Books and Writing Excerpts

OUTER BEAUTY, INNER JOY: CONTEMPLATING THE SOUL OF THE RENAISSANCE: Preface

The first time I came to Italy, I arrived in Venice on a sunny September day and stepped out of the train station into another world. The usual street vendors were displaying their wares, and swarms of tourists surged along the streets and in the squares. But this scene from daily life was unfolding against a backdrop of sparkling waterways and buildings of unbelievable beauty. The art and architecture of the place leaped out at me. I screened out the tourists and began to absorb the ancient vibrations of the city.

So began my Italian ‘second life.’ I found myself returning to Italy again and again, with shorter periods between trips. The continued exposure to the ancient sights impressed themselves in my mind, working a kind of slow alchemy, drawing me deeper into the contemplation of their forms and essence.

Eventually I began to delve into the writings of the Renaissance, for it was primarily the work of this period that compelled me. Perhaps I was inspired by the courage of the artists who broke from dogma, and in returning to the study of the past, found a new freedom of expression. They studied the wisdom of ancient esoteric traditions that said love and beauty could be a route to divine insights. They wanted to act as a conduit for the all-originating Source they believed in, to bring an immaterial substance into form. Thomas Moore, in his Care of the Soul, speaks of the Renaissance artists, theologians, and merchants who “cultivated a concrete world full of soul. The beauty of Renaissance art is inseparable from the soul-affirming quality that tutored it.”

I realized that in order to fully appreciate the work of Renaissance artists, it would be important to enter into the essential impulse that inspired their creations. And I also realized that through viewing these works, it would be possible to become transformed by them. The artists brought the qualities of harmony, proportion, order, and a unique beauty or grace into their productions. What new essence can seeing and absorbing the energy from these old creations bring to an individual’s life? I think it’s possible to find, in the Italian Renaissance writings and art, a way to initiate a Renaissance in one’s own life.

In making Outer Beauty, Inner Joy I was following my inner driving force, or daemon, as Plato called it. Working with these words and images helped connect me with the energy of the writers and artists presented here. I hope this book will be a springboard for those wishing to explore more deeply the art and literature of this time and place, taking the best of what the Renaissance had to offer, and incorporating it into their own lives. The subject of the Italian Renaissance is vast, its story complex, and I am focusing here only on a few elements that have impressed themselves upon me. There are many more players in this story who have not been included. This book is simply a brief encapsulation of the way I’ve understood what I’ve been reading and discovering, but the depths of knowledge to be found in this subject continues for me without a visible end in sight. These pages are only a dip into the Renaissance, one which may lead the reader to a longer and more profound immersion, and one that I think can be beneficial in reawakening a part of ourselves that may have grown dormant in the modern, technological world. I believe that the only way to deal with the immense problems we face today will be through recognizing the union of the material and spiritual worlds, cultivating tolerance for all great spiritual traditions, and deepening our connection to each other and to the planet.

LIVING IN VENICE: Hobby Natura Magazine

I’d been coming to Venice for years, and it was always a place of respite for me, an oasis where I could escape the noise and confusion of New York, my home town. I’d rent an apartment and stay two, three, or four weeks at a time. Here I could shake off the jitters of a high-speed pace of life and curb the feeling that time was slipping away all too quickly.

Venice felt safe and stable, especially compared with New York, where everything is always changing, and buildings are continuously being torn down and put up. Of course things are changing in Venice too, but slowly, and not so visibly. With the lack of cars and the virtual impossibility of building any modern structures, except for the Calatrava bridge at Piazzale Roma. Venice truly is a world apart, seeming to exist in its own unique time and space.

Very little ‘business’ except the tourist trade exists here anymore. The Venetian population is steadily diminishing, and Venetian craft shops and traditional bars are being bought by foreigners. Still, except for the motor boats, television antennae, and the way tourists talk and dress these days, many things have remained more or less the same. Venice is still hanging on to some remnant of an old way of life.

Now I’ve decided to stay for an extended period of time. When I arrived last November, it was bone-cold, damp, and foggy. But the presence of waters all around me and the gray skies had a calming, protective effect. It was so very quiet, like a cocoon—quite the oppostive of New York, “the city that never sleeps.”

But New York is big, you can travel vast distances and still be in ‘The City.’ Buildings are tall, but from a certain height, you can see for miles and have a sense of space. Here I can also walk and walk, but there is a sense of restriction: walls are everywhere and most apartments face one. Now the feeling of being in a protective space, the feeling I used to love when I came here for short periods of time, is often accompanied by one of being too enclosed. Even looking out to sea, I feel I’m cut off from the rest of the world.

Perhaps this constraint confers another kind of freedom though. Over the centuries, writers and artists have found inspiration in Venice; there are few distractions and the city impels a kind of interiority, making it a good environment in which to concentrate and to create. Creative people often feel that they don’t ‘fit in’ to normal society, but find a sense of belonging here. The longer I stay in Venice, the more the city seems to become a part of me, and I of it. The streets feel like they are ‘mine.’ People who love Venice become very possessive of it.

Venice can be alternately melancholy or cheerful in an otherworldly way. On its melancholy days, the peeling walls and dark waters impart a sense of foreboding and gloom. It’s on days like these that I notice the pictures of the newly departed that are pasted up on walls. And the evidence that time has worn this city down becomes more striking. So many palazzi are abandoned and decrepit, their windows dark. They seem to be in mourning for their former glory. I wish I could go back to the Renaissance for a day or two, back to when the buildings were frescoed and decorated with gold, when travelers poured in from all over Europe to hear concerts in convents and conservatories; or to the 19th century, when it was still possible to swim in the canals and go to the ‘Bagni,’ to bathe in fresh or salt water and take mud baths.

Still, the art and architecture live on. I go to Rome for a weekend, and the eternal city is wonderful. It’s open, filled with parks and big spaces. It also has glorious art and architecture. But these exist side by side with modern buildings and speeding motorists. Rome is happening, it’s young, it’s ‘now.’ When I return to Venice, it feels a bit old and shabby, small and close. Yet soon the walls and water entice me into their domain, and I again give in to their magnetism. I often think of the many public events and rituals that were once held in many parts of the city: Musical processions, marriage festivities, theatrical performances, political parades. Somehow, the walls must have absorbed these vibrations and retain them still.

From Hobby Natura.

VENICE IN MY DREAMS: Rosebud Literary Magazine

On the night of January first, 2002, I dreamed that a woman came into my bedroom and wrote the word Venice on the wall. She resembled an old person I had met at a party that day, but a young version, with long blonde hair. Maybe it’s the same woman, a sixteenth-century courtesan, who lives in a novel in my head.

The next day I remembered how the last time I was in Venice, I’d imagined dressing in the kinds of clothes this courtesan wore, in the city where she lived. I had been researching Renaissance Venice for some time, reading about Veronica Franco, a sixteenth-century courtesan and poet. But recently I hadn’t been thinking much about traveling. I had a lot of pressing things to do at home in New York. After the dream however, when I looked at the web page for the city of Venice and discovered that Carnival began on February first, I found myself making plans to go there.

Like almost every New Yorker, I’d experienced great anxiety during 2001. None of the assumptions I’d made about my life could be taken for granted anymore. I’ve always been the kind of person who contemplated mortality on a daily basis, but now I’d become even more painfully aware of each moment slipping away, and needed to regain some sense of equilibrium. Whenever I’ve felt troubled I’ve found solace in Venice, and it was good to know I’d soon be there again.

I have an enduring fascination with Venice. For years before I went there for the first time, I had been having dreams with a few Italian words thrown in, although I had never studied the language. Once I ev/a/pen dreamed I was in a room overlooking a canal.

On another occasion, I was in a jewelry store and felt compelled to buy a small gold charm, a winged lion holding a book. Later I learned that this is the lion of St. Mark, patron saint of Veniceh2. St. Mark’s lion was the symbol of the Venetian city-state known as La Serenissima, The Most Serene Republic, which, until Napoleon arrived and conquered her, had been an independent community for almost a millennium.

Now Venice has turned into an expensive Disneyland, lined with souvenir and designer clothing shops, attracting throngs of tourists from all over the world. When John Ruskin, author of The Stones of Venice, returned in 1845 after a lapse of six years, he was distraught over the decay that had taken place since his first visit. One hundred and fifty years later, I can only with difficulty try to imagine the splendor of the city during the Renaissance, when palaces were covered with porphyry and gold.

It’s still Venice, though, and the stones and buildings retain the vibrations of a thousand years of history. The first time I went there, in 1990, I spent the week in a daze, walking for hours. Surrounding me were Gothic and Byzantine palaces, ancient stone bridges, gondolas on the canals, busts of angels and faces in bas-relief on the facades of buildings, open-air markets, store windows displaying hand-blown glass, people of all nationalities mingling on the streets.

Each time I return, I have the sensation of being enveloped by something old, something real, something lasting. There’s an eternal feeling about the city, even as it crumbles into the sea.

After the plane reservations have been made and an apartment rented, I realize how relieved I am at the prospect of escaping New York City to return to a place where the only two modes of transportation are by foot or by boat. But the vaporetti, water taxis, are motorized and packed with tourists these days. So I prefer to walk or take the traghetto, the gondola service between two opposing points along a canal. That way I’m more in sync with the old ways.

I’ve never been able to feel a part of any particular group, church or organization, being more of a “solitary meditator.” But these days, no prayer or practice can stem my fear as dark waters of chaos swirl about the world. And although there are many religions and nationalities in New York, none seem intrinsic to the place. But in Venice, the vestiges of some of its once vast array of public rituals and calendrical rites still remain. As an independent Republic, Venice had a cohesive societal structure that allowed it to remain stable despite the tremendous forces for change that were occurring all around. Public rituals supported and sustained this unity and stability. Venetians of all classes identified strongly with their city, believing that it was a place chosen by God and that they were a chosen people. Legend has it that a mystical bond was established between Saint Mark and Venice when he stopped there while evangelizing in Italy. He had a dream in which an angel came and spoke the words that are now written on the book held by the winged lion: “Peace to you Mark, my Evangelist.” The angel also told him that his body would eventually rest there. And, according to legend, his relics were brought to Venice from Moslem controlled Alexandria in 827 or 828.

This, then, is the myth of Venice as a Renaissance Utopia, with a selfless ruling class, a balanced constitution, and a lack of social tensions.

Gabriele Fiamma, a fifteenth-century writer said: “I was born a Venetian and live in this happy homeland, protected by the prayers and guardianship of Saint Mark, from whom that Most Serene Republic acknowledges its greatness, its victories and all its good fortune.”

Ah, to be able to share in that feeling, if only for a little while.

From Rosebud

Staying on the Train: Promethean Literary Journal; Rosebud Literary Magazine

“Look who died today,” my father would often comment while reading the newspaper after work. He’d sit in his big ‘easy chair,’ holding the paper in front of him so that only his hands and crossed legs were visible. His voice, muffled by the paper, went on to describe the person, remarking on how young or old the newly deceased was. Later, at dinner, if my siblings or I did something he didn’t approve of, he’d say drily, “You’ll be sorry when I’m six feet under,” or “You’re killing your mother.”

Always restless, when I wasn’t jumping up from the table to dance around, I would wander into the adjoining living room where the television set was invariably on. In those days, news of the Viet Nam war filled the airwaves, and I’d watch men in camouflage clothes creeping through the jungle, accompanied by sounds of machine gun fire or explosions.

Those images of war, the cacophony of voices, and my father’s comments led me to ponder the solidity and interdependence of things. If my parents died, would I still be alive? How real was our house? Or any of us for that matter? When would death arrive here?

Sometimes on Sunday afternoons we used to drive from the new development where we lived in our modern, ranch-style house, to the opposite side of town where my grandmother lived in the humble, old wooden house where my father grew up.

She looked very old—old and rather frail like her house, with sunken cheeks and thin, gray hair pulled back into a low bun. I think some of her teeth were missing. I know there was always dish of hard candies on the coffee table, and I used to do a little dance for her that she liked.

She sat in a chair—I think it was a rocking chair—with her hands on her stomach, complaining about a pain, saying she was dying. She had come to this country from a village in Russia, where, I later learned, the Jews were attacked and she’d seen her sister being raped. I have no memory of her death, but perhaps it was her disappearance that impelled me to ask my mother:

“What happens when you die?” I must have been five or six years old, and I was standing near her legs as she worked on a sewing project at the dining room table.

“Go away. Don’t bother me,” she curtly replied, waving her hand to motion me to leave.

I said no more. Death must be a forbidden subject, I thought, at least for me. Although it seemed fine for others to talk about it. My mother had her own death stories that she repeated. One was about her mother’s death: she had been laughing and talking one minute, and then the next just sat down and died. And there was another about her father’s heart attack: how she’d stayed by his bed caring for him and how after he died, she cried so much, she never wanted to cry again. I only saw my mother cry when she watched old movies, and once when she had a cancer scare and had to go to the hospital for a biopsy. She used to laugh too, laugh until she cried, at some of those old movies. That’s when everyone in the family laughed together, watching such films as “I’m A Yankee Doodle Dandy” with Jimmy Cagney. When my mother’s parents came to the States from Russia, her father had opened a movie house and her happy memories mostly had to do with watching movies.

My mother suffered from tachycardia. During an attack, her heart beat very rapidly and she’d retreat to her room and lie on her bed with her hand hanging down over the edge to keep it lower than her chest. Sometimes I’d stand in the doorway and see her body rocking, her two fingers measuring the pulse in her neck. Of course she was afraid of death, like everyone else. She must have felt her heart could give out at any moment.

I started to wonder about, and want to contact, a power greater than me, greater than death—some source of refuge or safety.

Woman of Venice-novel excerpt

Prologue

Looking back now, after so many years, it seems that everything that happened afterward had its beginnings when I found those pages, tucked away in Father’s book. If I hadn’t, would I still be in the convent? Would Giovanni have helped me?  Would I even be alive? But if you believe in destiny, then I was meant to find them, to repeat the incantations, to make the magic happen. Or maybe Father had made an agreement with the Procurator years earlier, and the spell had nothing to do with it.

Whether the “spell” had any effect or not, I know that when I repeated those words, I wanted the Procurator to save me. I thought that if I left with him I could keep my honor, and find a husband and home of my own. Things didn’t turn out the way I expected. But in a strange way maybe he really was my savior.

I can still clearly remember when the Abbess called me in.

“An offer has come for you. That good friend of our convent, the Procurator Jacopo Contarini, would like you to act as music tutor to his children. He will provide for you and keep you as his own spiritual daughter.”   

She stopped speaking, and I tried to make sense of her words,

“However,” she went on, “if you would prefer to remain here and take your vows, no one can force you to leave. Your stepmother is bound to provide you with a dowry so that you can live here as a full and lifelong member. And in fact, because of your musical abilities, we would even wave the dowry requirement. I would like you to stay, not only because I believe the cloistered life to be the best life for a woman, but also because we’ll miss your music. But I cannot think of myself in this matter.

“Whatever you decide, you have my blessing. But remember—Procurator Contarini has been very generous with us here at Le Vergini and has persuaded others to do the same. It is our moral duty to keep him happy.” Then she leaned over her desk and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “You must know how powerful the Contarini are. Their authority goes beyond the letter of the law.” She straightened up again, clasping her hands under her chin. “Go and pray. When you are ready, give me your answer.”

Part I

June 1562

We faced a solid, black iron gate, beyond which lay the Convent of Santa Maria delle Vergini. I studied the diamond-shaped designs covering this tall barrier and squeezed Father’s hand. When I glanced back once more at our gondola resting on the rio, Piero, one of our drivers, waved and tipped his feathered cap. His eye twitched, as it always did, making it look as if he were winking and smiling at the same time. Father was leaving me here today, and I didn’t know if I’d ever see Piero, or my home, again.

The gate creaked open and a small old nun peeked out. She was smiling, a pink-gummed toothless smile. As she pulled open the heavy gate, and I stepped into the campo, it seemed I had entered not just another place in Venice, around the corner, across a canal, but another country, another world.

My aunts Vittoria and Celestina stood waiting for us in the garden. Their faces looked too pale to be out in the sunlight, and with their white nuns’ habits they seemed almost like ghosts. Father dropped my hand and stepped away. Suddenly I felt dizzy, as if I were falling backwards. He put his hands on my shoulders to steady me. 

Vittoria was just as tall as Father and he was tall for a Venetian. Her skin draped itself thinly over her sharp cheekbones, brows arched high above her eyes. She turned her gaze toward me, but the smile that played around her lips looked forced and uncertain.

 Celestina, smaller and rounder than Vittoria, stood a few steps behind. Keeping her head bowed, she peered at me from beneath hooded eyes. She held herself in a meek yet stiff way, and her full, sensuous eyebrows were so different from her square jaw.

“Welcome, child,” intoned Vittoria, brushing her arm up into the air, the sleeve billowing out. Vittoria’s long neck and regal head followed the direction of her arm, which pointed to the white blossom-covered apple trees with a few little sacks hanging loosely on the limbs. “See how happy we all are that you’ve come, and how happy you’ll be here?” 

I’d only seen my aunts a few times in my life, and now Father was turning me over to them to be my guardians. I looked up at him, but his eyes caught mine for only an instant before they glanced away and down. Vittoria shook one of the apple trees and a sack fell to the earth. She motioned for me to go to it. I looked at Father again and he nodded. Then Vittoria came over and stood next to Father and I went and took the package of pink silk, tied with a red ribbon. Inside I found almonds coated with sugar. Turning around, I saw Father give a small purse to Vittoria. He whispered something in her ear, and she smiled.

Two thickset nuns, looking drab in their gray habits compared with Vittoria’s and Celestina’s elegant white ones, appeared and took hold of my cassa, which carried all the things I’d brought from home. These women were converse, uncloistered nuns. I’d seen some of them before. Since Vittoria and Celestina could never leave the premises, these women brought letters, and gifts of bread and biscuits from my aunts to Father. Then he would send letters and fruits or other things my aunts had requested back to the convent.

I ran over to Father and hugged him. It was too late to beg him to take me with him, although that was what I yearned to do. I was so overcome with grief that I couldn’t speak.

“Don’t worry, dear,” said Father, stroking my hair. “I’ll come and see you very soon. Do what your aunts tell you to do. I know you will. You’ll learn so much here you’ll be able to teach me some things when you come out.”

In the morning light, his handsome features took on an air of youth, and a kind of gentle glow encompassed him. It was too early for him to have any wine yet, and his eyes were bright and clear. He bent over and kissed me on the forehead. I threw my arms around his neck and clung to him. It seemed impossible that he was about to leave me here.

You will write to me and come visit, won’t you?” I managed to whisper.

“Yes, of course. I just said I would.”

He’d said so many things, though, that hadn’t come true—that he would teach me until I was grown, that we would get a house on the mainland, that he always wanted me near him.

Now he tried to peel me off of him, but I held fast. Finally, Vittoria grabbed my arms and pulled me away.

“Father!” I cried out, squeezing the silk bag. They thought they had fooled me with their tricks. I kept my head turned to watch him as my aunts and I walked across the courtyard. “Come see me!” He waved and turned away, heading out of the gate. The old nun slammed it closed behind him.

I.1 Changes

Everything in my life had changed the day Father brought a strange woman to the house by the name of Cornelia. She’d smiled sweetly and even tried to get me to sit on her lap—which was embarrassing since I was nearly twelve and tall for my age. She asked me what I liked to do and what I didn’t, and when I said I liked to read and study books with Father she laughed as if that were the funniest thing in the world. Father seemed excited, but in a nervous way. His feet tapped continuously on the floor and he kept a tight-lipped smile on his face. After Cornelia left, I asked him who she was, and he said that she was going to save us and that I had to be very kind to her. Soon after, he married her—and soon after that she had a baby boy named Massimo.

But once she had moved in and settled herself, she spoke very little to me and wanted to be alone with Father in the evenings, whereas before she came Father and I had read and talked and, when the weather was good, taken walks.

I never dreamed Father would marry so soon after Mamma died, and certainly not to a woman like Cornelia. I tried to be nice to her, even though it was hard when she told me to call her Mamma. But no matter what I did she didn’t seem to approve. Father said she’d brought a large dowry, and Marta, who looked after me, said that everyone knew citizen class women, if they were rich enough, could marry nobles. Father used to be a trader, but when his ships sank and he started gambling, he fell into debt. Now Cornelia had become nobility and Father had been able to pay his creditors.

But he hadn’t only been a merchant; he was a book collector and he would let me decide which book on which subject to look at next, and I would choose from among the leather bindings and gold titles. And he told me that one day some of these books would be mine. But with Cornelia’s arrival, he’d lost interest in those long hours we used to spend together. He seemed too preoccupied with keeping Cornelia happy.

Once Massimo was born, I liked to look at him and try to make him smile; but I didn’t get to be with him very often, as Cornelia didn’t like me to come near. So, due to these reasons, after she’d been with us for some time my soul would shrink whenever I’d see her coming toward me, as if a stone had lodged in my chest. She would put on a smile, but her eyes were cold. 

One day, though, the wet nurse was alone with Massimo and I went to see if I could play with him. He was in a happy mood, laughing and shaking his little toy bells. The wet nurse even let me hold him, and just as I was kissing his cheek, Cornelia walked into the room and let out a shriek. She grabbed him in her arms, and with that he started wailing. She said I had made him cry, when in fact it was the opposite.

A few weeks later, I stood listening outside one of the small

chambers where Father and Cornelia liked to go after dinner. Recently, they’d started exchanging glances, nods, and smiles, and acting as if they had a secret, and I longed to find out what was going on. That night, after they thought I’d gone to bed, I came back and waited for a long time. Finally, Cornelia started speaking as if she were continuing an earlier conversation.

 “Most noble girls are sent off to study in a convent as soon as they can eat, talk,

and walk on their own. Bianca’s almost twelve!”

“I’ve been teaching her here, and she’s doing very well,” said Father.

“Yes, of course. But she needs to be with girls her own age.”

I knew they’d been hiding things from me, but I thought maybe Cornelia was going to have another baby, and they wanted me to move me from my large room in the front of the house to one in the back.

 Then I heard footsteps, and the rustling of fabric. I got ready to flee.

“Once she’s gone, we can make a fresh start: you, me, and Massimo.”

I thought of Mamma and the baby that was supposed to have been my real brother. Mamma had lost other babies too, and now Cornelia had given Father a son, as well as her money. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, staring blindly at the light in the keyhole of the closed door, I barely breathed. My chest was bursting. At last I heard Father say, “She’s sensitive. I don’t know how she’ll do in the convent. Now that her mother’s gone, she’s gotten more attached to me. I’m all she has. The rest of the family…want very little to do with me. Us, I mean. You’ve never met them. But even before….”

“That’s what I’m saying. Bianca will be with her two aunts in the convent,” said Cornelia in a tired, drawn-out way. “I’m a woman and I know what’s best. Trust me.”

I waited for Father to tell her he would never send me away, that I belonged with him. But there was only silence. I was trembling as I ran to my room. My dog Gemma was waiting for me by the door, her tail thumping, and I took her into bed with me. I lay awake for most of the night, wide-eyed and afraid, wishing I could go to Father, feel his arms around me. My body felt as if it weren’t whole, as if I were coming apart. I needed Father’s arms to hold me together, but I couldn’t go to him now.

***

The day I left for the convent, I awoke as usual to the sound of the Marangona as it tolled the hour, calling all the workers to their labors. A shock ran through my heart as the comfort of sleep vanished. Gazing around my room, windows and balcony overlooking the rio, writing desk and chair, paintings of golden angels on the walls, I again remembered I’d be leaving that day and sleeping in some strange bed that night. We lived in the sestiere of Castello—San Marco with its bell tower in one direction and the shipyard of the Arsenale, in the other. I’d be going to the very edge of Venice, beyond the Arsenale with its ship builders, to the Convent of Santa Maria delle Vergini.

Gemma sniffed and panted, showing off her pink tongue and letting out sharp, short barks. My stomach twisted into knots and I lay there clutching myself.

“Bianca!” Marta stood above a basin of freshly-heated water, her face appearing to shimmer in the rising steam. “Today you’re going away from us!” she cried in her clipped accent. Tiny strands of pale blonde hair had escaped from her bun and floated around her delicate head like a halo. And with those tremendous down-turned eyes, now filled with tears, she had the look of a pale Madonna. She’d come all alone from some German village and was very affectionate with me. I loved her dearly, and since Mamma died she’d made me feel protected and cared for. Now I would lose her, too. But there was nothing I could do. I had to face the future and all I could do was pray.

I kicked off the sheets and sat up, rubbing at the sand still in my eyes. Then I picked up my Book of Hours from the bedside table and turned to Thursday’s prayers.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies;

Thou hast anointed my head with oil; My cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

But not in the convent.

Marta pulled me out of bed, and the two of us dragged the tub to the center of the room. I threw off my nightdress and squatted in the water, splashing myself all over. I loved the feeling of the morning air on my moist, naked flesh.

 “You look like a skinny, white fish, just caught from the sea,” Marta said as I stood and she covered me in a cloth. I thought of those fish thrown into the boats in a heap, restless and flapping, and a sense of dread washed over me.

Father said mostly all noble girls went to convents to study. He said Le Vergini was the most special of all the fifty convents in Venice, because every time a new abbess was elected, our ruler the doge gave her a ring and she gave him a blessing. It was like a wedding, he said, between the doge and the Virgin Mary. I would be giving a blessing to Venice just by living there. He also said he would find me a noble husband, and that one day I would come out and be married.

But some of the girls who went to study in convents never came out. That had happened to my aunts. Mamma said since they were noble, they could only marry noble men; and since their father couldn’t afford a large dowry they had to stay in the convent. But she also said she’d never let me go into a convent. I heard her tell that to Father, and he agreed. And another time Mamma told me that no matter what, she’d find a way to make sure I had a dowry. Now Mamma was gone and I didn’t know if she’d given the dowry to Father, or if he’d gambled it away.

I started to cry, standing there covered only with a cloth, my hair dripping water on the floor. Gemma jumped around my feet, and I reached down and picked her up, getting her wet. I brushed back the fur on her face and kissed her.

“Oh Marta,” I said between sobs, “please take good care of Gemma for me.”

* * *

I went to the sala, the large hall that opened up to the loggia, the closed terrace that looked out onto the rio. I paced back and forth along the shining marble floor, going all the way to the end, then turning and walking back again to the staircase, with the portraits of our dead ancestors gazing down on me. And I thought about what it would be like to live in the convent, wondered how long I would have to stay. Marta said some girls married even as young as 14, while others did later, at 17 or older. So maybe I would get out in just two years! But then when I thought about being married it also seemed like an odd idea. Mostly I wanted to stay where I was, with Father. But that was impossible, because girls either had to get married or go into a convent. I chose to believe Father would find me a husband who would treat me kindly and I would love him and live in a casa as beautiful as this one. 

As I reached the top of the staircase yet again, Cornelia’s stout body appeared. Her baby, Massimo lay contentedly against her large breasts.

“Say good-bye to your sister. She’s going away to live in a convent,” she said, grinning. Then she took hold of the baby’s arm and waved it at me. He grasped his bunch of bells and started to shake them. Cornelia laughed and darted her eyes back and forth, between me and her baby. It was difficult to breathe.

“It’s good you’re not going to the Convent of Sant’Anna. The ghost of a girl wanders there, you know, looking for her lost lover.”

Then she laughed again and tears sprang into my eyes. I thought I’d cried them all out, but here they were again. She pursed her lips and frowned. “I was just teasing you! We’re going to miss you, aren’t we, my darling?” she said, looking at Massimo and kissing him on his pudgy cheeks. He was a healthy, cheerful baby, and the two of them seemed to be fashioned from the same mold, with round faces and popping eyes. But his eyes expressed the curiosity of the newly arrived in the world, while hers seemed to show fear. I reached out to caress him but Cornelia took a step back.

“You’re going to be so happy in the convent, with friends your own age. And you’ll be able to do all the things you can’t do here, with just your father and me and Massimo. We’re not very interesting company.”

I felt as if I’d been stung by a giant insect, one that paralyzes you. But then the shock wore off and a terrible anger flooded through me. She was making me leave all that I loved and I couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out.

“You don’t know anything about a convent since you’ve never lived in one! It’s true you’re not very interesting. But my father is the most interesting person in the world, and I’m very unhappy to leave him!” I stood there shaking; I’d never spoken to anyone that way before.

Her mouth hung open and her eyes stared. For the first time since I’d met her, she was speechless. Massimo tilted his head and stared at me too, mouth open.

She sniffed a few times and bit her lower lip. “I love you Bianca, and I care about you, as if I were your own mamma. How can you be so cruel?”

My heart was racing. “I’m sorry Cornelia, but I had a mother, and now she’s gone. My own mamma never wanted me to leave her. You asked Father to send me away.”

I rushed past her to go down the staircase. But after taking a few steps I heard her mumble something and I glanced back. She had on the familiar, terrible mask again, the one she almost always wore, lips turned up, eyes hard and cold.

 “Don’t be selfish, Bianca. Think of it this way. You’ll be doing everyone a wonderful service. The government needs heaps of women in convents to pray for the protection and welfare of the Republic.” Then she added, “But it would be a shame if you have to become a nun and cut off all that beautiful blonde hair of yours.”

“My parents raised me to be a noble wife, not a nun,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster. Then I ran down the stairs, out to the garden.

 Once there, my tears came pouring out. I gazed at a statue of a unicorn that stood in a corner, with figures of snakes and crabs crawling toward her. The unicorn, mysterious and difficult to capture or tame, stood guard over the lavender, one of those plants loved by Our Lady. I broke off a small branch and tucked it into the cuff of my sleeve and prayed it would bring me back here. A servant’s voice called out my name, and I said a final goodbye to the garden. I went to the long androne—the place where the goods Father used to sell had been stored—that opened onto the short embankment and the rio. Now the space stood empty and dark, but a bit of the pungent smell of spices still clung to the walls.  

* * *

Little white puff-balls of pollen flew through the air like snow. Swallows darted in the sky, tracing giant mysterious patterns. Across the rio, a few women leaned out of windows. On the street below, men clustered together as they talked and gestured, and boys carrying packages skirted in and out among them.

Calmer now, I stood on the fondamenta, where the mossy wooden steps that led from the rio were covered by the tide. Sunlight glanced off the water onto the surface of the walls. Uncle Giovanni showed up, his wiry hair looking as if he’d just walked through a storm. That one lock of hair on top of his head stuck up, as it always did, and his stomach bulged and strained against the buttons on his doublet. As in many families, only one brother could afford to marry, so Giovanni lived in his own apartment in another part of the house.

“Carissima Bianca! Don’t go!” he wailed. Then he laughed, picked me up and twirled around. “Don’t be afraid; nuns don’t bite,” he said.  He tweaked my ear. When he pulled his hand back, it held a golden coin. “Keep this until you come out to be married.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” I said, tears starting to rise again. “Don’t forget to visit me.”

“I could never forget,” he said.

I bent down and hid the coin in my shoe. Then I got in the boat and sat next to Father on the bench, while Piero lifted up my cassa filled with clothes, sheets, pillows, hair combs, and my Book of Hours, and set it down in front of us. Piero and the other boatman pushed off with their long oars, and we rocked away. I looked at our house; some clusters of violet wisteria trailed down from the roof, touching an eagle triumphing over a hare carved into the wall. Would virtue triumph over evil in my life?

Even though Cornelia wanted to hurt me, I shouldn’t have said those awful things to her; I should have turned the other cheek, and I felt ashamed. I prayed she wouldn’t make Father think I should stay in the convent forever. I took Father’s hand and squeezed it until he turned and smiled. But his eyes weren’t smiling. “I want to make you happy, Father.”

 “You do, dear. But sometimes we can only make each other happy by being apart for a while.”

 I didn’t understand this answer but I didn’t know what else to say.

Rachel’s Quandary-novel excerpt

Part I

Fall 1600

Chapter 1. Encounter

 Rachel kept her arms crossed in front of her to cover the badge, as if trying to stay warm. She didn’t have to pass by guards and through gates, but she resented having to wear the yellow marker. In Venice it was the crimson scarf—but the badge Jews had to wear here felt more humiliating. 

Arriving at David’s bookshop, she pushed open the door making the bell jangle and was greeted by the sweet and musty scent of paper, vellum, and leather. The bound books and manuscripts sat in their places on the shelves, and a few lay open on the reading tables. Some men sat chatting on the dark wooden benches that lined the windows. David stood behind the counter talking to a customer, and she rushed past him into the back office where she spotted a stack of newly arrived manuscripts, covered with a cloth. Lifting it, she saw they were hand written. Every newly available Hebrew book had to be examined by the censor, a former Jew named Alessandro Scipione who worked for the Inquisition. Apostate monks made the best censors, since they knew which books and passages Christians found most offensive.

 On her desk, she saw a notice for the Frankfurt book fair. David had an agent who brought in books from Antwerp, Lyon, Cologne, Basel, and Paris—where restrictions didn’t apply. But they had to be careful not to import titles on the Index of Prohibited Authors and Books. Some books were approved if offending passages were expurgated, while others were banned altogether, such as those by Martin Luther. But Petrarch’s sonnets, Boccaccio’s tales, Machiavelli’s political writings were also considered subversive. Rachel thought of the Venetian bookseller who had been arrested by the Inquisition for selling secret copies of books. 

She heard footsteps and turned as David entered through the curtain that separated her office from the shop. The two of them had the same long, straight nose that stopped short of turning down, the same auburn colored hair—although his hair and beard were already turning gray.  

“I have to run an errand, can you come out front? If you have any questions about cost or availability, just take the person’s name and I’ll see to it. And if anyone wants to know about those manuscripts,” he said, glancing at the pile in the corner, “don’t say a word!”

Rachel sighed. Even after two years he treated her as if she didn’t understand the risks. She followed him into the shop as he disappeared through the curtain.

A few moments later she heard the bell and found herself looking up into a man’s eyes.

“Good day, Signora,” he said, removing his hat. “I am Samuel Rodrigues and I’d like to speak to David de Basilea. Is he here?” He looked around and then back at her, his lips turning into a smile.

David had mentioned him, more than once, and now that he stood in front of her she remembered she’d seen him years earlier in Venice. She’d been struck by him then, the full mouth, wavy black hair. Yet then he’d been robust while now he looked haggard. 

“Good day, Signore. My brother has gone out, but he’ll be back soon. I’ve heard him speak of you. You…” 

“Are you David’s sister? I’ve never seen you here before.” 

“I’ve been here for over two years now.”

“Two years…I’ve been away that long. No wonder. I live in Livorno but come here to see my uncle.”  He paused for a moment, putting his finger to his lips. “I think I met you once, long ago, in Venice.” 

 “Yes, you had come to speak with my father, Elia.

“That’s right—your brother wanted me to meet him and talk about diamonds. Wonderful man. I’ve actually just come from Venice and I’ve brought some letters,” he said, handing one to her. 

Rachel gasped. “Thank you! How is he? How is my mother…and my brother?”

“They’re all fine,” he reassured.

Her cheeks grew hot, and she felt anxious both because this man stirred something in her and because she was eager to read the letter. She wanted to hear more about her family, but then he went on.

“I’ve come to find a book for my uncle.” He leaned closer. “He wants to read in the ancient language—but he doesn’t have a firm grasp of it. He wants to know if you have a Hebrew grammar.”

This man wasn’t Ashkenazic like Rachel and David, he was Sephardic: He was dressed in fine clothes, his coloring was dark, and he didn’t wear the badge. Rich Sephardic traders were often exempt from that humiliation. Also, he was clean shaven—and he’d removed his hat. 

The bell sounded again; David strode in, and the two men clapped each other on the back. David nodded to Rachel, then headed with Samuel behind the partition. Rachel began moving among the customers—but her thoughts alternated between Samuel’s image and the letter.

After a while, the two men emerged; but before leaving, Rodrigues came over to her. “It was nice meeting you Signora. Until the next time.” He bowed and Rachel’s eyes followed him until he disappeared from view. 

She retreated to her desk and opened the letter, her eyes darting through the page. She’d written to her father ages ago and had been waiting for his reply. He welcomed her suggestion to come visit—as long as David didn’t mind and she could find a secure way to travel. But he didn’t want her to spend her hard-earned money, if she could put it to better use. She wondered what he left out of the letter. He didn’t like to tell her his problems, yet she worried about him, and about her mother and younger brother Danit. 

Rachel glanced around the small room, shelves with manuscripts ready to be bound, the pile in the corner, her desk with its ledgers stacked on three sides like a fortification. She got up and opened the door in the back that led to an alley and stepped outside. Before she came here, David told her she would often be out in the shop. But instead, he’d mostly relegated her to this back office.

He also said that Jews had more freedoms here than in Venice—that Duke Vincenzo Gonzaga allowed them to sell new goods, lend money at interest, and build houses of worship. And this much was true. But Mantua had its own evils, and Gonzaga was unpredictable, swayed by whomever had his ear.

A wave of anguish poured through her as she thought of that day last spring, when Judith Franchetta, a rabbi’s widow, was burned alive. The duke’s sister, Duchess Margherita had made it her mission to convert Jewish girls. And after she’d led the young Luina to the baptismal font, renamed her after herself—Sister Margherita— she had her locked in a convent where the poor girl went mad. The duchess coerced someone into pointing a finger at Franchetta, said she’d cast a spell. Of course, everyone knew Jews were capable of all kinds of diabolic activities. 

 Franchetta wasn’t the only woman to be executed for witchcraft in Mantua; the city was known for it. But she was the first Jewish woman in the entire peninsula to die this way. Rachel wondered which of their customers had been there to watch. She’d heard there were more than 10,000 there that day, a third of the population.

How she longed to leave.Even though the Venice ghetto was cramped, and inhabitants had to be locked in from dusk to dawn, now it seemed to offer safety and sanity. She thought of the festivals, parties, and music. At Purim, people crowded in wearing costumes and masks, no one worrying who was Christian, who was Jew. In the fall, on Simchat Torah, during the celebration of the cycle of Torah readings, Christians joined the congregations and lingered in the courtyard to eat and watch the dancing. 

It was easy to remember the good times now that she was far away, and not so easy when she was there and everything reminded her of her husband Isaac, of blessed memory, even after so many years. Still, maybe she had lived with David and Eva long enough. With three growing children and another on the way, she was taking up space.

# # #

Later that afternoon, Rachel slipped away from the shop. She left early on Fridays to help David’s wife Eva prepare for Shabbos. But first she would stop by her cousin Serafina’s house to drop off a children’s book. Serafina and her husband were going to the palace for a concert so Rachel wouldn’t stay long. By now the sun had grown stronger, and she relaxed into the walk—there were few people on the streets, as it was after the midday meal when most stayed in to rest. 

Rachel thanked HaShem that she had Serafina, her only other relative in Mantua besides David and his family. They had known each other in Venice, although they’d only grown close since they were both living here. Serafina had moved to Mantua years earlier to sing in the duke’s private choir, and later married Alfonso. But he didn’t like Jews and resented her friendship with Rachel. He didn’t know that Serafina’s grandmother was Jewish and converted to Christianity when she married a Venetian noble. And he didn’t even know Rachel and Serafina were related.

Soon the buildings became grander, their tall, wide gates like sentinels. The great door opened and a servant led Rachel through richly carpeted halls. Carved chairs lined the entryway, and the walls, covered with tapestries, told stories of hunts and balls. The high ceilings towered overhead, and cherubs frolicked in the painted clouds. Serafina appeared, gliding down the stairs, slender and graceful, blonde tendrils framing her face.

“Happy Birthday!” She burst out, laughing, her two children grabbing Rachel around her legs. She bent down to hug them.

“It was yesterday but thank you. I can’t believe you remembered!” She was 38 now. Rachel handed the book to the nursemaid and the children, jumping in excitement, followed her away while Serafina led Rachel upstairs to her private rooms. 

On the large, canopied bed lay a teal blue dress. “For you,” said Serafina. 

Rachel stared at it, speechless. It wasn’t the first time Serafina had given her things, but never a dress as beautiful as this.

 “Thank you for this generous gift,” then added, “I can wear it for a special occasion.”

“You’ll wear it today.”

“I’ll try it on,” said Rachel, not wanting to hurt Serafina’s feelings. She didn’t like to stand out, afraid of drawing unwanted attention; there was the time a Christian man followed her to the shop.

“You’re coming with us to the concert!” Serafina announced. “Rossi is playing today, and I know you love him.”

Rachel adored Salamone Rossi, the most esteemed Jewish musician at the duke’s court. He was a hero; he’d played his compositions at religious services, even though some rabbis said it shouldn’t be allowed. Rachel had heard Christian music, and she’d heard the Jewish cantors who led the prayers. This was something else—Christian harmonies with Hebrew lyrics. 

Rachel shook her head in disbelief.

“Alfonso has gotten you permission to attend. And you won’t have to wear the badge, either.” 

Rachel dropped down onto the bed. 

“Don’t sit on the dress!” laughed Serafina.

 “But it’s Friday, I can’t go anywhere—I need to help Eva.” 

“You’ll be back in plenty of time. I promise.”

Rachel looked again at the dress, a luminous silk.

“I really can’t. And it’s not only Eva—David will be upset.”

“He has no choice, and anyway, Alfonso has already sent a messenger. Eva has her servants. She doesn’t really need you, this one special day. We need to leave right away.”

The chance to go to the concert felt like a dream. She couldn’t refuse. David would tell Eva when he stopped at the house to get the boys before going to the scuola for services.