However detestable her unyielding attitude must have seemed to the two lovers, it was certainly justified in the eyes of the English community. Consul Smith was fond of both Andrea and Giustiniana, but he was a practical man. When Andrea confided in him he sympathized with the lovers to a point. Nonetheless, he was very much on Mrs. Anna’s side. The few Venetian families with whom the Wynnes socialized also supported her—especially the powerful Morosinis, with whom the Memmos had a long-running political feud and whom Andrea detested. But her chief ally, as opposed as they were in character and inclination, was Andrea’s mother. Lucia saw, perhaps more clearly than the rest of the Memmos, the material disadvantages that a union with Giustiniana would bring to an old house which needed to reinvigorate its weak finances. And she feared the political damage the Memmos would suffer if her eldest and most promising son ever betrayed the family and crossed the inquisitors by marrying a woman beneath his rank.

The difference between the two mothers was that Lucia simply wanted to make sure Andrea did not get it into his head to marry Giustiniana. If in the meantime he dallied with her, as young men often did before settling down, it was no great worry to her and would not damage his future prospects. Mrs. Anna, on the other hand, was fighting a daily battle to prevent any contact between the lovers that might taint the family’s reputation and jeopardize her daughter’s chances of a respectable marriage.

Mrs. Anna was losing the battle. Andrea’s courtship was assiduous, visible to everyone, and highly compromising. He saw Giustiniana every day at the Listone in Piazza San Marco, where Venetians gathered for their evening stroll, and often later on as well, at one of the theaters. He frequently moored his gondola to the narrow dock below the Wynnes’ house and called on Giustiniana in full view of the family. In the winter of 1754 Mrs. Anna finally confronted him. She caused a terrible scene, declaring Andrea persona non grata in their house and making it clear she never wanted to see them together again. All communication was forbidden: letters, messages, the merest glance. It had to finish, she yelled—and sent him on his way.

News of Mrs. Anna’s dramatic stand traveled quickly around town. Andrea referred to the scene as his cacciata funesta22—his fateful banishment, and the starting point of all their misery.

Mrs. Anna was a fierce watchdog, always on the alert and obsessively suspicious. She kept a close eye on her eldest daughter and did not let her go out without a chaperon—usually herself. Her spies were planted wherever the lovers might seek to escape her gaze, both within the English set and among Venetian families, and she kept her ears constantly pricked for gossip about the lovers. Venice was a small world. Everyone knew who was losing his fortune at the Ridotto on a particular night and who was having an affair with whom. Andrea and Giustiniana were aware of the risk they were taking in defying Mrs. Anna’s ban; they had to be extremely careful about whom they spoke to and what they said. At a deeper level, they knew the future offered little promise of an end to their difficulties. But it was too soon, and they were too young, to worry about the future. For all the trouble their love had already caused, only one thing mattered to them in the winter and spring of that year: exploiting every opportunity to be together.

Just as Mrs. Anna resorted to the Venetian arts of intelligence, Andrea set up a small network of informers to obtain daily information about Giustiniana’s movements. His chief spy was Alvisetto, a young servant in the Wynne household, who was not always dependable because his fear of Mrs. Anna was sometimes stronger than his loyalty to his secret paymaster. He had the unfortunate habit of disappearing during his missions, leaving Andrea flustered and clueless on a street corner or at the side of a bridge. “Alvisetto did not make it to our appointment and I went looking for him all morning in vain,” he complained. “Poor us, Giustiniana. Sometimes I lose all hope when I think in whose hands we have put ourselves.”

Alvisetto was also the chief messenger, and he shuttled back and forth between Andrea and Giustiniana with letters and love notes. Occasionally, the gondoliers of Ca’ Memmo would moor at a dock near the Wynnes’ to drop off or pick up an envelope. If Mrs. Anna was at home, the two lovers would fall back on “the usual bottega for deliveries,” a general store around the corner from Giustiniana’s home, run by a friendly shopkeeper. When Andrea’s message could not wait—or if the urge to see her was irrepressible—he would appear at the window of Ca’ Tiepolo, the imposing palazzo across a narrow waterway from the Wynnes’ more modest house.

Ca’ Tiepolo belonged to one of the oldest and grandest Venetian families. Its wide neoclassical façade stood majestically on the Grand Canal. From the side window of the mezzanine it was possible to look directly across to the Wynnes’ balcony. The ties between the Tiepolos and the Memmos went back many centuries. Andrea was a good friend of the young Tiepolos and especially close to Domenico, better known by his nickname Meneghetto, who was among the few to know from the start that Andrea’s love affair with Giustiniana was continuing in secret. Meneghetto was happy to help, and Andrea often dropped by after sending Giustiniana precise instructions. “After lunch,” he advised her in one note, “find an excuse to come out on the balcony. But for heaven’s sake be careful about your mother. And don’t force me to edge out as far as the windowsill because she will certainly see me.”

Andrea’s portable telescope was very useful. He would point it in the direction of Giustiniana’s balcony from a campiello, a little square, across the Grand Canal, to check whether she was at home or to find out whether she might be getting ready to go out or, best of all, to watch her as she leaned lazily over the balcony, her hair wrapped in a bonnet, watching the boats go by. When he observed her from such a distance—about a hundred yards—Giustiniana was not always aware Andrea was spying on her. “Today I admired you with my canocchiale [telescope],” he announced to her mischievously. “I don’t really care if your mother saw me…. After all, the rules merely state that I cannot come into your house and that I cannot write to you.”

From a purely technical point of view he was also within bounds when, thanks again to the benevolence—and the sweat—of his gondoliers, he came down the Grand Canal and signaled to Giustiniana from the water. On days when she was confined to the house and they had no other way of seeing each other, Andrea’s sudden appearance at her neighbor’s window or the familiar plashing of the Memmo gondola down below was a welcome consolation. “Come by the canal as my mother doesn’t want me to go out,” she would plead. “And make an appearance at Ca’ Tiepolo as well, if you can.”

They developed their own sign language so they could communicate from a distance during the evening walk at the Listone or at the theater or, later in the night, at the gambling house. “Touch your hair if you’re going to the Ridotto,” he instructed her. “Nod or shake your head to tell me whether you plan to go to the piazza.” These little signals sometimes caused confusion if they were not worked out in advance. They also had to be given very discreetly, lest they set off Mrs. Anna’s alarm bells. “When you left the theater,” Andrea wrote anxiously, “you signaled something to me just as your mother turned around, and I think she might have noticed that. If this were the case it could damage us, since she might also have noticed all the other gestures we had made to each other from our boxes.” Despite his occasional burst of bravado, Andrea remained deeply worried not just by what Mrs. Anna might have seen but also by what she thought she might have seen. He went to such extremes to avoid creating false impressions that he sometimes sounded like an obstinate stage manager. “You must realize that if your mother catches you laughing with someone she can’t see, she will assume that you are laughing with me,” he once said to her in a huff. “So try to be careful next time.”

Andrea fretted constantly about how dangerous it was to write to each other. If their correspondence ever fell into the wrong hands, there would be an explosion “that would reduce everything to a pile of rubble.” Still he deluged Giustiniana with letters and notes, often filling them with practical advice and detailed descriptions of his frantic chases around town. “We are completely mad…. If only you knew how afraid I am that your mother might find out we are seeing each other again.”

It was a glorious adventure. There were times when they managed to get close enough to steal a quick embrace in an alcove at the Ridotto or in the dark streets near the theaters at San Moisè, and the thrill was always powerful. “Last night, I swear,” Andrea wrote to his beloved the morning after one of these rare encounters, “you were so heated up, oh so heated up, such a beautiful girl, and I was on fire.” But in the beginning they tended to hold back. They made their moves with deliberation. They kept each other at a safe distance: lovemaking was mostly limited to what their eyes could see and what their eyes could say.

It is easy to imagine how, in a city where both men and women wore masks during a good portion of the year, the language of the eyes would become all-important. And what was true in general was especially true for Andrea and Giustiniana on account of the rigid restrictions that had been imposed on them. Andrea was being very literal when he asked anxiously, “Today my lips will not be able to tell you how much I love you…. But there will be other ways…. Will you understand what my eyes will be saying to you?” What their eyes said was not always sweet and not always clear. With such strong emotions at play, it could take days to clear up a misunderstanding precipitated by a wrong look or an averted gaze. One night, Andrea returned to Ca’ Memmo after a particularly frustrating attempt to make contact with Giustiniana. It had taken him all evening and a great deal of effort and ingenuity to find her at one of the theaters. Yet in the end she had displayed none of the usual complicity that made even the briefest encounter a moment of joy. In fact, she had been so annoying as to make him wish he had not seen her at all:

Yesterday I tried desperately to see you. Before lunch the gondoliers could not serve me. After lunch I went looking for you in Campo Santo Stefano. Nothing. So I walked toward Piazza San Marco, and when I arrived at the bridge of San Moisè I ran into Lucrezia Pisani!* I gave her my hand on the bridge, and then I saw you. I left her immediately and went looking for you everywhere. Finally I found you in the piazza. I sent Alvisetto ahead to find out whether you were on your way to the opera or to the new play at the Teatro Sant’Angelo, so that I could rush over to get a box in time. Then I forged ahead and waited for you, filled with desire. Finally you arrived and I went up to my box so that I could contemplate you—not only for the sheer pleasure I take in admiring you but also in the hope of receiving a sign of acknowledgment as a form of consolation. But you did nothing of the sort. Instead you laughed continuously, made loud noises until the end of the show, for which I was both sorry and angry—as you can well imagine.

A few days later Andrea tracked her down after yet another chase along crowded streets and across canals. This time the reward was well worth the pursuit:

I caught sight of your mother and hoped you would be with her. I looked for you left and right. Nothing. Your mother left, I followed. She went to San Moisè, I went to San Moisè. In fact, I got so close to her that we would have bumped into each other at the entrance of a bottega if I had not been so quick…. [Later] I waited in vain for Alvisetto, whom I had instructed to follow your mother…. Then I got your letter telling me that you would be going to San Benetto, so I rushed over only to realize with regret that you had already arrived and that the opera had begun…. Oh Lord, what will Giustiniana say…. Let’s see how she will treat me…. Goodness, there she is, that naughty girl [who wouldn’t look at me] the other evening…. Will she look at me this time or won’t she…. Come, look this way my girl! … And little by little I began to feel better. And then much better when I moved into that other box because I could see you and you could see me so well and with no great danger that your mother might notice every little gesture between us.

As an overall strategy, Andrea felt it was important to convince Mrs. Anna that the love between him and Giustiniana had indeed subsided and that she could finally let her guard down. It would be easier for them to find ways to see each other. So whenever Mrs. Anna took her daughter to a place where there was a good chance they might see him, Giustiniana was to feign complete disinterest:

Sometimes, in taking risks, one must be willing to be la dupe de soi-même. So arrange things in such a way that she will feel she is forcing you to go to all the places where she knows you might run into me, such as San Benetto or the Ridotto…. And when the weather is nice, show little interest, even some resistance, to taking a walk to the square…. Believe me, our good fortune depends on the success of our deception…. To avoid coming to San Benetto, all you have to do is tell her you don’t feel well. As for the Ridotto, you can say, “In truth, Mother, it bores me too much. Besides, we have no one to speak to and I don’t feel like playing [cards]. And we don’t make a good impression anyway, walking around with no other company. So let me go to bed.” And if she refuses and takes you out with her, you will see me and she will say, “Giustiniana doesn’t fret about Memmo anymore.”

In public Andrea and Giustiniana behaved like two strangers. Yet if their relationship was ever to develop, if they were to make arrangements in order to meet somewhere safely and actually spend time together, they were going to need more reliable allies than Alvisetto—friends willing to take the risk of giving them cover and providing them with rooms where they could see each other in private. Andrea worked hard to identify those who might be most useful to them. He gave precise instructions to Giustiniana as to how she should behave to bring this or that friend over to their side. But his instructions were not always clear. When Giustiniana innocently told a potential ally that she no longer loved Andrea when in fact Andrea had asked her to say the opposite, he gave her a sharp rebuke: “As soon as I do a good piece of work, you ruin it for me. The truth is … and I am very sorry to have to say this, you have not been up to my expectations.”

Andrea could be equally hard when he thought Giustiniana was not keeping enough distance from possible enemies. He was wary of the young Venetian nobles who hung around the Ridotto and who delighted in gossip and intrigue. It was important not to give them a reason to unleash their malicious tongues. As a rule, he explained to Giustiniana, “it is good for us to have the greatest number of friends and the least number of enemies.” But there was no need to be closer to that crowd than was strictly necessary. And he criticized her when he saw her displaying too much friendliness to acquaintances he did not consider trustworthy.

He was especially suspicious of the Morosinis, who had always sided with Mrs. Anna in her battle against the two lovers—merely to spite him, Andrea thought. The Wynnes were often lunch guests at Ca’ Morosini on Campo Santo Stefano, and Giustiniana’s persistent socializing with the enemy infuriated Andrea. She had to choose, he finally said to her, between him and “those Morosini asses”:

I know it is a lot to ask, but I can ask no less…. I must put you through this test, and I shall measure your love for me by it…. Giustiniana, I shall be very disappointed if you disregard my wish. I have never met anyone so impertinent and so false toward both of us…. They like you merely because you amuse them…. By God, you will not be worthy of me if you lower yourself to the point of flattering these…. stupid enemies of mine…. these rigid custodians of Giustiniana who spy for your mother…. They are evil people with no human qualities and no respect for friend-ship…. Forgive me for speaking this way to you, but I am so angry that I cannot stand it anymore.

In the early stages, Andrea had a patronizing tone toward Giustiniana and a tendency to take control of every aspect of their relationship. He was, of course, several years older than she, and it was fairly natural that he should take the lead while she deferred to his judgment. But over the months she grew more confident in her ability to conceal and deceive. And in spite of Andrea’s occasional hectoring, she began to enjoy plotting behind her mother’s back. She took a more active role in planning their meetings and often marveled at her own audacity: “Truly, Memmo, I do not recognize myself. I do things I never would have done. I think in ways so different that I do not seem to be myself anymore.”

It was Giustiniana who eagerly informed Andrea that N., a friend on whom they had worked hard to bring over to their side, had finally agreed to let them meet at his casino, one of the little pleasure houses that were all the rage in those years and were Venice’s very practical answer to a diffuse desire for comfort and pleasure. (There were as many as 150 such casini in the city, which were used as boudoirs, as seditious salons, and—quite often—as discreet love nests.) “I’ve made arrangements for Friday,” she wrote self-confidently. “We can’t see each other before. I didn’t feel I could press him and so I let him choose the date. He has become my friend entirely and confides his worries to me and even vents his domestic frustrations.”

Their excitement grew every day in anticipation of the moments they would spend together. It was not enough anymore to exchange loving glances and signals from afar. If Giustiniana had become much bolder in just a few weeks, it was because her yearning was now so powerful. She longed to be kissed by Andrea, to be held in his arms. And their scheming was finally producing results. Here is Giustiniana, three days before their secret appointment at N.’s casino:

Friday we shall meet—at least we know as much. But my God, how the time in between will seem interminable! And afterward what? Afterward I shall think about our next meeting so that I shall always be having sweet thoughts about you…. Tell me, Memmo, are you entirely happy with me? Is there any way I can give you more? Is there something in my behavior, in my way of life that I might change to suit you better? Speak, for I shall do anything you want. I cannot think of anything more precious than to see you happy and ever closer to me. I never thought it was possible to love with such violence.

The following evening Alvisetto appeared in Giustiniana’s room bearing a reply from her lover. “My soul,” Andrea wrote, “what a complete delight it will be. Love me, adore me…. I deserve it because I know your heart so well. Oh Lord, I am so dying to see you that I am jumping out of my skin.” Alvisetto also handed to Giustiniana a small, delicately embroidered fan—a gift to make the waiting more bearable. In order to avoid raising Mrs. Anna’s suspicions, Andrea suggested that Giustiniana ask her aunt Fiorina to pretend the fan was for her. In the past Mrs. Anna’s sister had shown a certain amount of sympathy for her niece’s predicament. Andrea, always in search of reliable allies, felt this subterfuge would not only allay whatever doubts Mrs. Anna might have about his gift but also give them a sense of how much Aunt Fiorina was prepared to help them in the future.

On Thursday, the day before their meeting, Alvisetto delivered a long, tender letter to Andrea:

And so, my dear Memmo, tomorrow we shall be together. And what, in the whole world, could be more natural between two people who love each other than to be together? I could go on forever, my sweet. I am in heaven. I love you. I love you, Memmo, more than I can say. Do you love me as much? Do you know I have this constant urge to do well, to look beautiful, to cultivate the greatest possible number of qualities for the mere sake of pleasing you, of earning your respect, of holding on to my Memmo…. Be warned, however, that your love for me has made me extremely proud and vain…. Where does one find a man so pleasant, so at ease in society, yet at the same time so firm, so deeply understanding of the important things in life? Where does one find a young man with such a rich imagination who is also precise and clearheaded in his thinking, so graceful and convincing in expressing his ideas? My Memmo, so knowledgeable in the humanities, so intelligent about the arts, is also a man who knows how to dress and always cuts quite a figure and knows how to carry himself with grace…. he is a man who possesses the gift of being at once considerate and bold. And even if at times he goes out of bounds, he does it to satisfy the natural urges of his youth and his character. And therein lies the path to happiness. You are wild as a matter of principle, as a result of hard reasoning. Aren’t you the rarest of philosophers? …. And what have you done, what do you do to women? Just the other day N. said to me: How did you manage to catch that fickle young man? And I was so proud, Memmo.

As for the fan, she added, “I will ask Fiorina to accept it in my place. I don’t know whether she is on our side or not, but at least she seems willing to fake it.”

The morning after their meeting at N.’s, Giustiniana, enthralled by the sweetest memories of the previous evening, wrote to Andrea entirely in French—not the language she knew best but the one she evidently felt was most appropriate in the lingering afterglow of their reunion:

Ah, Memmo, so much happiness! I was with you for close to two hours; I listened to your voice; you held my hand, and our friends, touched by our love, seem willing to help us more often. After you had left, N. told me how much you love me. Yes, you do love me, Memmo, you love me so deeply. Tell me once more; I never tire of hearing you say it. And the more direct you are, the more charmed I shall be. The heart doesn’t really care much for detours. Simplicity is worth so much more than the most ornate embellishments. You are the most charming philosopher I have ever listened to…. If only I could be free … and tell the world about my love! Ah, let us not even speak of such a happy state. Farewell, I take leave of you now. When shall I see you? Tell me, are you as impatient as I am?

She added teasingly:

Oh, by the way, I have news. My mother received a marriage proposal for me from a very rich Roman gentleman…. Isn’t it terrible, Memmo? Aren’t you at least a little bit jealous? And what if he is as nice as they say … and what if my mother wanted him…. I can’t go on. Not even in jest…. I am all yours, my love. Farewell.

*In order to avoid burdening the general reader with repetitive notes I have not sourced each quotation drawn from the correspondence between Andrea and Giustiniana (unless otherwise specified), hoping that a short note on the various sets of letters, to be found after the text on page 293, will make it easy enough for readers with a bibliographical interest to know where the quotation comes from. The reader may also wish to know that in translating the letters from Italian into English I did my best to preserve their original eighteenth-century flavor, though I eliminated excessive capitalization and made changes in the punctuation in order to facilitate the reader’s ease and comprehension.

*Regardless of political influence, twenty-four families were considered founding families of Venice, and of these, twelve traced their roots to early Christianity and called themselves “apostolic.” The Memmos were among these twelve.

*Montesquieu’s Esprit des lois was published in Venice in 1749. Montesquieu himself had come to Venice to study its laws and system of government. He was run out of town by the inquisitors and legend has it that he threw all his notes into the lagoon as he made his escape toward the mainland. Jean-Jacques Rousseau was also a familiar figure, having been secretary to the French ambassador in Venice in 1743–1744.

A Venetian Affair: A true story of impossible love in the eighteenth century

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