The Mascherari

One time, during the great height of carnivals and masquerades, there was a Lady of a certain noble old family. Being of great affluence and spare time, she was a favorite of the ballroom scene, and herself hosted many an elaborate gathering. There was not an aristocrat who felt deeply ashamed of themselves when no invitation to her parties arrived, and no common person who craved but a glance of the festivities.
While her popularity soon peaked and there was nary a person who did not clamor for her favor, the Lady was yet unsatisfied. She took a long leave of absence to the very origin of such things, famous Venice herself, and was gone for such a length of time that many began to think she had tired and would not return.
After many a year, she returned, aged in both face and wisdom, and from her wrist she trailed a peculiar young man, supposedly the most promising prodigy mask maker in all of fair Italia. He was slender yet healthy, with a good dark complexion typical of his people and a faltering understanding of anything but his home language. The Lady treated him like a child, lavishing excellent clothing and taking him about with her on her visiting duties to other noble families.
Before long she resumed her extravagant parties, and all were delighted by the wondrous and curious masks the young man produced for his new patron. The popularity of her parties before were nothing compared to the heights to which they soared now, and even city officials came calling, when they before would turn their heads and plead ignorance.
Still, the Lady would not allow any others a mask crafted by the artisan’s hands, and very soon locked the youth away in his studio, with only herself as a visitor. Meals were passed through a small door close to the ground, as not even her servants were permitted to see him. The young Mascherari spent many a countless day alone with only his work for company. Not once did he voice any concerns, and after some weeks passed even the Lady’s closest entourage dared not broach the subject with her.
Soon the weeks grew into months, and further into years. The Mascherari became pale from candlelight and his natural weight fell away to a gaunt, ungainly frame. No longer quite so young, he did little but toil away on the next, grandest, most elaborate mask. Having fallen out of her indulgent favor, his patron no longer graced him with words, only lavishing her precious praise on the masks themselves. Her treatment of the craftsman reached the ears of her servants, who took pity on the man who was considered less than even them. At night when his meals were presented through what had become a small slot, words were passed along as well, though the Mascherari had none to give in return.
In their kindred spirit, the head cook one night, after setting upon the master of keys with a highly concocted story of trouble concerning the cellar door, pressed the key to the craftsman’s studio into a loaf of bread meant for his dinner. The Mascherari kept it close, threading it on a piece of silver string and wearing it beneath his clothes. Of course, speaking of nothing to his patron, even as she came to collect that night’s treasure before disappearing to her dressing room in preparation for the nightly masquerade.
Long after the Lady had gone, a single word passed through the slot along with a dinner they knew would go uneaten. The craftsman traded his work clothing for that of one of the Lady’s former husbands, long forgotten in a cobweb covered trunk, as well as the finest hat the Lady’s milliner could produce. Draped in forest green, his features hidden by a nondescript zanni of his own hand, the Mascherari took his leave by way of the servant’s door, treading the cobblestone street with the same deliberate steps of the partygoers who swept into the grand entrance.
He entered amidst the crowd, one among many, noticed not even by his patron when she remarked upon the ink splatter against the white of the feather in his hat. Silent as ever, the craftsman looked about him intently, heedless of whatever reaction was sent his way, be it a glance from a fine young lady or gentleman, or whispered inquiries amongst themselves as to his origins. Moving naturally across the full dance floor, spinning as though he was not without a partner, eventually he emerged out into the night.
Upon the first light of day, the Mascherari was found in his studio, looking for all the world that he had been there as he had for the past numerous years, without a single thing out of place. Working, once again, on the Lady’s next greatest mask.
As such it continued for many months. While the servants wondered at his return each night, none dare to question the Mascherari, knowing they would get no answer in return. His nightly disguise changed every time, each night taken from yet another chest, or borrowed from another servant’s unworn finest. The Lady’s milliner would produce for him a new hat for every costume, finding that whatever style the mysterious guest wore was incredibly popular the next day in her family’s shop. Likewise would the local tailor discover that certain older styles would be the height of the day’s requests.
It grew to that the guests at any particular party would seek out the silent stranger, though it was especially noted that he would appear only at those masquerades hosted by the Lady. Though she did not appreciate sharing her spotlight, the mystery only brought more guests, which appeased her temper. While he would often be swarmed upon his entrance, the well-dressed guest never gave a word in return to those who surrounded him. He would dance with any who requested it of him, both young ladies and gentlemen.
Yet, no matter what the night brought, nor with how many pleads he was subjected to, he would leave at precisely the same time each night. His apparently ability to disappear granted him the title of a specter, and the Lady’s servants thought it to be a rather amusing trick as he would simply pass through their door before any could catch him.
It soon became clear to them that the Mascherari’s ruse would not last forever. The Lady grew ever more suspicious by the day, and even began to question those amongst her staff who waited at the party for information about this stranger. While they all feigned ignorance in favor of their kindred situations, none felt that they could fool her entirely.
Word began to spread throughout the city that the Lady was offering a handsome reward for a private audience with the mysterious and silent partygoer. Concerned at what a desperate guest may try, the head cook pleaded with the craftsman to not attend any further parties, and instead take his leave of the place for good. However, the Mascherari remained silent.
[Lady discerns identity.]
In a fit of rage, the Lady called forth the best stonemason in the country and had the craftsman’s room sealed with an elaborate stone mosaic depicting one of the masks he had so skillfully crafted. The image served as a dark reminder of her temper to her servants, and as a grim memorial of the young Mascherari who had thought to cross her.
Until one night months later, at a party such as any other.
During a swell in the music, the crowd found itself parted to allow a single person to approach the Lady and her entourage. Standing tall, the masked figure held out a hand towards the hostess as if requesting a dance. She, who had thus far been pale and silent as though stricken from the very sight, fainted into the arms of her attendants with the slightest noise. It was drowned by the uproar that came from the crowd, and amid the panic, the figure vanished entirely.