The American Lady(83)

Though Marie had been deeply impressed by her visit to this wonderland, she had no intention of making anything of the sort herself. After all, she had promised Johanna that she would work on some new Christmas ornament designs once she got to Genoa. But then matters had taken their own course.

When they had arrived in Genoa, a little workshop was truly ready and waiting for her in the room next to their bedroom. It had a gas lamp and a burner, a bellows with which to mix in a stream of air to raise the temperature of the flame, some tongs, and a set of files—so far, so good. But whoever had chosen the glass clearly had no idea that glassblowers needed hollow rods to work with if they were to make anything like Christmas tree ornaments. Instead she found panes of colored glass in every conceivable shade. There was also a whole army of paint pots lined up behind the bench. Marie had looked at the supplies, half-amused and half-shocked. What in the world was she going to do with all this?

She hadn’t gotten around to doing anything about it during their first few days, since she and Franco were out and about all the time—he wanted to show her every nook and cranny of the magnificent city he was so proud to call home.

After the first week had passed, though, Franco and his father regularly shut themselves away after breakfast in the ebony-paneled office in the front wing of the palazzo. Marie was happy to have her work so that she did not have to spend much time with the countess.

From the first moment, she felt right at home in her new workshop. It was on the ground floor, with windows all along one wall and double doors that led directly into the garden. At a right angle to the room was a large conservatory that Franco told her was called the orangery; evidently, the orange, fig, and lemon trees within bore fruit even during the winter months.

Inspired by the view, Marie had tried her hand at painting. She took a pane of pale-yellow glass and painted it with green foliage and orange fruit, but she was not happy with the clumsy and amateurish result. Next she tried breaking a pane into narrow strips. Perhaps she would be able to make her own rods? But that didn’t work either.

It was Franco who finally gave her the answer.

“You needn’t waste your time on this old rubbish. Throw it all away, and I’ll order you the rods you need from Murano,” he had said one evening when she had gone into the workshop again after supper and was sorting the shards of glass into boxes by color. He put his arms around her belly from behind and nestled close.

“You handle each little piece as though it were a precious stone!”

In bed that night, Franco’s remark stuck in Marie’s mind and wouldn’t let her sleep. She had been too distracted to enjoy Franco’s caresses to the full.

Precious stones?

Precious stones belonged in a setting.

Which meant . . .

The next morning Marie had asked Franco to find her a soldering torch and wire. The idea was simple; she would cut the panes of glass into the shapes she wanted with the tongs, then edge each piece with lead and solder them together. She hoped that the end result would be a kind of mosaic in glass, and her hopes were answered. She laughed when she had finished her first picture, two red hearts against a blue background with a light border around the whole thing. It was wonderful! How colorful, and how intense! Why had she never thought of it before? It was probably because the villagers back in Lauscha were not especially pious, for surely she would otherwise have noticed that churches and cathedrals were always built with stained-glass windows showing Biblical scenes to edify the congregation. But glass could be used for far more than the Virgin Mary with the Christ child in her arms. It could be used for any design an artist cared to create—and this idea was all her own!

Franco had been speechless when she showed him her work that evening. “Is that really your first attempt? It’s nothing less than perfection! Flaming hearts—mia cara, it’s the very image of love, captured for all time! It’s beautiful. And you are even more beautiful,” he said.

Marie did not make any more practice pieces, but instead started on her series of the four elements the very next day.



When she put down the picture of fire around noon, her fingertips were itching with excitement. She wanted to do more. She had so many ideas! Ruth’s jewelry from Lalique and Gallé, all those dragonflies, butterflies, and lily flowers—couldn’t she use her new technique for just such designs?

She had already picked up a pane of violet-colored glass and was holding it next to another one in pale, watery green, when she put both of them down with a sigh.

Drat it all! She was supposed to finish the designs for the new Christmas baubles today—Johanna was waiting for them and she must be in a fever of anticipation.