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  "He mentioned his intention to me, saying that you do not write at all badly. You are fortunate. Melani pays handsomely," he continued, slipping a pair of fish slices into the focaccia.

  "Ah yes," I concurred, glad that the conversation was at last turning towards Atto, "and, by the way, what kind of work were you telling me that Abbot Melani commissions you to carry out?" Buvat seemed not to have heard. He paused, as though reflecting, taking his time and spraying the stuffed focaccia with lemon, whereupon he asked me: "Why not show me what you have written? Perhaps I could help you to find a printer…"

  "Mmm, it would not be worth the trouble, Signor Buvat. It is but a diary, and it is written in the vulgar tongue…" said I, fumbling for pretexts with my nose buried in my lumps of cheese with herbs, yet deploring the weakness of my excuse.

  "And what does that signify?" retorted Buvat, brandishing his bread in protest. "We are no longer in the sixteenth century! Besides, were you or were you not born free? Therefore, you can work in your own way. And just as you would not be compelled to justify yourself to anyone for having written in German or in Hebrew, so you need not justify yourself for having written in the vernacular."

  He broke off to take a bite of his meal, while with his other hand he gestured to me to pass him the wine.

  "And is the majesty of the vulgar tongue not such that it may offer a worthy place to every subject, e'en to matters most exquisite?" he declaimed with his mouth full. "The Reverend Monsignor Panigirola expressed therein the deepest mysteries of theology, as did before him those two most singular minds, Monsignor Cornelio Muso and Signor Fiamma. The most excellent Signor Alessandro Piccolomini found a place in it for almost all philosophy; Mattiolo adapted thereto almost all simple medicine and Valve, all anatomy. Can you not find room in it for the mere bagatelle of a journal? Where the Queen, namely Theology, may commodiously dwell, there too may enter the Maiden Philosophy, and with yet greater ease the Housewife Medicine; how then could there be no place for a mere serving wench like a diary?"

  "But my vernacular is not even Tuscan but the Roman tongue," I countered, chewing the while.

  "Ah, so you have not written in Tuscan!' Thus would the master Aristarchus pass sentence. Yet, I tell you that you wrote not in Tuscan as you wrote not in German, for you are a Roman and whosoever would take pleasure in things Tuscan, let him then read Boccaccio and Bembo. That will soon tire him of his Tuscan tastes." Such was the abrupt riposte of my companion, striking up bizarre poses and speaking with the hoarsest of voices before concluding with a great gulp of Muscatel.

  A fine, sharp intellect, this Buvat, thought I, as I tore off a good piece of lettuce. Despite the sweet freshness of the salad, I felt a slight twinge of envy burning my stomach: if only I too possessed his same quick wit. What was more, being French, he was not even expressing himself in his mother tongue. Ah, the lucky man!

  "I must say, nevertheless," he was at pains to make clear, as he went for the onions with a will, "that you Italians are beset by the most evil custom: as a people, you are veritable dealers in envy. But what kind of barbarous practice is this? What manner of inhuman trade is it to be the mortal enemy of another's praise! No sooner does a good mind make his way forward among you with growing renown and reputation, than he becomes a prey to great locusts which infest him and tear him to pieces, and spread invective and calumny in his path until his worth often falls back into the dust."

  He was surely right, I reflected, with the ease in reaching agreement of one who has just allayed the pangs of hunger, yet I was by no means persuaded that such a vice was exclusively Italian. Had he not himself complained of the vexations which he had been compelled to suffer at the hands of his own envious chief librarian who would let him die of hunger rather than part with a penny? And had he not only moments earlier confessed to me that in Paris they would not let him publish so much as a single line, while in Italy he had found a literary refuge? I did not, however, point this out to him. A weakness common to all peoples, apart from the Italians, is national pride. And I had no interest in wounding that of Jean Buvat; on the contrary.

  Our collation was now drawing to a close. I had succeeded in drawing nothing from Jean Buvat about Abbot Melani, indeed, the conversation had been diverted perilously close to my memoir; not that the Abbot did not deserve that I should denounce his theft to his scribe, only that this would surely have unleashed a whole series of questions about Atto from Buvat, nor did it seem in the least judicious to betray the misdeeds of his patron.

  I therefore changed the subject, pointing out to Buvat — who, as I spoke, continued tirelessly poking around with his hand in the basket of provisions — that we had just eaten all the food we had brought with us and it remained for us only to pick some good fruit from the boughs of the plum tree whose shade we were enjoying. It was, for obvious reasons, Buvat who took upon himself the task of harvesting the fruit, whilst I looked to polishing the ripe plums with the jute and arranging them in our empty basket. The conversation having died away of its own accord, we swallowed a good basketful in religious silence, interrupted only by the parabolic curves described by the plum stones, laid bare by the labours of our jaws.

  Perhaps it was the rhythmical patter of plum stones on the fresh grass under the trees, or perhaps the gentle rustling of the fronds caressed by the zephyrs of early summer, or yet the wild strawberries which — our bodies by now stretched out on the damp maternal bosom of the earth — we picked directly with our lips, or mayhap all these things together; anyway, I know not how it came to pass, but we fell asleep. And, almost in unison, hearing Buvat's snores and telling myself that I must shake him, for he had to go into town to recover his shoes, otherwise he would not return in time before evening, I heard another loud noise grow yet louder, drowning his snoring, and this noise was far nearer and more familiar: I too had dozed off and was blissfully snoring.

  Evening the First

  7th J ULY, 1700

  The sun was setting when sounds awoke us. The park of the Villa Spada was now becoming animated by the strolling and conversations of the guests who wandered about admiring the scenic constructions which would, two days hence, provide a worthy setting for the Rocci-Spada wedding, and the echo of voices reached even into our little thicket.

  "Eminence, permit me to kiss your hands."

  "My dearest Monsignor, what a pleasure to encounter you!" came the reply.

  "And what pleasure is mine, Eminence!" said a third voice.

  "You too, here?" resumed the second speaker. "My dearest, most esteemed Marchese, I am almost speechless for joy. But wait, you have not given me time to salute the Marchesa!"

  "Eminence, I too would kiss your hands," echoed a feminine voice.

  As I would later be able to tell without a moment's hesitation (having seen them time and time again during those festive days), those who were thus exchanging compliments were the Cardinal Durazzo, Bishop of Faenza, whence he had just arrived, Monsignor Grimaldi, President of the Victualling Board, and the Marchese and Marchesa Serlupi.

  "How went your journey, Eminence?"

  "Eh, eh, 'twas somewhat fatiguing, what with the heat. I leave you to imagine. But as God willed it, we did arrive. I came only out of the love I bear the Secretary of State, let that be clear. I am no longer of an age for such entertainments. Too hot for an old man like me."

  "Indeed yes, it is so hot," assented the Monsignor condescendingly

  "One seems almost to be in Spain, where they tell me 'tis so very torrid that it feels almost like fire," said the Marchese Serlupi.

  "Oh no, in Spain one is very well indeed, I retain the most excellent memory of that land. A splendid memory, of that I can assure you. Oh! Excuse me, I have just seen an old friend. Marchesa, my compliments!"

  I saw Cardinal Durazzo, followed by a servant, break off somewhat brusquely the conversation which he had only just begun and move immediately away from the trio to approach another eminence whom I was later to recognise as Cardinal
Barberini.

  "Now really, that allusion…" I heard Marchesa Serlupi upbraiding her husband.

  "What allusion? I didn't mean to say anything…"

  "You see, Marchese," said Monsignor Grimaldi, "if Your Benevolence will permit me to explain, Cardinal Durazzo, before receiving his cardinal's hat, was Nuncio to Spain."

  "And so?"

  "Well, it seems — but this is of course only gossip — that His Eminence was not at all appreciated by the King of Spain and, what is more, and this however is certain truth, the kinsfolk whom he brought in his train were assaulted by persons unknown, and one of them died of his wounds. So, you can imagine, with the times in which we are living…"

  "What do you mean?"

  Monsignor Grimaldi glanced indulgently at the Marchesa.

  "It means, dearest husband of mine," she broke in impatiently, "that since His Eminence is among the papabili, the likely candidates at the forthcoming conclave, he takes umbrage at even the slightest reference to the Spaniards, for that could put an end to his election. We spoke of these things at our home only two days ago, if I am not mistaken."

  "I really cannot be expected to remember everything," grumbled the Marchese Serlupi, feeling bewildered as he realised the faux pas he had just made before a possible future pontiff, while his wife took her leave of Monsignor Grimaldi with a smile of benevolent forbearance and the latter greeted another guest.

  That was the first occasion on which I became fully aware of the true character of the festivities which were about to begin. Abbot Melani was right. Though all in the villa seemed designed for revelry and to divert the mind away from serious matters, yet the hearts and minds of the participants were focused on the affairs of the day: above all, on the imminent conclave. Every discourse, every phrase, every single syllable was capable of causing the eminences and princes present to jump in their seats as though prodded with a spike. They had come pretending to seek distractions, while in reality they were present at the villa of the Secretary of State only in order to seek their own advancement, or that of the powers which they served.

  At that very moment, I realised that the personage whom Monsignor Grimaldi had gone to greet was none other than Car dinal Spada himself, who, after duly saluting Grimaldi, continued on a tour of inspection accompanied by his Major-Domo, Don Paschatio Melchiorri. Despite his purple cardinal's cape, I had almost failed to recognise Fabrizio Spada, so furious was his countenance; he seemed nervous and distracted.

  "And the theatre? Why is the theatre not yet ready?" fumed the Secretary of State, panting at the heat as he walked from the little grove towards the great house.

  "We have almost attained the optimum, Your Eminence, that is to say, we have made great progress and we have practically resolved, almost resolved the problem of the…"

  "Signor Major-Domo, I do not want progress, I want results. Do you or do you not realise that the guests are already arriving?"

  "Your Eminence, yes, of course, nevertheless…"

  "I cannot see to everything, Don Paschatio! I have other matters on my mind!" snapped the Cardinal, at once exasperated and disconsolate.

  The Major-Domo nodded and bowed agitatedly without suc ceeding in getting in a single word.

  "And the cushions? Have the cushions been sewn?"

  "Almost, almost completely, Your Eminence, only a very few…"

  "I see, they are not ready. Am I to seat the aged members of the Holy College on the bare ground?"

  With these words, Cardinal Spada, followed by a throng of servants and retainers, turned his heel on poor Don Paschatio, who remained immobile in the middle of the avenue, unaware that he was being observed by me as he dusted down his shoes which were bedaubed with mire.

  "Heavens, my shoes!" muttered Buvat, rising with a start at the sight of Don Paschatio's gesture. "I was meant to go and fetch them."

  It was, however, by then too late to fetch his shoes at Palazzo Rospigliosi and so, jumping lightly to my feet, I suggested that we should, taking unfrequented byways, make our way discreetly to the attic of the great house, where we could be sure of finding a servant willing to lend him a pair in better condition than his own.

  "A lackey's footwear!" mumbled Buvat with a hint of shame, while we hurriedly piled the remains of our picnic into the basket, "but they will surely be better than my own."

  With the rolled-up piece of jute under my arm, we turned furtively away from where we could hear voices. We took care to keep to the edge of the park, far from the festive lights, moving along the rim of the dark slope that led down to the vineyard of the villa. Aided and abetted by twilight, we had no difficulty in reaching the service entrance of the house.

  Once Buvat was, for a modest consideration, shod with a fine pair of livery shoes in black patent leather with bows, we hurried to our appointment with Abbot Melani. We had no need even to knock at his door: the Abbot, bewigged, powdered and resplendent with ribbons and ruffles, wearing embroidered satin ceremonial dress, his cheeks shining with carmine red and dotted with black beauty spots after the French fashion (and not at all small, but large, ridiculous ones) awaited us on the threshold, nervously ill-treating his walking-cane. I noticed that he was wearing white stockings instead of his usual red abbot's hose.

  "Where the deuce have you been hiding, Buvat? I have been waiting for you for over an hour. You would not wish me to come down unaccompanied like a plebeian, would you? All the other guests are already in the garden: explain to me why I came here. Was it to look down from the window at the Marchese Serlupi chattering blissfully away with Cardinal Durazzo, while I rot here in my chamber?"

  The Abbot's gaze was drawn suddenly to the shine which the lackey's shoes worn by his secretary gave off in the candle-light.

  "Say nothing. I do not wish to know," he warned, raising his eyes heavenward, when Buvat most unwillingly resigned himself to explaining what had happened.

  Thus they set off, without Melani paying the slightest attention to my presence. As Buvat nodded to me in sorrowful commiseration, Atto turned to me without stopping and gestured that I was to follow him.

  "Keep your eyes open, my boy. Cardinal Spada is Secretary of State, and if anything important is unfolding, I am sure that you will know how to catch the scent of it. We are certainly not interested in his arguments with his Major-Domo."

  "In truth, I never promised to spy on your behalf."

  "You will have to spy on nothing whatever. In any case, you would not be capable of it. You have only to make good use of your eyes, ears and brain. That's all you need to know the world. Now, get on with it. That is all. Tomorrow at dawn, here in my chambers."

  How eager the Abbot was, I noted, to join in the conversations with the other illustrious guests of the Spada family, and certainly not from any desire for distraction. Yet it was clear that he had, from his window, overheard Cardinal Fabrizio rebuking Don Paschatio and he would thus have noted the singular apprehensiveness of the Secretary of State. Perhaps that was why he had made me that last recommendation: to keep my eyes well trained on the master of the house.

  That night, I thought, it would be better to stay at the great house, seeing that I had an appointment with Atto at a very early hour on the morrow, but above all, because my Cloridia was not at home. To sleep in our empty bed was for me the worst of torments. Better then that I should sleep on the improvised couch that awaited me in the servants' hall under the eaves.

  I was on my way down to offer my last services to the Major-Domo when I remembered that I had left my gardener's apron and tools behind in Atto's lodgings. The Abbot would not, I thought, mind if I entered briefly to retrieve it. I obtained permission from one of the valets de chambre to take the keys to Melani's apartment. I had worked long enough among the villa's servants for them to trust me blindly.

  Having entered and taken my apron, I was about to leave again when my attention was caught by what lay on Atto's bureau: a neat pile of absorbent powder and, nearby, two broken goose plumes.
The Abbot must have written much, and in a great state of excitation, during our absence that afternoon. Only a fevered hand could have twice broken a pen. Might this have something to do with the letter which he had received and which had so perturbed him?

  I glanced out of the window. Abbot Melani and Buvat were moving down one of the walks in the garden. They were on the point of disappearing from view when I remembered that a short while before I had, without being certain of recognising it, glimpsed a device in Atto's lodgings. I looked around me. Where could he have hidden it? On the dining chair, that was it. I was not mistaken. It was a telescope. Although I had never held one in my hands, I knew what these things looked like and how they functioned, for in Rome the celebrated Vanvitelli used similar devices to paint his famous and wonderful views of the city.

  So I took the telescope and brought it to my eye, pointing it at the figures of Atto and his secretary now receding in the distance. I was surprised and delighted by the miraculous power of that machine, capable of rendering distant things near and minute things large. Thus, like wit, to cite Father Tesauro, it is able to render interesting that which is tedious, and gay, that which is sad. Flushing with emotion, with my eyelids still recoiling from the hard metal of the device, I aimed in error at the indigo of the sky and then at the green of the vegetation, at last succeeding in pointing its powerful regard in the right direction.

  I saw Atto stop and bow deeply to a pair of cardinals, then to a noblewoman accompanied by two young ladies. Buvat, with a glass of his beloved wine already in one hand, tripped over a piece of wood and came close to falling against the noble lady. Melani went to great lengths to present his excuses to the three ladies, then upbraided Buvat discreetly but bitterly, while the latter, after setting down his glass, brushed the soil clumsily from his black stockings. It was not, however, easy to move along the drives; all around were the usual comings and goings of lackeys, servants and labourers, while the walks still had not been cleared of materials and refuse from the works for the construction of the theatre, the ephemeral architectural effects, the open-air tables, not to mention the gardening and irrigation works.