Secretum am-2 Read online

  "Dona nobis hodie panem cotidianum," chanted Caesar Augustus, reciting the verse from the Lord's Prayer.

  "I have told you a thousand times not to blaspheme," I warned him, "otherwise… Ah, I see what it is that you want. You are quite right."

  I had indeed replenished the water and food of all the other birds, leaving the parrot until last. His pride was hurt, and not only that. Caesar Augustus had always been blessed with an excellent appetite and would eat anything: bread, ricotta, soup (especially when prepared with wine), chestnuts, walnuts, apples, pears, cherries and many other things. But his passion, worthy not of a fowl but of a gentleman, was chocolate. From time to time, some guest of the Villa Spada would push some dregs towards him and he would be permitted to dip his beak and his blackish tongue into the costly and exotic beverage. So greedy was he for it that he was capable of cajoling me for days on end (conduct most exceptional, given his bad character) until at length I procured him a spoonful of it.

  I had just renewed his water and filled his little bowl with fruit and seeds when I heard hurried footsteps approaching.

  "My boy, are you still here?" chided one of the major-domos. "Someone is looking for you. He is waiting for you at the foot of the back stairs."

  "Come, come, weep not. Well you knew that, sooner or later, we were bound to meet again. Atto Melani is as tough as old leather!" exclaimed Atto taking me by the forearms and shaking me fraternally.

  "But I am not weeping, I…"

  "Quiet, quiet, say nothing, I have just asked after you and they tell me that you have two lovely little girls. What are their names? Such emotions!" he murmured in my ear, caressing my head and rocking me with embarrassing tenderness.

  A pair of young peasant girls observed the scene with astonishment.

  "What a surprise, you are a father!" continued the Abbot, quite undaunted. "Yet, to see you, one would never imagine that. You seem the same as ever…"

  Upon that observation (I could not tell whether it was meant as a compliment or an insult) I at last succeeded with great difficulty in breaking free from Atto's grasp and taking a step backwards. I was as shocked as if I had had to defend myself from an assault. I was incredulous: he seemed to have been bitten by a tarantula. I had in truth noticed how, when he saw me arriving, the Abbot's small triangular eyes observed me closely and how, when confronted with the frown which 1 was unable to banish from my forehead, Atto's mood had changed of a sudden and he had turned into this garrulous old man who was now covering me with kisses and embraces.

  He pretended not to notice my coldness and took me by the arm, leading me through the gardens of the villa.

  "So tell me, my boy, tell me how life has been treating you," said he in a low voice, and adopting a familiar manner, as with some difficulty we entered the little avenue of locust trees busy with the goings and comings of the hired gardeners making their finishing touches.

  "In truth, Signor Atto, you should already be well informed…" I endeavoured to retort, thinking of the theft of my memoir, in which I had also recounted my recent history.

  "I know, I know," he interrupted at once in paternal tones, as he stopped in admiration before the fountain of the Villa Spada which had, on the occasion of the festivities, been transformed by means of scaffolding into a splendid work of ephemeral architecture. In the place of the usual modest basin into which the water poured from a great stone pineapple finial, there now arose a magnificent and serpentine Triton who, clinging by the tail to a pyramid- shaped rock, blew vigorously into ajar, causing a capricious spurt of water to gush up from it in the shape of an umbrel, falling at last to the feet of its creator with a musical gurgle. All around, the Nymphaeum's mirror of water offered the languid spectacle of aquatic plants, ornamented by fine white flowers which floated lazily, half open.

  Atto observed the Triton and its fine fountain with admiring interest.

  "A splendid fountain," he commented. "The Triton is well made, and the imitation rocks too are a fine piece of work. I know that at the Villa d'Este in Tivoli there was once a water organ which was subsequently imitated in the garden of the Quirinale and in the Villa Aldrobrandini at Frascati, but also in France, on the orders of Francis I. It reproduced the sound of trumpets and even birdsong. It sufficed to blow into a few fine metal tubes placed in earthenware vases half full of water, hidden among the water-lilies."

  He looked around the fountain. I did not follow him. He stopped at the far end, spying on me through the spray; then he turned to me.

  "To see an old friend whom one had feared dead may cause confusion not only for the heart but for the mind," he resumed, "but you will see that, given time, we shall recover our former sentiments."

  "Given time? How long do you then intend to sojourn in Rome?" I asked, obscurely anxious at the idea of becoming involved in some dubious undertaking of his.

  He stopped. He looked at me through half-closed eyes which he then directed, first towards the fountain, then the horizon, as though he were skilfully distilling his reply.

  It was then that for the first time I had leisure enough to observe him. Thus, I saw the soft, falling flesh of his cheeks, the wrinkled skin of his nose and forehead, the furrows that beset his lips and the corners of his mouth, the bluish veins that crossed his temples, the eyes still lively, but small and deep-set, in which the white had grown yellow, and the neck, more than anything else, marked by the cruel scalpel of time. The thick layer of ceruse on his face, instead of softening the effects of age, came close to transforming Atto into the sad simulacrum of a phantom. Last of all, the hands, only in part hidden by the froth of lace at the cuffs, were now shrivelled, blotchy and hooked.

  Seventeen years ago, I had met a man mature yet vigorous. Now I faced one with autumn in his bones.

  As though he had not noticed my stare, which implacably investigated his decline, he remained silent for a few instants with his regard lost in the azure, as he leaned with one hand on my shoulder. Suddenly he struck me as being terribly tired.

  "How long shall I tarry in Rome?" he repeated the question to himself in absent tones. "'Tis true, my goodness, I must decide how long I shall be staying…"

  He seemed as though touched by second childhood.

  Meanwhile, we had come to the pergola of the wisterias. The fresh breeze which stirred in the shade revived us. We were already at the height of a hot month of July and the nights barely alleviated the burning heat of the day.

  "Thank heavens for a little shade," sighed Atto, seating himself on a bench and dabbing at the perspiration on his forehead with the little handkerchief of lace-ornamented white silk which he held in his hand. Then he stood up, stretched towards one of the wisterias, plucked a flower and sat down once more, deeply inhaling the fine perfume. Suddenly, he gave me a little slap on the back and burst out laughing: "Remarkable, you're still asking the same questions as ever! Ah, it is wonderful to find one's friends unchanged, it is truly a great blessing. How long shall I be staying in Rome? But, my boy, the answer is quite obvious! I shall stay here at the Villa Spada for the whole week's festivities, as you may well imagine. But I shall not leave Rome until the conclave! Now, come with me, and enough of questions," said he, springing to his feet as though he were some bold young spark and taking me joyfully by the arm.

  What manner of devil is this Melani, thought I, at once troubled and amused; one moment he seemed to have grown dull and aged, and now here he was slipping away like an eel. With him one could never know where the truth lay.

  "Signor Atto," I resumed, raising my voice. "Never would I dare to be lacking in respect for you; but yesterday I suffered one of the worst affronts of my whole life, and so…"

  "Oh, how very disagreeable for you. And what of it?" quoth he, once again sniffing at the flower while with his other hand he drummed lightly on the pommel of his cane.

  "I suffered a theft. Do you understand? I was robbed," I proclaimed emphatically, inflamed by the repressed anger which was once again rising w
ithin me.

  "Ah, well, you may console yourself," said he complacently. "That has happened to me too. I well remember how at the con vent of the Capuchins at Monte Cavallo, it must have been thirty years ago, they robbed me of three gold rings, set with gems, a heart-shaped diamond, a book of lapis lazuli bound in gold and studded with rubies and turquoises, a coat of French camlet, gloves, fans, pastilles and Spanish wax…"

  It was then that I exploded.

  "Enough, Signor Atto. Stop feigning innocence: you took my memoir, the account of what took place seventeen years ago, when we first met! Only to you have I confided this, only you knew of its existence, and what was your sole response? To have it stolen off me!"

  Atto did not lose his composure. With ostentatious delicacy, he laid the wisteria flower down on a hedge and continued drumming on the silver pommel of his cane, letting me continue with my outburst.

  "Not for one minute did you spare a thought for me! I who wept warm tears for you, who wrote to you continually, forever imploring a reply! And your sole concern was that someone might read that memoir and discover that you are an intriguer, that you steal good people's secrets, that you betray your own friends, that you are capable of all manner of infamy and… well… that you are utterly shameless."

  I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the palm of my hand, panting with emotion. Atto extended his little lace handkerchief to me, holding it between the tips of two fingers, and in the end I accepted it. I felt empty.

  "Have you finished?" he asked at length, distantly.

  "I… I am incensed by what you have done. I want my memoir back," I stammered, cursing myself for my inability to convey anything better than the same boyish petulance as had been mine seventeen years before, and this at a time when my age is by no means so green.

  "Ah, that is out of the question. Your writings are now in a safe place. I have hidden them carefully in Paris, before anyone could give them their imprimatur"

  "Then you admit it: you are a thief."

  "Thief, thief…" he chanted. "You really do have too much of a taste for strong words. With the pen, on the other hand, you have some ability. I took much pleasure in reading your little tale, even if you did at times raise the tone too much and even if you wrote things which could give offence to me. And then, you have been very naive indeed. Really… to have written such things about Abbot Melani, and then to have informed him of it…"

  "True, I realise that too," I admitted.

  "As I told you, I did not mind reading your efforts. At times, on the contrary, I found your writing most effective. Yours is a good pen, sometimes a trifle artless, but never tedious. Who knows whether it may not prove useful to you? 'Tis a pity that you failed to mention that you had become a father, I would have been glad to know that… But I can understand why: the radiant dawning of the new day, which little ones are for every genitor, surely had no place in that sombre old tale."

  I maintained a hostile silence, the better to make him understand that I had no intention of speaking with him of my little ones.

  "I imagine that during all these years, you will have read books, gazettes, a few rhymes…" said he, changing the subject, as though to move me to speak.

  "In truth, Signor Atto," I confirmed, "I am much given to buying books that treat of history, politics, theology and the lives of the saints. Among poets, I enjoy Chiabrera, Achillini and Filicaia. Gazettes… No, those I do not read."

  "Perfect. It is you that I need."

  "And what for, pray?"

  "Showed you this memoir to any persons?"

  "No."

  "There exist no other copies of it?"

  "No, I never had the time to transcribe it. Why do you ask?"

  "Will a thousand suffice?" he retorted dryly.

  "I do not follow your meaning," said I, beginning, however, to understand.

  "Very well, then. One thousand two hundred scudi in Roman coin. But not one more. And the memoirs are to become two."

  It was thus that Abbot Melani purchased the lengthy memoir in which I had described our first encounter and all the adventures which had arisen thereafter. In the second place, he was, for that sum, advancing payment for another memoir, or rather, a journal: a description of his sojourn at the Villa Spada.

  "At the Villa Spada?" I exclaimed incredulously, as we resumed our stroll.

  "Precisely. Your master, the Secretary of State, is present and the conclave is imminent; do you imagine that the flower of the Roman nobility and of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, not to mention the ambassadors, would assemble here merely for the pleasure of the occasion? The chess game of the conclave has already begun, my boy; and at the Villa Spada, many important pawns will be moved, of that you may be sure."

  "And you, I suppose, would not wish to miss a single move."

  "The conclave is my trade," he replied, without so much as a hint of modesty. "Do not forget that the illustrious Rospigliosi of Pistoia, whose guest I am honoured to be, owe me the distinction of numbering a pope among their family."

  I had already heard tell, seventeen years previously, of how Atto went around boasting of having favoured the election of Clement IX, of the Rospigliosi family.

  "So, my son," concluded Melani, "you will pen for me a chronicle in which you will give a judicious account of all that you see and hear during the coming few days, and you will add thereto whatever I may suggest to you as being desirable and opportune. You will then deliver the manuscript to me without retaining any copy thereof or thereafter reproducing any of its contents. There, those are my terms. For the time being, that is all."

  I remained perplexed.

  "Are you not content? Were it not for writers, men and their fame would die together on the same day and their virtues would be entombed with them, but the mem'ry thereof which remains written in books — that can never die!" Thus spake the Abbot with courtly prose and honeyed voice, in his endeavours to flatter me.

  He was not so mistaken, I reflected, while Atto continued with his homily.

  "Thus spake Anaxarchus, a most wise and learned philosopher, saying that one of the most worthy things that one can possess in this life is to be known by the world as intelligent in one's own profession. Indeed, even where there are millions of men learned and expert in one and the same art, only those who take pains to make themselves known will be held worthy of praise, nor will their fame die out in eternity."

  Abbot Melani wished, if I had understood him well, for a sort of biographer to celebrate his deeds during those days: a sign that he was intent upon accomplishing memorable feats, so I bethought myself, as I anxiously recalled the Abbot's enterprising audacity.

  "… Wherefore I, considering these things," continued Atto with an air at once pompous and vigorous, "took great pains, when young, to learn, and when I had come of age, to put into practice that which I had learned; and now I strive so to act that the world may know me. Thus, having through my words pleased several princes and great men, and having penned for them divers masterly reports in the art of diplomacy, many there have been who have availed themselves and who yet avail themselves of my skills."

  "But not all profited thereby," thought I to myself, recalling the cavalier manner in which Atto would transfer his fidelity from one master to another.

  With two little lasses to bring up, all that money was an extraordinary blessing for me and Cloridia. I had therefore not hesitated to accept Atto's offer to acquire from me what he had already stolen, well aware that I would never have my memoir back. "Just one thing, Signor Atto," said I at length. "I do not believe that my pen is worthy to bear witness to your deeds."

  In reality, I was terrified by the thought that multitudes of gentlemen and eminent persons might one day hold writings of mine in their hand. Atto understood.

  "You fear the readers. And such is your fear that you would prefer simply to continue exercising your peasant's calling, is that not so?" he asked, stopping to pick a plum.

  I replied with a
look which confessed all.

  "Then, in your foreword, instead of addressing the 'kind read er', you must address the 'unkind reader'."

  "What do you mean?"

  Melani drew breath and, in didactic prose and with a presumptuous little smile on his face, he polished the plum with his lace handkerchief while instructing me as follows: "You know, many years ago, when I first gave some of my essays to be printed, I too followed the common and vulgar custom of presenting to the gentle reader my excuses for such errors as might, through my own fault, be discovered in my opus. Now, however, experience has taught me that the gentle reader, prudently perusing the works of others, will, being replete with goodness, discover the good where'er it may be, and, where he finds it not, will accept the author's goodwill. Thus was I persuaded that it was far more opportune to dedicate the foreword to my books to malign and maledicent readers, whose ears are so tender that they will be scandalised by the minutest error."

  Biting the little plum, he stopped to scrutinise my distracted expression.

  "To suchlike nasuti (to use the Latin expression), to suchlike slanderers and detractors, to whom every book appears superflu ous, every work imperfect, every concept erroneous and every endeavour vain, I do proclaim my desire that they should refrain from reading my works and turn away from them, for as little as the said works will please them, so much the more will they please others. Do you know what I reply when one of those birds of ill omen importunes me with his acid considerations?"

  I responded with a questioning air.

  "I reply: if Your Worships find my work long, they should read but half of it; if short, let them add thereto whate'er they will; if it seemeth too clear, let them console themselves, knowing that they will have less trouble understanding it; if too obscure, let them make comments in the margin; if too lowly the matter and the style, so be it, for it will suffer less in falling than it would have, had it fallen from a great height."