engineered more safely. Giustiniana even went so far as to express the hope that they might be able to replicate in the countryside “another Ca’ Tiepolo,” which had served them so well back in Venice. She added—her mind was racing ahead—that when Andrea came out to visit it would be best “if we meet in the morning because it is easy for me to get up before everyone else while in the evening the house is always full of people and I am constantly observed.”
As Giustiniana diligently prepared the ground for a summer of lovemaking, she did wonder whether “all this information might ever be of any use to us.” Andrea was still constantly on the move, a fleeting presence along the Brenta. When he was not with the consul at Mogliano, he was traveling to Padua on business, visiting the Memmo estate, or rushing back to Venice, where his sister, Marina, who had not been well for some time, had suddenly been taken very ill. Giustiniana might hear that Andrea was in a neighboring village, on his way to see her. Then she would hear nothing more. Every time she started to dream of him stealing into her bedroom in the dead of night or surprising her at the village
bottega,
a letter would reach her announcing a delay or a change of plans. So she waited and wrote to him, and waited and wrote:
I took a long walk in the garden, alone for the most part. I had
your little portrait with me. How often I looked at it! How many
things I said to it! How many prayers and how many protestations I made! Ah, Memmo, if only you knew how excessively I
adore you! I defy any woman to love you as I love you. And we
know each other so deeply and we cannot enjoy our perfect friendship or take advantage of our common interests. God, what madness! Though in these cruel circumstances it is good to know that
you love me in the extreme and that I have no doubts about you:
otherwise what miserable hell my life would be.
A few days later she was still on tenterhooks:
I received your letter just as we got up from the table and I flew
to a small room, locked myself in, and gave myself away to the
pleasure of listening to my Memmo talk to me and profess all his
tenderness for me and tell me about all the things that have kept
him so busy. Oh, if only you had seen me then, how gratified you
would have been. I lay nonchalantly on the couch and held your
letter in one hand and your portrait in the other. I read and reread
[the letter] avidly, and for a moment I abandoned that pleasure
to indulge in the other pleasure of looking at you. I pressed one
and the other against my bosom and was overcome by waves of
tenderness. Little by little I fell asleep. An hour and a half later I
awoke, and now I am with you again and writing to you.
Andrea was finally on his way to see Giustiniana one evening when he was reached by a note from his brother Bernardo, telling him that their sister, Marina, was dying. Distraught, he returned to Venice and wrote to Giustiniana en route to explain his change of plans. She immediately wrote back, sending all her love and sympathy:
Your sister is dying, Memmo? And you have to rush back to
Venice? . . . You do well to go, and I would have advised you to
do the same. . . . But I am hopeful that she will live. . . . Maybe
your mother and your family have written to you so pressingly
only to hasten your return. . . . If your sister recovers, I pray you
will come to see me right away. . . . And if she should pass away,
you will need consolation, and after the time that decency
requires you will come to seek it from your Giustiniana.
In this manner, days and then weeks went by. Eventually, Giustiniana stopped making plans for secret encounters. There were moments during her lonely wait when she even worried about the intensity of her feelings. What was going on in
his
mind, in
his
heart? She had his letters, of course. He was usually very good about writing to her. But his prolonged absence disoriented her. She needed so much to see
As Giustiniana diligently prepared the ground for a summer of lovemaking, she did wonder whether “all this information might ever be of any use to us.” Andrea was still constantly on the move, a fleeting presence along the Brenta. When he was not with the consul at Mogliano, he was traveling to Padua on business, visiting the Memmo estate, or rushing back to Venice, where his sister, Marina, who had not been well for some time, had suddenly been taken very ill. Giustiniana might hear that Andrea was in a neighboring village, on his way to see her. Then she would hear nothing more. Every time she started to dream of him stealing into her bedroom in the dead of night or surprising her at the village
bottega,
a letter would reach her announcing a delay or a change of plans. So she waited and wrote to him, and waited and wrote:
I took a long walk in the garden, alone for the most part. I had
your little portrait with me. How often I looked at it! How many
things I said to it! How many prayers and how many protestations I made! Ah, Memmo, if only you knew how excessively I
adore you! I defy any woman to love you as I love you. And we
know each other so deeply and we cannot enjoy our perfect friendship or take advantage of our common interests. God, what madness! Though in these cruel circumstances it is good to know that
you love me in the extreme and that I have no doubts about you:
otherwise what miserable hell my life would be.
A few days later she was still on tenterhooks:
I received your letter just as we got up from the table and I flew
to a small room, locked myself in, and gave myself away to the
pleasure of listening to my Memmo talk to me and profess all his
tenderness for me and tell me about all the things that have kept
him so busy. Oh, if only you had seen me then, how gratified you
would have been. I lay nonchalantly on the couch and held your
letter in one hand and your portrait in the other. I read and reread
[the letter] avidly, and for a moment I abandoned that pleasure
to indulge in the other pleasure of looking at you. I pressed one
and the other against my bosom and was overcome by waves of
tenderness. Little by little I fell asleep. An hour and a half later I
awoke, and now I am with you again and writing to you.
Andrea was finally on his way to see Giustiniana one evening when he was reached by a note from his brother Bernardo, telling him that their sister, Marina, was dying. Distraught, he returned to Venice and wrote to Giustiniana en route to explain his change of plans. She immediately wrote back, sending all her love and sympathy:
Your sister is dying, Memmo? And you have to rush back to
Venice? . . . You do well to go, and I would have advised you to
do the same. . . . But I am hopeful that she will live. . . . Maybe
your mother and your family have written to you so pressingly
only to hasten your return. . . . If your sister recovers, I pray you
will come to see me right away. . . . And if she should pass away,
you will need consolation, and after the time that decency
requires you will come to seek it from your Giustiniana.
In this manner, days and then weeks went by. Eventually, Giustiniana stopped making plans for secret encounters. There were moments during her lonely wait when she even worried about the intensity of her feelings. What was going on in
his
mind, in
his
heart? She had his letters, of course. He was usually very good about writing to her. But his prolonged absence disoriented her. She needed so much to see
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