And so, on the evening of November 10, 1727, I found myself in the Cassenti box at the Teatro Sant’ Angelo, from which I had seen countless operatic performances, and followed the careers of singers and composers alike. Yet never before had I seen a performance like this one.
I tried to focus my attention on the stage right from the beginning, but my mind was a blur of thoughts and my stomach was churning. Once the dark and haunting opening sinfonia had ended, I could not bring myself to concentrate. Even Vivaldi’s music could not drown out the refrain echoing in my mind: Any moment now, my daughter, mia figlia, my firstborn, will appear on that stage.
Much to my annoyance, my friends were engaging in their usual games and conversation in the rear of the box, and I could hear them even from where I sat at the front. And they had all been so anxious to attend, or so I thought, I reflected irritably. Yet to my surprise, it was Giulietta who finally brought everyone to order. “Come, mieri cari, we must quiet down and not disturb Adriana. After all, it is the first time she is seeing Anna Girò.”
With that, they all filed out to take their seats in the front of the box with me. Giuseppe contrived to sit beside me, swiftly reaching out to squeeze my hand before anyone could see.
I had to fight back the tears that threatened at his gesture. Oh, what am I doing here? I cried inwardly. How can I see my daughter stand upon that stage, open to the criticism and judgment of all Venice, and still retain my composure? I should leave, leave now, plead some illness and not put myself through this …
Then she swept onto the stage, and every last thought fled so quickly that I could not hope to recall them.
Even at the young age of sixteen years, her body was that of a woman: she had inherited my curvaceous figure and full breasts, displayed to their best advantage by the low neckline of her costume. A long, braided black wig concealed her true hair color, but I began to imagine that it was dark brown, like mine.
So lost was I in studying her that I scarcely noticed she had begun to sing. Gradually I came to realize that what so many had said of her voice was true, and the knowledge was a dull, blunt blade between my ribs. As much as the mother in me wished otherwise, the musician in me could not deny the truth.
Anna had not inherited her grandmother’s gift, then. Yet it could not be denied that she was the most commanding actor on the stage. Every gesture, every movement, every facial expression drew the eye and brought to life the words that she was singing, so that she seemed a sorceress, indeed: one who could make the audience believe entirely what was happening before them.
In between picking out more points of resemblance—she has my nose, though her skin is paler, like her father’s—I listened closely to her singing, and a number of good qualities began to emerge. When she created more space within her mouth to let the sound resonate, for example—a technique I knew from sitting in on some of Lucrezia’s lessons with Vittoria—the result was a big, rich, darkly textured sound that sent chills through me. Yet despite the heaviness of her voice, she moved with ease through the ornaments and trills as the opera went on.
The height of her power over the audience—myself included—came during what was Alcina’s most beautiful and sympathetic aria, in act two.
“Così potessi anch’io,” she sang sorrowfully, wrapping her arms around herself in a gesture of desolation. “Goder coll’idol mio, la pace che trovar non può il mio cor.”
The words of the aria—and her masterful singing of it, as if she had been saving all that she had for that moment—caused me to tremble. If only I, too, could enjoy with the one I love the peace my heart cannot find …
The words reflected my own fragile hope of so many years ago. And Vivaldi’s marvelous music, his melody and skillful word painting—which made it seem as if Alcina were alternately weeping and raging—only served to heighten this effect, creating more truth than words by themselves ever could.
Selfishly, I could not help but wonder if this, too, Vivaldi had written for me. Was he trying to say to me that he, too, wished for the same things, had always wished for them? After all, how better for him to ensure that I hear his message than by putting it in the mouth of our daughter?
True to custom, Anna added a great deal of embellishments and ornaments as the first section of the aria repeated again, showcasing a technical virtuosity which I had not heretofore glimpsed. Surely now no one can doubt what he sees in her. And indeed, the applause at the conclusion of the aria was quite robust.
As soon as the applause ended, I rose from my seat and exited the box, so swiftly that no one had time to question me. I walked out to the foyer of the theater, where I hoped no one would happen upon me, and finally let loose the tears I had struggled to hide.
I was trying to compose myself when one of the theater’s servants hesitantly approached me. “Madonna? Is there any way in which I may assist you?”
“Yes,” I replied, without thinking on it further. “Please bring me a bit of parchment and a quill, if you would.”
The servant hurried to obey, and when he returned, I leaned the parchment against a small table in the foyer and wrote my message: I must see her after the performance. Arrange it any way you must. I signed it with only my given name, folded the parchment into four sections, and handed it to the servant. “See that Maestro Vivaldi gets this as soon as possible,” I instructed him.
The servant bowed. “Very good, madonna.” He disappeared to deliver my message, and I made my way back to the box.