sit still and relax.”
Letta, the French horn, and the cello closed round.
Sagredo and the Countess had now joined the group at the table. Richard glared over at them. Tito-Nani was right. Short of acting the madman, there was nothing to do about it.
