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  After the wedding, there were to be several more days and evenings of the most spectacular and varied divertissements: hunting, music, theatrical performances, several parlour games and even an academy, all culminating in fireworks. Counting the wedding day, this would amount to a full week of festivities, until 15th July, when, before taking their leave, the guests would enjoy the special favour of being escorted into town to visit the resplendent and grandiose Palazzo Spada in Piazza Capo di Ferro, where the great-uncles of Cardinal Fabrizio had, together with the late Cardinal Bernardino and his brother Virgilio of precious memory, assembled half a century earlier a most imposing collection of pictures, books, antiquities and precious objects, not to mention the frescoes, the trompe l'oeil perspectives and all manner of architectural contrivances, on which I had never as yet set eyes but which I knew to have astounded all those who beheld them.

  By now, the sight of the carriages on the horizon was accompanied by the distant clatter of their wheels on the cobbles and, looking carefully, I realised that, for the time being, only one carriage was arriving; indeed, said I to myself, gentlemen always took care to maintain a certain distance between their respective trains, so as to ensure that each should be correctly received and to avoid the risk of any involuntary discourtesy, as the latter not uncommonly degenerated into dissensions, lasting enmity and, heaven forfend, even into bloody duels.

  On the present occasion, such risks were, in reality, limited by the adroitness of the Master of Ceremonies and the Major- Domo, the irreproachable Don Paschatio Melchiorri; these two would be seeing to the guests' reception, for, as was already known, Cardinal Fabrizio was much busied with his duties as Secretary of State.

  As I tried to make out the coat of arms on the approaching carriage and could already distinguish the distant dust clouds from those that followed, once again I bethought myself of how sagacious a choice the Villa Spada had been as the theatre for the celebrations: in the gardens of the Janiculum, after sunset, cool air was assured. That, I knew well, as I had frequented the Villa Spada for no little time. My modest farm was but a short distance from there, outside the San Pancrazio Gate. My spouse Cloridia and I enjoyed the good fortune of being able to sell fresh potherbs and good fruit from our little field to the household of the Villa Spada; and from time to time I would be summoned for some special task, particularly when this involved climbing to some difficult place, such as rooftops or attics, operations which my small stature greatly facilitated. I was also called upon whenever there was a shortage of staff, as was the case on the occasion of the present celebration, when the entire establishment of Palazzo Spada had been transferred to work at the villa, and the Cardinal had taken advantage of the Palazzo being empty to have some work done on the interior decoration, including frescoes for the Alcove of the Spouses.

  For two months or so, I had thus been under the orders of the Master Florist, industriously hoeing, planting, pruning and caring for the flowers. There was no little to be done. Villa Spada must not fail to make the right impression on behalf of its masters. The open space before the gates had been covered with little loggias all decorated with greenery which, trained to climb in fecund spirals, snaked soft and sweet-smelling around columns, pilasters and capitals, gradually thinning out until it merged into the fine embroidery of the arcades. The main carriage-drive, which in ordinary times passed between simple rows of vines, was now flanked by two marvellous sets of flower beds. Everywhere the walls had been painted green, with false windows depicted on them; the gentle sward, mown to perfection according to the instructions of the Master Florist, cried out for the contact of bare feet.

  Arriving at the casino of the villa, that is to say, the great house, one was greeted by the welcome shade and the inebriating odour of an immense pergola of wisteria, supported by temporary arcades covered with greenery.

  Next to the casino, the Italian garden had been made as new again. It was a secret, walled garden. Upon the walls that concealed it were painted landscapes and mythological scenes; from all sides, deities, cupids and satyrs peeped out, while within the garden, in the cool shade, whosoever wished to withdraw in quiet and contemplation, far from prying eyes, could admire, undisturbed, elms and Gapocotto poplars, wild cherry and plum trees, generous vines of sweet Zibibbo and other grapes, trees from Bologna and Naples, chestnuts, wild shrubs, quinces, plane trees, pomegranate bushes and mulberry trees, not to mention little fountains and waterspouts, trompe l'oeil perspectives, terraces and a thousand other attractions.

  There followed the physic garden, likewise entirely and freshly replanted from end to end, wherein were grown fresh curative herbs for tisanes, cataplasms, plasters and every use known to the art of medicine. The medicinal plants were enclosed betwixt hedges of sage and rosemary pruned into strict geometrical shapes, their odours penetrating the air and entrancing the visitor's senses. Behind the building, an avenue, passing close to the bosky shade of a little grove, led to the private chapel of the Spada family, where the nuptials were to be solemnised. Thence, following the slopes that led down towards the city, three drives fanned out, one of which led to an open-air theatre (built especially for the festivities, and now almost ready), the second, to a farmhouse (fitted out as a dormitory for the guards, actors, plumbers and others) and the third, to the back entrance.

  Returning however to the front of the villa, in the midst of the rustic setting of the vineyard, a long avenue (parallel to that of the main carriage-drive, but more internal) led to the rotunda of the fountain with the nymphaeum and continued until it came at last to a well-tended little meadow whereon had been laid, for light meals in the open air, tables and benches copiously ornate with rich carvings and marquetry, shaded by sumptuous canopies of striped linen.

  The unsuspecting visitor would halt, lost in admiration, until he became aware that this display was but the frame and invitation to the most spectacular sight of the whole vineyard; his eyes would squint in sudden amazement at that plunging vista over Roman bastions and battlements, extending on the right towards the horizon, as they emerged from the depths of their invisible, somnolent, millenary foundations. Eyelids would flutter as they beheld that dramatic and unexpected prospect and the heartbeat would quicken. Among those delights, o'erflowing with perfumes and enchantment, every thing seemed born for pleasure, all was poesy.

  The Villa Spada rose thus to the occasion, no longer that modest but delightful summer residence almost eclipsed by the wealth and magnificence of the sumptuous Palazzo Spada in Piazza Capo di Ferro, but the great theatre of the forthcoming celebrations.

  Now the villa could without blushing contend with the most famed of the summer pavilions built two centuries previously, when Giuliano da Sangallo and Baldassare Peruzzi graced Rome with their services, the former with his commission for the Villa Chigi, the latter with the villa which he designed for Cardinal Alidosi at Magliana, while Giulio Romano created the villa of the Datary Turini on the Janiculum, and Bramante and Raphael built the Vatican Belvedere and the Villa Madama respectively, both to ingenious designs.

  In reality, it had since time immemorial been the custom of great lords to have elegant residences built in the nearby countryside in which to forget the daily round of cares and sorrows, even if they stayed there only a few times a year. Without going as far back as the rich mansions which the Romans had erected (and which were celebrated by so many excellent poets, from Horace to Catullus), I was well aware from my reading and from conversations with a few erudite booksellers (but even more with old peasants, who know the vineyards and gardens better than anyone) that, in the past two hundred years in particular, the great princes of Rome had made a fashion of building themselves pleasure pavilions on the outskirts of the city. The desolate no-man's-land and damp little fields within the Aurelian Wall and in its immediate vicinity had gradually given way to the vineyard and its casino, in other words to gardens and to villas.

  While the first villas had battlements and turrets (still visible at
the entrance of the otherwise undefended Capponi vineyard), an obvious legacy of the turbid Middle Ages when a gentleman's abode was also his fortress, within a few decades styles grew lighter and more serene and soon every nobleman boasted a residence with vineyards, vegetable gardens, fruit trees, woods or pine groves, thus creating the gentle illusion of possessing and exercising lordship over all that the eye could see without so much as moving from one's seat.

  The flowering of scenic wonders within the villa's verdant bounds went well with the gay atmosphere reigning in the Holy City. The year of Our Lord 1700 was a Jubilee Year. Multitudes of pilgrims were converging from all the world over in hope of obtaining remission of their sins and benefit of the indulgence. No sooner did they arrive from the Via Romea at the ridge from which they could make out the cupola of Saint Peter's than the faithful (known therefore as "Romei") would intone a hymn to the most excellent of all cities, red with the purple blood of the martyrs and white with the lilies of the virgins of Christ. Hostelries, hospices, colleges and even private houses, which were subject to the law of hospitality, were full to overflowing with pilgrims; alleyways and piazzas resounded night and day to the footsteps of the pious as they filled the air with their litanies. The night was lit up by the torches of the confraternities who ceaselessly enlivened the streets of the central quarters. 'Midst so much fervour, even the cruel spectacle of the flagellants no longer inspired horror: the crack of the scourges with which the ascetics tormented their lacerated sweat- and blood-covered backs formed a counterpoint to the chaste chanting of novices in their cool cloisters.

  No sooner had they arrived in the city of the Vicar of Christ than the pilgrims would converge upon Saint Peter's, and only after praying at the tomb of the apostle would they allow themselves a few hours' respite. On the next day, before leaving their lodgings, they would kneel on the ground, raise their hearts heavenward, cross themselves and meditate upon the life of Christ and of the Most Holy Virgin Mary; then, telling their rosary beads, they would begin the tour of the four Jubilee basilicas, followed by the Forty-hour Oration and the ascent of the Holy Ladder, whereby to obtain total and complete remission of sins.

  All in all, everything seemed to be moving in perfect and joyous harmony for the twenty-fifth recurrence of those Jubilees which, since the time of Boniface VIII, had brought tens of thousands of Romei to Rome; and yet one could not truly say "everything", for an undertow of anguish and distress moved silently through the crowds of pilgrims and Romans: His Holiness was gravely ill.

  Two years previously, Pope Innocent XII (whose baptismal name had been Antonio Pignatelli) had been struck down by a severe form of gout, which had gradually worsened until it prevented him from attending to affairs after the manner accustomed. In January of the Holy Year, there had been a slight improvement in his condition, and in February he had been able to hold a consistory. Owing to age and its infirmities, he was, however, in no condition to open the Holy Gate. The further the Holy Year advanced, the greater the number of pilgrims who arrived in Rome, and the Pope complained of his inability to accomplish the customary acts of devotion, in which bishops and cardinals had to substitute for him. The Cardinal Penitentiary heard the confessions of the faithful at Saint Peter's, where they arrived daily in their thousands.

  In the last week of February, the Pontiff suffered a relapse. In April, he found the strength to bless the multitudes of the devout from the balcony of the Papal Palace at Monte Cavallo. In May, he even visited the four basilicas in person, and towards the end of the month he received the Grand Duke of Tuscany. By halfway through June, he seemed almost recovered; he had visited many churches as well as the fountain of San Pietro in Montorio, a stone's throw from the Villa Spada.

  Nevertheless, all knew that His Holiness's health was as delicate as a snowflake in the advancing spring, and the heat of the summer months promised nothing good. Those close to the Pontiff spoke sotto voce of frequent crises of debility, of nightlong sufferings, of sudden and most cruel bouts of colic. After all, as the cardinals murmured gravely among themselves, the Holy Father was fourscore-and-five years of age.

  There was, in other words, a distinct possibility that the Jubilee of the year 1700, happily inaugurated by Our Lord Innocent XII, might be closed by another pope: his successor. This was something unheard of, so people murmured in Rome; and yet was it not unthinkable. Some predicted a conclave in November, some, even in August. The most pessimistic opined that the heat of the summer would overwhelm the Pontiff's last defences.

  The humour of the Curia (and that of every Roman) was thus torn between the serene atmosphere of the Jubilee and the grave tidings concerning the Pope's health. Even I had an intense personal interest in the question; for as long as the Holy Father lived, I would have the honour, however occasionally, of serving him whom Rome feared and honoured above all others: His Eminence Cardinal Spada, whom His Holiness had appointed as his Secretary of State.

  I could not of course claim true acquaintance with the most illustrious and benign Cardinal Spada, but I heard it said that he was a most upright man, as well as being astute and exceedingly sharp-witted. It was no accident that His Holiness Innocent XII desired always to have him by his side. I therefore guessed that the festivities which were about to begin would be no ordinary convivial gathering of noble spirits but an august conference of cardinals, ambassadors, bishops, princes and other persons of quality; and all would raise their eyebrows in arches of astonishment at the performances of musicians and actors, the poetical divertissements, the oratorical displays, the rich symposia 'midst verdant settings and the papier mache theatres in the gardens of the Villa Spada, beguilements such as had not been seen in Rome since the times of the Barberini.

  Meanwhile, I had been able to identify the coat of arms on the first carriage: it was that of the Rospigliosi family, but under it there was a bright damask bearing their colours, which signified that the carriage bore some honoured guest under the protection of that great family, but not of their lineage.

  The carriage was on the point of approaching the gate of honour, but I was no longer curious about the arrival of coaches at the villa, the opening of doors and all the ritual of hospitality among gentlefolk that would duly follow. When first I joined the household, I had indeed hidden behind the corners of the great house to spy on the swarm of footmen, the stools being placed for alighting from the carriages, the servant girls bearing baskets laden with fruit, the first tributes from the master of the house, the speeches by the Master of Ceremonies, invariably broken off half-way by the fatigue of the newly arrived guests, and so on and so forth.

  I moved away so as not to disturb the arrival of those gentlemen with my obscure presence and once more set to work. While I was intent on hoeing the borders of lawns, pruning bushes, trimming hedges and weeding, I would from time to time look up to enjoy the view over the city of the seven hills, while the gentle summer breeze bore me the gift of graceful notes from an orchestral rehearsal. Covering my forehead with my hand to deflect the glare of the sun, I beheld to the far left the grandiose cupola of Saint Peter's, to my right the more modest but no less splendid one of Sant'Ivo alia Sapienza, just beside the subdued pagan dome of the Pantheon and, last of all, in the background, the Pontifical Palace of the Quirinale on Monte Cavallo.

  After one such brief pause, I bent down and was about to trim a few bushes, when I saw a shadow lengthen beside my own.

  For a long time I observed it; it did not move. My hand, however, moved of its own accord, grasping the sickle. The tip of its blade traced the shadow by my shoulders on the sand of the drive. The soutane, the abbot's periwig and hood… It was then that the shadow, as though condescending to inspect my hand, turned slowly towards the sun and revealed its profile; on the ground, I could clearly make out a hooked nose, a receding chin, an impertinent lip… My hand, which was almost caressing those features rather than merely outlining them, began now to tremble. No longer could I be in any doubt.

 
Atto Melani: still unable to raise my eyes from the silhouette I had discovered in the sand, a tangle of thoughts obscured my vision and my feelings. Signor Abbot Melani… Signor Atto, to me. Atto, Atto himself.

  The shadow waited benignly.

  How many years had passed? Sixteen? No, seventeen, I calculated, trying to gather the courage to turn around. And, despite the laws of time, a thousand thoughts and memories flashed across my mind within those few seconds. Almost seventeen years without the least sign of life from Abbot Melani, and now he had reappeared; his shadow was there, behind me, merging with my own, so I repeated mechanically to myself as at length I rose and very slowly turned around.

  At last my pupils acknowledged the sun's affront.

  He was leaning on a walking stick, a little shorter and more bent than I had left him. Seeming almost like some shade from another century, he wore an abbot's wig, hood and mauve-grey soutane, exactly as he had when first we met, little caring that this attire had long been outmoded.

  Confronting my glazed and dumbstruck expression, he spoke with the most laconic and disarming naturalness: "I am going to take a rest: I have only just arrived. We shall meet later. I shall have them call for you."

  Seeming almost spectral, he disappeared into the blazing midsummer light, moving in the direction of the great house.

  I stood as though petrified. I do not know how long I remained thus immobile in the midst of the garden. My breast seemed like the cold white marble of Galatea, and only gradually did the breath of life return to warm it, when I was of a sudden unnerved by the bursting into my heart of that o'erflowing torrent of affection and pain which had for years seized me whenever I recalled Abbot Melani.

  The letters which I had sent to Paris had been swallowed up by an abyss of black silence. Year after year, I had uselessly laid siege to the office for post from France, awaiting a reply. If only to put an end to anxiety, I would eventually have been resigned to receive some sadly final message, as I had imagined a thousand times over: