Free A Venetian Affair by Andrea Di Robilant Page B

marriage, with all the negative consequences it would have entailed? If so, he was going about it in a very circuitous and tentative way, as if this were merely a short-term device to placate Giustiniana’s wrath. In fact, already in his next letter he retreated to his older, more traditional position: their happiness, as far as Andrea was concerned, hinged on finding Giustiniana a husband. “Alas, until you are married and I am able to see you more freely, there won’t be much to gain. Meanwhile let us try to hurt each other as little as possible.”
    Giustiniana, however, had not exhausted her rage. Andrea’s letters suddenly seemed so petty and predictable. Where was the strong, willful young man she had fallen so desperately in love with? In the increasingly frequent isolation of her room at Sant’Aponal, she decided to put an end to their love story. Better to make a clean break, as painful as it would be, than to endure the torture Andrea was inflicting upon her.
    This is the last time I bother you, Memmo. Your conduct has
been such that I now feel free to write you this letter. I do not
blame you for your betrayal, your lack of gratitude, the scarcity
of your love, your scorn. No, Memmo. I was very hurt by all this,
but I’ve decided not to complain or to wallow in vindictive feelings. You know how much I have loved you; you know what
a perfect friend I have been to you. God knows that I had staked
my entire happiness on our love. You knew it. Yet you allowed
me to believe that you loved me with the same intensity. . . . And
now that I know you, that I see how you tricked me, I give you
an even greater token of my passion by breaking this tenacious
bond. After all your abuse, your disloyalty, I was already on
the verge of abandoning you. But your scorn of the last few days,
the lack of any e fort on your part to explain yourself, your continuous indulgence in the things you know make me unhappy,
your complete estrangement have finally made me see that
you could not hope for a better development. I have opened
my eyes, I have learned to know you and to know me, and I have
become adamant in my resolution never to think again about a
man capable of such cruelty, such contempt, such utter disloyalty
to me.
    So everything between us is over. I know I cannot give you a
greater pleasure than this. . . . And I also know that my peace of
mind, my well-being, maybe even my life will depend on this
break. I shall never hate you (see how much I can promise), but I
will feel both pleasure and displeasure in your happiness as well
as in your misfortunes. I will say more: I will never again love
anyone the way I have loved you, ungrateful Memmo. You will
oblige me by handing over all my letters . . . as they serve no other
purpose than to remind me of my weakness and your wickedness.
So please give them back so that I may burn them and remove
from my sight everything that might remind me of all I have done
for such an undeserving man.
    Here is your portrait, once my delight and comfort, which I
don’t want anywhere near me. Ask the artist 7 to bring me the one
you had commissioned of me—I will pay for it in installments
and keep it. Your vanity has already been sufficiently satisfied as
it is. Everyone knows how much I have loved you. Please don’t let
me see you for another few days. I know how good our several
days’ separation has been for me, and I have reason to believe
that I will benefit by extending it. I forgive you everything. I have
deserved this treatment because I was foolish enough to believe
that you were capable of a sincere and enduring commitment; and
I guess you are not really to blame if you can’t get over your own
fickleness, which is so much a part of your nature. I ask neither
your friendship nor a place in your memory. I want nothing more
from you. Since I can no longer be the most passionate lover, I
don’t want to be anything else to you. Adieu, Memmo, count me
dead. Adieu