I did not see Anna Girò make her operatic debut in Venice, in Albinoni’s Laodicea, in 1724. Nor did I go to see her sing in her first role that Vivaldi wrote for her, in his opera Farnace, which premiered at the Teatro Sant’ Angelo in February of 1727.
In truth, I was torn by uncertainty. The desire to see my daughter—fueled in no small part by simple curiosity—was almost overwhelming. Yet still I resisted.
Anna Girò was slowly becoming the talk of Venice. Her early performances did not receive much praise, when she was noticed at all among the crowd of ostentatious divas and preening castrati. Yet it had been conceded by many of the operatic critics that she was quite young and had potential, once she had learned more about singing and the operatic stage.
However, she remained a relative nonentity in the opera world until she was taken on as a protégée by the great Maestro Antonio Vivaldi.
Vivaldi, it seemed, was both teaching her how to be a great diva, as well as writing roles for her low voice—unusually low for someone so young. And in Venice, where no morsel was too small to make a fattening meal of gossip, the exclusive attention paid by a well-known composer, impresario, and violinist to a heretofore unknown singer gave society’s tongues plenty to wag about.
For a while it was accepted that she was simply the maestro’s favorite pupil. Yet by the time it was announced that she was to appear as the sorceress Alcina in Vivaldi’s Orlando furioso, premiering at the Sant’ Angelo in November of 1727, the rumors had begun to brew into the storm that would hang over Vivaldi’s head for the rest of his life.
While there was the odd critic who raved about her performance in Farnace, most critics and the discerning, operagoing Venetian public seemed to think that while her acting skills were of an extremely high quality, her voice was not. And, everyone was asking, should not Vivaldi know this better than anyone? Why, then, was he devoting so much of his surely valuable time to a rather unremarkable student?
Only three souls living knew the truth: Vivaldi, Giuseppe, and I. I knew without needing to be told that Anna still did not know the truth of her parentage. I also knew Vivaldi would not reveal it to her, out of respect for me and for the secret we had scrupulously kept all these years.
But as far as the rest of Venice was concerned, there must be only one explanation: Anna Girò was Vivaldi’s mistress. It was whispered by the most notorious gossips until it became common knowledge. Already they were calling Anna l’Annina del Prete Rosso: the Red Priest’s Annina.
My initial reaction to the rumors was horror; luckily, it was from Giuseppe that I heard it first, so there was no need to hide my response. Yet eventually—though my disgust with those who delighted in such unproven rumors did not abate—that horror faded, replaced by a rather wry sense of irony.
This was all in addition to the reputation Vivaldi had gained of late for being somewhat grasping, determined to receive his due for his art at any cost. He was, it was said, capable of being a most unpleasant man when crossed. I could not quite reconcile these accounts with the man I had known so well. Could he truly have changed so much?
I had found excuses to absent myself when my friends were going to hear Anna sing, yet I found my resolve weakening as they made plans to go to the opening night of Orlando furioso. It weakened even more when Giuseppe came to try to talk me into attending.
“I told them that as your brother I would have the best chance of getting you to agree,” he said, standing before the fireplace. “They do not know, of course, all the arguments I might present, nor the true reason you are so reluctant.”
I did not speak.
“They—Vittoria and Giulietta, and even Mario—are beginning to wonder in earnest why you have not wanted to hear her thus far,” he said.
I laughed mirthlessly. “Such a tactic is beneath you, fratello.”
He shrugged. “You may think so, but nonetheless what I say is true. The pieces are all there for someone to assemble if they may.”
“I do not think that anyone living is in possession of all the pieces,” I said. “Giacomo may have been able to put the picture together, had he lived.”
“I do not think you give your friends enough credit,” he said. “Especially Vittoria.”
My head snapped up. “Has she said something to you?”
“No,” he said. “But you know that she is quite perceptive. And I know not the things you may have said to her over the years.”
I fell silent, considering all the slips—and near slips—of the tongue I had had.
“You will be able to see her,” Giuseppe said softly. “How long have you waited for this chance?”
Am I being a fool? And am I betraying the secret I have tried so hard to keep by my reluctance? “By the Virgin, I am too old for such intrigue,” I said aloud. “Very well, I shall go.”
Giuseppe smiled. “Good. Your friends will be pleased. And I will be there, sorella mia. You may depend upon me.”
“I know.” I smiled at him. “I always have.”