 he fiabla of the lover’s path begins almost two decades ago. It is the story of two sisters, alike as doves in appearance, but different as water and wine in temperament and experience.
At that time, I was a girl of sixteen. For as long as I could remember, my sister Tullia and I lived in a palazzo set in Venice, a labyrinth of a city where we heard the sea murmur its music day and night. This palazzo was furnished by my sister through her extraordinary talents. It glittered with golden mosaics, and was graced with sumptuous paintings and intricate tapestries. Within this palazzo we were aided by servants who felt affection for us. Among them were Caterina, who was Tullia’s ruffiana—her procuress and confidant—and Caterina’s daughter Laura, who was my playmate as well as my maid. And it was there in this palazzo that I bent to my sister’s rule, a sapling recognizing the sun’s sovereignty.
As I write of Tullia, I will try not to be too harsh. I know many have called her a mysterious beauty, cool in the use of her considerable intelligence and allure. In all honesty, my sister was as elusive to me as she was to others. Nonetheless, I hope time has bestowed upon me a measure of wisdom as I remind myself of her unavoidable influence upon me.
Tullia was my first vision in this life. My earliest memory is of her bending over to soothe me as I sobbed the inconsolable tears of childhood, her blonde hair a dazzle of light around a divinity. Unlike most children, my first word was not madre or padre; it was sorella, sister, in honor of Tullia. Our parents had drowned a year after my birth, leaving my sister, the elder of us by fourteen years, to raise and provide for me.
Despite her reputation as the most illustrious courtesan in Venice, Tullia shielded my eyes from the carnal nature of love; I saw little that would make a celibate blush. But she educated me in other ways, teaching me to read and write in Italian and Latin, a priceless gift bestowed upon few women, for which I am forever thankful. She also taught me the art of music, for which I showed love and aptitude. This soon won me the affectionate soprannome, or nickname, of la filomela—the nightingale.
If it was because of my sister that I had an active mind, a voice to sing, food to eat and a roof over my head, it was also because of my sister that I was made to stay inside my home after I turned twelve. Seeing that I was of an age where men might approach me because of her profession, Tullia did not allow me to leave the palazzo unless I was dressed plainly and accompanied by an elder servant. These occasions arose less and less frequently as time passed.
No matter how much I begged for freedom, Tullia ignored my pleas. She would explain to me in patient tones that my isolation was necessary. It was her hope that in time people would see me as a woman separate from her, rather than as the sister of a courtesan. This was small consolation, for the loneliness that colored my hours felt unending. At sixteen, I was of an age when most young women had already either married and borne children, or entered a convent to do God’s work. For myself, there was nothing—only an abstract promise that might be fulfilled in the future if my sister willed it. When I think of this period in my life, I give praise to music. Music helped me survive then, just as it does now.
What else do I remember about my life at that time? Sometimes when I was alone in my room, I would toss a feather from my window toward the sea. I’d watch it float away for as long as I could, imagining the countries it might reach—faraway lands I yearned to visit one day.
I also recall the brightness of gold ducats, and of my sister’s hair. The insistent chatter of baby sparrows clustered about my feet as I sang inside the walled garden behind our palazzo, the precious show of sun upon my face. The spicy perfume of oranges from our garden, the briny smell of the the sea on warm summer afternoons. The starched linen of my plain brown cloak against my young skin—the cloak that hid me from others’ eyes on the increasingly rare occasions when I ventured into the world. But most of all I remember the confusion of innocence, gratitude, anger and guilt that infused my emotions toward the sister I loved, yet resented.
Now as I look back, I think Tullia truly wished our fiabla of two sisters to stay as it was forever, to divert time like water from its path. But of course, this was impossible. To preserve my innocence, a courtesan such as my sister would have had to layer restriction upon restriction as if they were blankets upon a winter bed.While she may have thought she was protecting me from the bitter cold, my sister only made the snow outside my window look all
the more enticing.
I began to think of escape.
In May of 1526, I celebrated my sixteenth birthday, still trapped within my home. Shortly after this came La Sensa, the annual celebration marking the marriage of Venice to the sea. Despite the cruel illness that had taken so many lives earlier that spring, my sister still held her annual feast. Many thought this unseemly, but Tullia’s La Sensa feast was necessary to solidify her standing and desirability. It was for this celebration that she would compose a poem praising the powers of love and set it to music; I would perform this song to the accompaniment of her lute.
I looked forward to these recitals as a prisoner yearns to glimpse the first anemones of spring from her jail window. I loved the intense study involved in mastering new music as much as I loved the transfixed attention of my sister’s guests as I sang for them. While I did not otherwise participate in Tullia’s entertaining—she would not allow me, for by morning’s wake these celebrations often had disintegrated into private ones of a more sensual sort—after I finished singing, I would watch from the back of the musicians’ gallery, set high upon the wall of the great hall. I was careful not to let the candlelight reveal me as I eagerly spied on the world forbidden to me.
But by the spring of my sixteenth year, my joy in music was tempered with steely resolution: I would use my music to free myself from my sister.
On the evening of the feast, I still remember how I sat inside my chamber, trying with little success to calm myself. A great cardinal was coming to La Sensa. I would perform for him and more than one hundred guests. He would hear me sing. Perhaps I would gain his favor, like so many musicians before me. He would champion my art, bring me to court. I would become a virtuosa, a great musician, and make my own way in the world. As I studied my music, I felt the weight of the hopes I dared not express aloud.
My maid, Laura, helped me dress. I braided my hair myself. As I twisted it into a knot behind my neck, a sinuous perfume curled about me. Lilies, roses, vanilla . . .
“Like two doves we are,” Tullia announced softly, standing behind me as I stared at myself in the mirror. “Both light and serene.”
I exhaled her perfume and looked up. The mirror reflected two golden-haired sisters with gray eyes. One wore a simple gown the color of cream, her braided hair bare of ornaments, and the other red brocade embroidered with silver thread, the full sleeves of her dress slashed with silver ribbon, her curls woven with pearls. I felt as plain as Tullia was beautiful, a sparrow next to a bird of paradise. My sister curved her long neck, so much like mine, to rest her soft cool cheek against my shoulder. She smiled at our reflections, then took my hand to lead me to the musicians’ gallery.
I followed her, cold with desperation.
From my perch, I considered the celebration already underway. I stared at the cardinal, resplendent in his scarlet robes as he held court before my sister’s guests. Though the hall was full, there were fewer guests than usual, no doubt because of the sickness that still lingered. Some wore large-nosed masks of gold and silver, as if they could fool death by hiding their identities. Others, their faces bared, were less cautious. Dressed in costly silks and velvets, everyone milled about the large wood and marble table in the center of the great hall. Gracing the table were some of the voluptuous offerings for which my sister’s celebrations were famed: platters of fowl and fish and bread, with rose petals arranged like a ruddy snowfall around each dish, rare fruits preserved in cordial, nuts glistening in honey, and numerous silver flasks of wine.
On cue, servants extinguished half the candles, and suddenly plunged the room into golden dusk. Everyone fell silent. Tullia rose and greeted her guests with a graceful speech. Then she looked up at me and nodded.
As she plucked the strings of her lute, my voice soared forth.
Excerpted from The Lover's Path. Published by Harry N. Abrams Books. All contents © 2005 Kris Waldherr. All rights reserved. Reproduction is forbidden except for short excerpts for review purposes.
 
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