1.???What do you feel was Simonetta’s strongest motivation for marrying Marco? Do you think she truly loved him, or did she only convince herself that she did? Could she realistically have refused to marry him?
2.???Simonetta is sometimes frustrated by the effect that her beauty has on those around her, and at other times she uses it to her advantage. Did both of these reactions feel reasonable and realistic to you? How might you have felt in her situation?
3.???Simonetta is widely proclaimed the most beautiful woman in Florence, and men wait outside her house, leave her gifts, and recognize her in the street. Do you see any similarities between the Florentines’ reaction to Simonetta and our own celebrity culture today?
4.???What do you think Marco hoped for in marrying Simonetta and bringing her to Florence? Do you think he got what he wanted?
5.???Simonetta is a friend of both Lorenzo de’ Medici and his wife, Clarice. How is her friendship with each of them different? How is it similar? What does she value about each friendship?
6.???Simonetta feels as though, by posing for Botticelli, she becomes a partner in his creative work. Do you think he sees her that way as well? Why or why not? How do you see her participation in their artistic relationship?
7.???At one point in the novel, Simonetta asks herself the following questions, only to realize she does not have the answers: “What is it about beauty which makes men think they have the right to desire you? That beauty means you automatically agree, somehow, to be coveted, to be desired? That your beauty belongs to everyone?” Do you think these questions are still relevant to the way in which our culture perceives beauty, especially female beauty? How are women who are considered beautiful still treated similarly to Simonetta? Where is the line between objectification and empowerment?
8.???Simonetta refuses Giuliano de’ Medici’s advances and claims that she cannot violate her marriage vows. Yet she later does just that with Sandro. How did you feel about her decision? Did you feel she was justified?
9.???In the last line of the book, as she is dying, Simonetta says, “Sandro promised me that I would live forever.” Do you think she has, in fact, been immortalized? How do you think she would feel about the fact that The Birth of Venus is one of the world’s most famous and beloved works of Western art?
10. Were you familiar with any of the works of art described in this novel before reading it? How did your familiarity (or lack thereof) influence your reading of the novel? Did you look up any of the artwork as you read? Which were your favorites, and why?
St. Martin’s Griffin
Discover a world of unforgettable passion, music, and secrets in Alyssa Palombo’s The Violinist of Venice.
Read on for more.
Available now from St. Martin’s Griffin
Copyright ? 2015 by Alyssa Palombo
1
THE MAESTRO
The gondola sliced silently through the dark water of the canal. My hired gondolier pressed the craft close against the wall of one of the buildings that lined the waterway, allowing another boat to pass us.
“Ciao, Luca!” he called to the other gondolier, his voice echoing loudly off the stones of the narrow canal, causing me to start.
I drew the hood of my cloak closer about my face, hiding it as we passed the other gondola.
We drew up to a bridge, and I spied a set of stone steps leading up to the street—the street. “Stop,” I said, my voice low from within the hood. “Let me out here, per favore.”
The gondolier obliged, bringing the boat close to the steps and stopping so that I could gather my skirts and step out, giving me his hand to assist me. I pressed some coins into his palm, and he nodded to me. “Grazie, signorina. Buona notte.”
I started down the street, peering at the houses, looking for the one where the man I sought was said to reside. I crossed a bridge over another small canal, the water beneath looking deep enough to swallow both my secrets and me and leave no trace of either.
Just beyond the bridge I found it. I took a deep breath, banishing the last of my nervousness, pushed open the door and, without knocking, boldly stepped inside.
The room I entered was not large, and appeared even smaller by its clutter. Sheets of parchment covered the table a few paces in front of me, some written upon, some blank, and many with bars of music scrawled on them. A harpsichord sat against one wall, scarcely recognizable beneath the papers heaped on it. I counted three instrument cases throughout the room that each looked to be the right size to hold a violin, or perhaps a viola d’amore. A lit lamp sat on the table amongst the papers, and another on the desk against the wall to my right. These, plus the slowly dying fire in the grate to my left, were the only sources of light in the dim room.
At the desk, bent over a piece of parchment, quill in hand, sat a man in worn-looking clerical robes. He looked up, startled, and I was able to get my first good look at him. He had hair as red as the embers in the hearth and wide dark eyes that, when they caught sight of me, narrowed on my face in anger, then bewilderment. From what I had heard, he was only in his early thirties, yet the strain of childhood illness and—or so I guessed—the trials that life had seen fit to deliver him had given him the weary demeanor of a still older man. And yet beneath his somewhat haggard appearance there was a spark of liveliness, of fire, that made him appealing all the same.
“Who are you? What do you want?” he demanded, scowling as he rose from his chair.
I took another step forward into the room, pushing my hood back from my face. “I seek Maestro Antonio Vivaldi,” I said. “The man they call il Prete Rosso.” The Red Priest.
“Hmph.” He snorted derisively. “You have found him, although I do not know that I rightly deserve the title maestro anymore. After all, I have been sacked.”
“I know,” I said. All of Venice knew that about a year ago, Maestro Vivaldi had been removed, for reasons largely unknown, from his position as violin master and composer at the Conservatorio dell’Ospedale della Pietà, the foundling home renowned for its superb, solely female orchestra and choir. He had spent the past year since his dismissal traveling throughout Europe—or so the gossip said. Having heard of his return, I took the first opportunity I could to seek him out. “I was thinking that as you are currently out of a job, you might be willing to take on a private student.”
His gaze narrowed on me again. “I might be,” he said.
Clearly he was expecting me to bargain. The corners of my mouth curled up slightly into a smile as I reached beneath my cloak and extracted a cloth purse that was heavy with coins. I closed the remaining distance between us and handed it to the maestro. His eyes widened as he felt its weight, and grew round with disbelief as he opened it and saw how much gold was within.