Lucia (23 page)

Alvise did not really care about the Golden Book one way or another. The Venetian oligarchy was dead and gone, he always reminded Lucia, and there was no point in looking back. His home, now, was Molinato. For nearly a decade he had worked tirelessly to build a modern, self-sufficient community. He had poured huge amounts of money into the project, and had pursued his goal single-mindedly, always putting the needs of the estate above everything else, including the needs of his wife. Of course it was a grand design, the kind of utopian project that was usually the prerogative of wealthy princes and kings. But in a way, that is how Alvise saw himself: the founder of a small, enlightened republic that replaced in his heart the one he had lost. So he felt especially gratified when the Vienna government informed him that the emperor had granted his petition to give his domain of Molinato a new name: Alvisopoli, the city of Alvise.

A
lvise returned to Italy at the end of January so he did not witness Lucia’s final consecration: her part in the Carousel, the most eagerly awaited event of the season. It was held two days after Mardi Gras, in the Winterreitschule, the beautiful riding school on the ground floor of the Imperial Palace. Twenty-four expert horsemen, selected from the great houses of the Empire, were divided into four quadrilles: two German, one Hungarian and one Polish. In the old days, when the Turks were Austria’s greatest enemy, the purpose of the game was to slice off a symbolic Moor’s head placed at the top-end of a pole. Now it was a far less gruesome affair. A ring had replaced the head of the Moor, and the real challenge was in performing a dazzling array of figures and sequences. An element of courtly love had also been added. Each horseman invited a dame to the Carousel. At the end of the performance she presented him with a silk scarf: the prize for his ability and a token of her love.
Donner l’écharpe,
the offering of the scarf, had replaced the head-chopping as the highpoint of the event.

Lucia had not anticipated an invitation to the Carousel as it was unusual for a foreigner to be asked. She was very flattered when Count Callenberg, of the Polish quadrille, asked her if she would accept giving the scarf to him. Callenberg had been a close friend and a comrade in arms of Maximilian’s, from whom he had taken over command of the 45th Infantry Regiment. In Vienna, he had become a friend and admirer of Lucia. Inviting her to participate in the Carousel was a way for the two of them to celebrate Maximilian’s memory—their secret, as it were.

The other dames in the Polish quadrille were Princess Lobkowitz, Countess Lanskranka and Princess Stahremberg, who had so complimented Lucia on the success of her assembly. Lucia was flattered to be the only foreign member of the Polish quadrille, and indeed of the entire Carousel. Later, it occurred to her that in the eyes of Vienna she was perhaps no longer a foreigner at all, now that Venice was part of the Habsburg Empire.

The Carousel was taken very seriously by all the participants. Lucia sensed the tension that was growing by the day. “The horsemen’s young wives,” she noted, “are exceedingly worried about how their husbands will perform.”
³³
During the daily practices, the Winterreitschule became society’s favourite meeting place, its colonnaded gallery turning into an elegant drawing-room filled with chattering guests. Even government officials and high-ranking ministers dropped by at the rehearsals to catch the latest gossip.

On the day of the Carousel, the hall was packed, the lower and upper gallery overflowing with spectators in their grand gala attire. The emperor and empress took their seats in the imperial stand at one end of the hall. At the other end, four trumpeters entered the arena, followed by a sea of fluttering feathers. The twenty-four horsemen in their flashy uniforms made their entrance into the great
manège,
or riding school, and lined up to salute their dames. The quadrilles broke up into beautiful arabesques with perfect timing and grace. The shiny blues and reds and yellows and greens of the different uniforms created a feast of colours as the horsemen burst into roaring charges and rumbling
contre-danses.
Lucia was overwhelmed by the spectacle. A beaming Callenberg steered his horse towards her, and she rose, lifting and waving the Polish banner. Callenberg then pulled out a scroll and read aloud the sonnet he had composed for her—not the greatest poetry, but an honest effort:

The trumpets blare,

The proud horseman

Enters the arena.

He has a natural instinct for battle:

He stiffens his chest, his arms and feet,

And firmly holds his steed.

The memory of ancient feats sharpens his skill

As he dashes the skull to the ground.

The soldier

Can taste victory,

But his heart is not satisfied,

And he stands uncertain.

“Shall I find glory in battle,” he asks,

“Or seek my destiny in your beautiful eyes?”
³⁴

Lucia handed Callenberg his well-earned scarf. She took the scroll on which the sonnet was inscribed, pressing it to her heart.

That evening, at the
bal masqué
given by the twenty-four horsemen, the guests wore costumes from Valachia, Bukhovina, Morlaquia and other exotic lands of the Habsburg Empire. Only the waiters serving at the tables laden with cakes and pastries and ice creams and candied fruits seemed to have a proper, recognisable uniform. Lucia went as a young Greek from an island in the Ionian archipelago which had long been part of the Venetian Empire. Empress Maria Theresa asked her what she was dressed as. “A Dalmatian,” she fibbed, knowing how fond the empress was of Dalmatia.
³⁵
She was dressed as a Greek, but she did not forget she was in the heart of Austria.

L
ucia looked forward to spending the summer and autumn in Venice. After two years in Vienna she was curious to see how the city had changed under the Austrians. Alvise was not going to open Palazzo Mocenigo since he planned to be in Alvisopoli most of the time, so she fancied taking a nice apartment in the Procuratìe, on Saint Mark’s Square, where her father had lived after they had returned from Rome fifteen years earlier. Would it be safe to take Massimiliano there some afternoons? He was going to be four in September. Would she recognise him? Would he remember her at all? For two years she had kept every loving thought about her little boy buried inside her. Now her mind was racing ahead, and she could not wait to hold him in her arms. So it was a shock for her to learn from Alvise that her trip to Italy had to be postponed until late autumn. Her presence at Margarethen during the time of harvest in the summer was required because he had lost confidence in the management there. Lucia accepted with the greatest reluctance—she felt she had done her duty in Vienna for the sake of the Mocenigo family.

There was more bad news. Paolina had recently given birth to another baby girl, Lucietta. Now Lucia learnt that the baby named in her honour had died of pneumonia, the same illness that had killed Alvisetto. She tried to console Paolina:

My dear sister, think of all the good you have given to that innocent soul who is now in heaven. I cannot stop the tears as I write these words but I do believe them to be true. And I’ll go so far as to say that you have now made your offering to the Lord and that you must believe it is for her own good. I know such an effort requires us to stifle our natural feelings, but you are capable of such Christian heroism…Remember this, my sister: you must think only about staying strong. You cannot let yourself go, for the sake of the other children. It is your duty now, and I live in the hope that you fulfil it.
³⁶

Lucia was quite hard on Paolina, perhaps because she feared her sister, who was the more fragile of the two, was letting herself fall apart.

We all have to walk down the same path, and to let yourself go like this to a loss that is Heaven’s will is not a Christian behaviour…Don’t lose control, don’t allow grief to become so overwhelming that it will destroy your health, because you will only hurt those who love you without bringing back to life those who have ceased to be mortals.
³⁷

Lucia spoke from her own experience, and in the steely words she addressed to Paolina one catches an echo of the struggle with the death of her own son. She warned Alvise that if Paolina gave the slightest sign of illness, she was getting on the first post to Venice, and was going to travel night and day by the Pontiebba road—the shortest route but the roughest—and he should not try to stop her. Her greatest fear was to see her sister succumb to her grief. “If such a thing should occur,” she pleaded with Paolina, “I beg you to inform me by special courier, or even better, by sending someone in person.”
³⁸

The summer in Margarethen was stressful enough, what with the staff not getting along, the accounts in disorder, and the German manager utterly unreliable. But the lack of any kind of distraction—no interesting excursions, no amusing guests—made the waiting even more nerve-racking. Lucia did a little gardening around the house, played cards with Margherita, read a new collection of moral essays by Madame de Genlis and ate large quantities of
pan casalino.
Her only break came in September, when she went to Baden for a cycle of mud baths and soakings, but that was hardly much fun: she had her period and did not bother to finish the cure. On her last night there, the empress invited her to her box at the theatre and she was surprised to find herself placed next to the emperor—a seating arrangement that would have made her quite boastful only a few months before, but which she now related rather matter-of-factly to her sister.

Back in Margarethen, Lucia found a letter from Alvise. He urged her to leave for Alvisopoli at once. He gave no explanation for the sudden rush, but his tone was harsh. A feeling of dread came over Lucia as she became certain that there was only one possible reason for such a cold summons on the part of her husband: he had discovered the truth about Massimiliano. During the following days she turned silent and numb as she packed her things. She left Margarethen on All Saint’s Day and headed for the mountains. The weather was cold and rainy and she no longer looked forward to the rough journey across the Alps.

Chapter Seven

THE EDUCATION OF ALVISETTO

L
ucia returned to Vienna in May 1804, six months after her hurried departure to Italy. As she stepped out of the carriage in front of the house, a little boy, his eyes still puffy from the long journey, clung shyly to her travelling cape. Lucia’s maid, Margherita, and the rest of the staff—Teresa, Felicita and Marietta, the new cook—came rushing out to give him a festive welcome. They clapped their hands, hugged him and planted kisses on his cheeks.

Despite being a rather plain-looking four-year-old, Alvisetto (for this was now Massimiliano’s name) had a sweet expression and a searching gaze that made him seem somewhat older than his age. At first bewildered by the attention, he eventually joined in the merry clamour, as children do even when they are not quite sure what the fuss is all about. He was escorted to his room, where he found books and toys waiting for him. An extra bed was prepared for him in Lucia’s bedroom in case he should be afraid at night.

For a moment Lucia had the feeling she had walked into a different apartment from the one she had left, busier but also brighter and more spacious. Only after settling in did she realise that a row of buildings on the other side of Saint Stephen’s Square had been torn down during her absence. There was now twice as much light streaming in through the tall windows overlooking the square.

After a light meal, Lucia took advantage of the fine spring weather to go for a walk with Alvisetto to the Prater. They visited the Carousel and watched the swans. On their way to the icecream stand, she recognised Emperor Francis, dressed in tails, taking a stroll with his adjutant, Count Lamberti. A valet was following them discreetly, and she noticed in the distance the anonymous carriage in which they had driven to the park. She had heard about the emperor’s occasional incognito walks at the Prater, but to see him materialise so suddenly a few yards away from her gave her a start. Although she had been introduced to him on several occasions, and most recently in Baden, she felt that, given the circumstances, it was inappropriate, even a little foolish, to attract attention to herself with a curtsey. She walked away pretending not to recognise the emperor; after the first turn in the alley, she squeezed Alvisetto’s tiny hand and whispered to him who the important man was.

It was late afternoon by the time they walked back home. The sky was dark blue and the air was ripe with the fragrance of spring blossoms. A pleasant evening breeze gathered up and reddened Lucia’s cheeks. It felt good to be back in Vienna, walking hand-in-hand with her son as they made their way to Saint Stephen’s Square. She took her chance encounter with the emperor as a good omen.

L
ucia’s worst fear had come true when she had arrived in Venice the previous autumn: Alvise had indeed found out about her secret child with Colonel Plunkett. What really passed between husband and wife—how Alvise confronted her, how she faced the ordeal, what they said to each other—can only be imagined: there is no trace of this crisis in their surviving correspondence. But the story was mentioned in other people’s diaries and letters, including this surprisingly detailed one, written to Princess Marie Louise Clary
^*13
by her sister Princess Flore de Ligne, who happened to be in Venice at the time of the scandal:

About a month ago [August 1803] Monsieur Mocenigo comes face to face with a four-year-old boy in someone’s house in Venice; he surmises, he guesses, and in the end he convinces himself that the child belongs to his wife. To be certain of this, he summons her to Venice. She throws herself at his feet, and confesses that the child is the fruit of her attachment to Monsieur de Plonquet [
sic
]. She begs for his mercy and forgiveness. He replies: “This child is yours, but since I am without children, he will be mine. I shall legitimise him and make him my heir.” The poor woman falls into the greatest affliction. She tells him such a step will disgrace her for ever, that she won’t be able to show her face, that it will cause an extraordinary scandal, etc., etc…The furious husband doesn’t listen, doesn’t want to listen, and threatens a separation if she doesn’t consent to all his demands…He tells her to go to the judge so that the child can be publicly legitimised. Madame Mocenigo, no longer able to reason, does all her nasty husband asks, and everything happens the way he has planned it. Now the poor woman can’t leave the house without being pointed at; as for him, his atrocious behaviour has earned him universal scorn and execration. The whole thing has made an incredible noise here…
¹

Did Lucia really throw herself at Alvise’s feet begging for mercy? The story making the rounds in Venice was no doubt embellished with details that are impossible to verify. It is certain, however, that after his initial shock, Alvise seized the opportunity to legitimise Lucia’s little boy and make him his heir, at the cost of giving false testimony. In an official statement to the Venice Patriarchy, Alvise declared the boy to be his and Lucia’s natural and legitimate son,
“esse vere filium naturalem ac legitimum N. H. Aloysius et Lucia Mocenigo.”
²
Next, he had a clerk at the Patriarchy change the boy’s baptismal records by wedging the name Alvise in front of his original Christian names (Massimiliano Cesare Francesco). Alvise’s deliberate tampering with Church documents did not go down well at the Patriarchy. Church officials knew that the boy was not Alvise’s
“filium naturalem.”
And evidently the time had passed when a high-ranking patrician could use his influence to make false statements to the Church with impunity—especially one whose reputation in Venice was still tainted by his association with the French. The Patriarchy blocked the legitimisation process stating that “the name ‘Alvise’ was inserted in violation of the truth and the laws of the synod.”
^3
*14

Alvise brought Lucia and Alvisetto to the safe enclave of Alvisopoli to spare the family further embarassment. Paolina, ever the thoughtful sister, immediately came to visit with her own children so that Alvisetto could meet his cousins. “I am so deeply grateful to you for your show of affection at this moment,” Lucia wrote movingly after her sister had left.
⁴

After four years spent in near seclusion with Signora Antonia, Alvisetto had a lot to contend with: new parents, a large family and a great deal of attention from everyone at Alvisopoli. And of course his new name—the traditional Mocenigo Christian name, borne by his father, his grandfather and his great-grandfather. Lucia too, had so much to learn, so much ground to make up. It was exciting and overwhelming at the same time. During those first days with Alvisetto there were moments of pure joy and moments when she felt so awkward she could not even find the right tone of voice to use with her son or the proper attitude.

Two weeks after their reunion, Alvisetto behaved badly during his lesson with his tutor—he was learning the alphabet—and Lucia told him he was going to have his dinner alone in his room and not at the table with her. “He started to cry uncontrollably so we left him to himself, thinking it was only a display of anger,” she wrote, seeking advice from her more experienced younger sister:

But the tutor took on a serious expression as he realised Alvisetto was crying not out of anger at all but because he was truly suffering. So he was moved to ask me that I forgive the child, which of course I immediately did. Alvisetto, however, would not stop weeping. Everyone in the house tried to comfort him, but the sobs kept coming and coming. He didn’t quiet down until much later, at which point he finished his lesson and, without anyone telling him, he got on his knees and asked the Lord to forgive him.
⁵

Every day Lucia picked up new signs of Alvisetto’s sensitive nature:

When he passes workmen sweating in the fields he shakes his head and says “poor men…” The same thing happens if he sees peasants walking barefoot or with not enough clothes. He feels pain for the suffering of other people. Just the other day the village priest was preparing a show of tricks, and Alvisetto went to watch him get ready. The door to the back room was open and the priest was practising sticking a knife in his hand. He greeted Alvisetto with the thing still hanging from his palm. Alvisetto burst out crying convinced the priest was injured. But although he is sensitive, he is also very courageous, a combination that seems to foreshadow an excellent nature. When he injures himself it is always others who notice because of the bruises. He will say, “It’s nothing, I’ll never give you worries of that kind.” Nothing seems to frighten him. We stopped by a peasant’s house where there was music and dancing because one of them had married. Alvisetto loves music and dancing and he was busy watching the
festa.
Suddenly we heard a shot, and then another—the custom on these occasions is to fire pistols out the window. Well, Alvisetto didn’t bat an eyelid even though the shots were at very close range. All he wanted to know was how the pistols had fired and whether there would be more shots.
⁶

In early April Lucia took Alvisetto with her to the thermal waters of Abano, in the Euganean Hills. She took a cure of mud baths to improve her circulation and invigorate her skin. Alvisetto did his homework in the morning and went out for walks with his mother in the afternoon. He seemed at ease with himself, happy with his new life and growing increasingly attached to his mother. In early May, the two of them finally made the week-long trip to Vienna. “The journey couldn’t have been a happier one,”
⁷
Lucia wrote to her sister as soon as she arrived. “The little one had no trouble sleeping in different beds along the way, and I had taken the precaution of bringing a straw baby-mattress and some covers so that he was able to lie down and stretch his legs and sleep in the carriage as well.” Her only worry was Alvisetto’s constipation—an ailment with which Lucia was familiar. She prepared a bran-water and sugar solution when they stopped in Klagenfurt, and by the time they arrived home, in Vienna, he was in fine shape, if a little tired.

T
he news of the scandal surrounding Alvisetto had reached Vienna well before Lucia arrived there with her son. She had no intention of living in seclusion, and was not afraid to “show her face,” as Flore de Ligne had written; but she felt a lower profile was in order for the time being. Sadly, the one person whose company she would have treasured, Baron Vespa, had died while she was in Italy. Lucia had so much wanted her old friend to see her boy that she had pictured their encounter many times during the idle hours in the carriage on the journey up to Vienna. It occurred to her that at least poor Vespa was not going to have to fret over the latest imperial pregnancy—for the empress was expecting another child!

Lucia was determined to spend most of her time with Alvisetto, and to devote herself seriously to his education. He was three months shy of his fifth birthday, an age at which a boy of his social class had usually begun to read and write simple sentences and do basic arithmetic. But his education had been very rudimentary—a fact Lucia had become keenly aware of when Paolina’s well-trained children had visited them at Alvisopoli. “I know he lags behind his cousins,” she remarked defensively. “But it’s really not his fault, poor thing, if he can’t yet write.”
⁸
While they were still in Italy, Lucia had arranged for him to take lessons to get him in the habit of studying. Now that he was finally settled in Vienna, however, a more structured education was called for. Alvise had already mentioned the possibility of sending Alvisetto to boarding school the following year, when he would be six—a prospect Lucia considered so awful she did not want to think about it. Until then, she was going to take matters in her own hands.

Lucia looked for guidance in the work of her beloved Madame de Genlis, whose two-volume
Leçons d’une gouvernante à ses élèves,
published thirteen years earlier, had become a classic textbook for home-schooling in all of Europe. It was based on her teaching experience in Paris and London and was really more useful to the tutor than to the student. A more accessible book for children was Arnaud Berquin’s
L’Ami des enfants,
a collection of short stories, each one with a specific pedagogical message about friendship, goodness, honesty, generosity—it was said his stories were written for children but should be read by adults. Berquin’s book was translated into many languages. The Italian translation was by Elisabetta Caminer, a Venetian journalist who had been a good friend of Lucia’s father. Lucia had a fond memory of Caminer, and since she was frustrated in her search for Italian educational books, she had Paolina send her the Italian version rather than ordering the original one in French.
L’Ami des enfants
was actually intended for children a little older than Alvisetto, who was still struggling with his As and Bs and could not be expected to appreciate Berquin’s moral teachings. On the other hand, he was certainly ready for
Le Magasin des enfants,
the pioneering collection of fables by Jeanne-Marie Leprince de Beaumont, which included the popular “Beauty and the Beast.” Leprince de Beaumont, who had tutored upper-class girls in London in her youth, used classical sources to write fables in a language that was accessible to children, and had none of the irony or cleverness associated with the genre. The book had wonderful illustrations, which no doubt helped.