Daughter of Venice Read Online Free Page A

drop my bobbin. It rolls across the room, undoing almost all my winding. But I don’t care. Francesco’s stories are how my sisters and I learn about the Venice we never see—the Venice my brothers are part of. I rush to block his way. “You were out late last night, weren’t you?”
    “I’m always out late.” Francesco grins. “That’s the fun of being young and male.” Francesco is twenty-two years old, old enough to take a wife. But so far he’s shown no interest in settling down. Instead, he enjoys the company of many women. And sometimes, though I’m not supposed to know this, he sneaks a woman into his room.
    My cheeks heat up at Francesco’s words, but I’m so hungry for news that I persist, even at the risk that his tale will be bawdy. “So what did you see?”
    Laura and Paolina put down their bobbins and come over to us now. “Tell us,” says Paolina.
    “What is this? First Bortolo, now you girls. Does everyone need amusement today?”
    “What do you mean, ‘first Bortolo’?” asks Paolina in a loud whisper. Her eyes brighten. “Did you hold his arms while he stood on the balcony railing again?”
    “I’d never tell.” Francesco raises his eyebrows and smiles mysteriously. Standing on the balcony railing is expressly forbidden. And it’s something Bortolo loves. Francesco is the only one of us who dares to let Bortolo do it.
    “Well, no matter what you did with Bortolo, telling stories to us is not simple amusement. It’s edification,” I say firmly. “And you hardly ever spend time with us anymore. Please, Francesco.”
    “I did see something wonderful, and it has a great story behind it.” Francesco sits on the floor and we sit before him, like believers before a priest. He looks at each of us slowly, reveling in his power.
    I pinch him on the leg. “Speak.”
    “I saw a painting by Paolo Veronese.”
    “A painting?” Laura’s face falls. “Just a painting?”
    “No, not just a painting. A very special painting. It was entitled ‘The Last Supper of Christ.’ ”
    I’m puzzled. None of my brothers is particularly pious, least of all Francesco. Nor does Francesco have a strong love of the arts. “What’s special about the painting?”
    “The apostles use forks to pick their teeth; the soldiers hold mugs of wine; the servants have bloody noses; silly people stand around in the background with parrots on their shoulders.” Francesco’s hands paint the scene in the air as he talks.
    “It sounds raucous,” I say.
    “That’s precisely what the representatives of the Inquisition said.”
    I draw closer in confusion. The Inquisition is the church tribunal that seeks out and punishes heresy.
    “The Convent of Santissimi Giovanni e Paolo commissioned the painting, then the Inquisition denounced Veronese for it.” Francesco’s voice rises and his words quicken. “They said it was an offense to the eucharist and they demanded that everything that made the painting so vital and exciting be changed.”
    The painter was denounced—my heart pounds. What terrible punishment did he receive?
    Paolina turns to me, her eyes big. “Father doesn’t like the Inquisition telling Venice what to do. He’s said that before, many times.”
    But Francesco laughs. “No one really tells Venice what to do. Or, rather, Venice never listens.”
    “So the Senate found a way around the denunciation?” I ask, incredulous.
    “A most elegant, and, thus, Venetian way.” Francesco’s eyes shine. “The Committee on Heresy simply changed the name of the painting to ‘
Il Convito in Casa di Levi
’—the banquet at Levi’s house.”
    Elegant indeed. The lucky painter. I’m laughing.
    “Who was Levi?” asks Paolina.
    “A man in the holy testament who offered a banquet for Jesus,” says Laura. “You know that story, Paolina.”
    “So Veronese is a free man and Venice got our wonderful painting as is.” Francesco stands and wags a finger at us. “Remember that, my lovelies. To be