by Rita Monaldi
Whether they dealt in games for the bon viveur or serious scientific discussion, one thing was clear: Rome had become a unique Universal Forum for Chatterboxes, in which at least one of the noblest of human faculties was guaranteed ad libitum, talk, talk, talk. It goes without saying that the speaker of the moment would set forth the most high-flown concepts and the most learned of meditations.
I was just thinking that I would, that evening, be attending such an event: a series of discussions for the finest and most select wits, held by academicians invited to the Villa Spada for the express purpose of enlivening the conversation, in whose presence I expected that I would, in all humility, have to struggle from beginning to end to keep myself from yawning. Matters, however, went somewhat differently.
Hardly had I donned my daytime uniform when a familiar voice caught my attention.
"We are terribly late, the guests are waiting! And it should be nice and warm, not all murky and muggy! Did you add almonds, hazelnuts and orange water? And half an ounce of carnations?"
It was Don Paschatio, who was rebuking two of the Steward's assistants for what he saw as the mediocre quality of the chocolate. The two stared at him with insolent, bovine eyes, as though he were some silly old uncle.
"Mmm…" said Don Paschatio, raising his eyes to heaven as he licked a finger coated with chocolate. "It seems to me that he has forgotten to add the two reals of aniseed. The Steward! Call the Steward!"
"To tell the truth… He has taken half a day's leave," said one of the assistants.
"Leave? With the guests still arriving?" exclaimed Don Paschatio, growing pale.
"He said he was offended by your latest reprimand."
"Offended, says he… As though a Steward had any right to take offence," he moaned disconsolately to himself. "It no longer counts for anything to be Major-Domo. O tempora, o mores!"
He turned around suddenly and saw me. His face lit up.
"Signor Master of the Fowls!" he exclaimed. "How very fortunate that you should be here, at the service of the most noble House of Spada, instead of shirking your duties like so many of your fellow servants."
Before I could even begin to answer, he had placed a heavy silver tray in my hands.
"Take this tray. Let us at least make a start!" he commanded the other two.
So it was that I found myself holding up with the tray a great jug of fine pink-onion-coloured porcelain full of hot chocolate, surrounded by twelve clinking cups, as well as little jars of vanilla to sweeten the bitter potion. As I set off, I found before my eyes the lovely undulating buttocks of a Diana, painted on the jug, who with her bow and quiverful of arrows was chasing through the woods some poor stag destined for the spit. With the cups tinkling against one another, I was already entering the great salon on the ground floor of the great house where the shade extended calm to fugitives from the heat of the day, inviting palates to enjoy the exotic refreshment.
Once I had made my entry into the great hall, I found before me a scene very different from that which I had expected. There was in fact no academy whatever. Or, to put it better, no orator was to be seen, as the tradition of intellectual confraternities demands, before an audience of silent and absorbed listeners. The salon was full of little groups of guests, randomly gathered: some standing in tight knots, others seated in a semicircle; while yet others wandered around, congregating then going their separate ways, greeting the new arrivals and attending first to one speaker, then another. It reminded me of those clouds of summer gnats which one sees against the light in clearings; they seem at first to form a community, but when one looks more closely, they turn out to be nothing but a mass of chaotic singularities.
One could, however, hear outbursts from the liveliest speakers who, before that undulating and disorderly sea of heads and bodies, discoursed upon the immortality of the soul, the movement of the planets, the latest maps imported from the New World and the antiquities of Rome.
All that great conflation of scientific and philosophical discourse, amplified by the echo of the huge room, blended into a dense, milky cloud in which it was possible to distinguish only one or two sentences at a time.
"For, as Jovius opined in Book Four of his opus…" one pedant was proclaiming to my left.
"Thus, as it is written concerning Dionysius of Halicarnassus.." some eloquent fellow was opining to my right.
"Your Excellencies cannot be unaware that the sublime doctrine of Aquinas…" bellowed a third speaker.
In actual fact, no one was listening, for in Rome they assemble for no purpose other than vain chatter as a pretext and garnishing for food and drink. Romans have always been inclined to judge human events by the immemorial measure of the Roman Empire or by the eternal paradigm of the Catholic Church. Erroneously believing themselves to have title to those temporal or spiritual powers, of which they are merely adventitious offshoots, they end up by regarding all matters quotidian as less than nothing, and look down on all things from on high.
Atto came to meet me, perfectly at ease in the midst of that bedlam of noise and confusion.
"'Tis ever so: they all eat and drink and no one listens," he whispered in my ear. "And yet there's a Jesuit behind those people," said he, pointing towards a nearby group, "who is holding forth in a most interesting discussion concerning the problem of obedience to or rebellion against princes. Quite in vain, for they are all talking with their neighbours about their own little affairs. 'Tis quite true, if the Parisians meet a strumpet, they take her for a saint and go down on their knees before her. As for the Romans, if they meet a saint, they take her for a strumpet and ask her how much she wants."
Hardly had I shown my tray and laid it on a serving table in order to fill the cups than a crowd of gentlemen flocked around me with jovial exuberance.
"Look Marchese, there's chocolate!"
"Come, Monsignor, they are serving us."
"And what of the dissertation on the Decades of Livy?" protested one prelate who was taking part in an academic discussion.
"If you'll not let your Decades be bygones, 'tis the chocolate itself that will be gone," retorted another, and the whole company roared with laughter.
Leaning on the table, I had barely time to fill the cups than they had all been snatched up and the contents of the great jug vanished down the maws of the bystanders. Fortunately, other servants were by then arriving in reinforcement, taken by storm in their turn by new groups of guests, while yet others were besieged by princes and archpriests, secretaries and chamberlains.
While before me one such free-for-all was taking place, I heard behind me a brief conversation which intrigued me no little.
"Have you heard? It seems they intend to resurrect Monsignor Retti's project."
"The plan to reform the police, from back in the days of Pope Odescalchi?"
"Precisely. And I am all for it! It is high time that all those infamous corrupt catchpolls were taught a lesson."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that those exchanging these remarks were two middle-aged prelates. The topic was of no little interest to me: where there are catchpolls there will be thieves, and anything that enlightened me on that subject might be of use for my purposes and those of Abbot Melani. Soon, however, the two prelates were lost from sight (and hearing); hoping to retrace them, I promised myself that I would mention their discussion to Atto.
The lofty and majestic vault which, moments before, had resounded with chatter now echoed with sounds of sipping, sucking and the smacking of tongues. None could bear to forego the taste of chocolate which the Steward — regardless of whatever Don Paschatio might have to say on the matter — had prepared with perfect judgment and mastery.
Suddenly, a space opened up in the formless throng of revellers. Cardinal Spada made his way forward, accompanied by the bridal pair. The master of the house had preferred to let talk die down before making his appearance, thus taking advantage of the gaiety produced by the refreshments.
"Hurrah! Long li
ve the bride and groom!" All turned to applaud the couple, rushing forward to exchange compliments with Spada and to kiss his ring, while festive cheering broke out all around.
"A speech, Your Eminence, a speech!" cried several guests, beseeching the Cardinal.
"Very well, my friends, so be it," he replied with a smile, benevolently calming the hubbub with a clap of the hands. "But faced with such an assembly of the learned, my contribution will inevitably be scanty. You will, I hope, pardon me if, in the modest verses I am about to recite, the topic of which is certainly familiar to you, I should fail to measure up to the science which I have heard in these chambers, but, as the poet puts it, non datur omnibus adire Corinthum."
He begged silence and with jovial expression recited a sonnet.
He am I who through the unknown essence On fasting entered such an argument That to the schoolmen's great astonishment None knows to which of us to 'ward the sentence. One argues taste, the other, abstinence, Both to the Jesuit discipline assent;
If, saith the one, to liquors we consent,
We err, for then there is incontinence.
Balm for his scruples, t'other then suggests
Of amity a civil rite wherein the chalice
Containing no vanilla, each ingests.
Thus, betwixt innocence and malice
A wondrous middle way he then invests,
Which reconciles the fast with gusto and with avarice.
This gave rise to laughter and yet another burst of applause. Cardinal Spada had brilliantly exposed, and resolved, a burning question much debated among Jesuit doctrinal experts: does the drinking of chocolate constitute the breaking of a fast? Spada's proposal was, in keeping with the best style of the Society of Jesus, a sensible compromise: by all means drink chocolate, but let it be bitter, without vanilla, thus reconciling appetite, abstinence and thrift. Meanwhile, the academic chapels whose activities had been disrupted by the arrival of the chocolate were again forgathering. Around single orators or pairs engaged in verbal duels, idle knots of listeners were forming, some still sipping from their cups, some deep in conversation with their neighbours, others gesticulating in the direction of some acquaintance glimpsed in a nearby group. In the motley multitude of ladies, prelates and nobles, it was child's play to discern political allegiances; to identify the partisans of France, Spain or the Empire, one had but to look at where pocket handkerchiefs were placed, the colour of stockings or on which side of their bosom the ladies had pinned some little flower.
With the pretext of removing cups and jugs left on the tables, I moved away from my place to rejoin Abbot Melani whom I saw chatting somewhat disconsolately with a pair of elderly ladies while scanning the whole assembly for the least event worthy of interest or, better, suspicion. Seeing me approach he promptly left the two ladies and with a furtive gesture indicated that I was to join him outside, on the balcony above the stairs leading directly from the main salon down to the gardens.
The sun was still blazing, and we found ourselves providentially alone. I told him briefly of the conversation between the two churchmen and the planned reform of public order in Rome which I had overheard.
"Those two spoke the truth," he commented. "The Roman police have always been both corrupt and utterly shameless."
At that moment, a number of high-ranking prelates emerged from the salon onto the balcony, to take a few pinches of snuff. Some of the faces were known to me, but I could not put names to them. Only one did I remember perfectly and it was that, in fact, which startled me. It was His Eminence Cardinal Albani.
At a glance, Atto took in the situation. He continued what he was saying, gradually raising his voice as he spoke.
"No one is more corrupt than the catchpolls, my boy," he declared, speaking with mounting passion, turning now to address the cardinals who had just appeared.
There shone in his small eyes, perceptible only to those who knew him well, who knows what project or desire.
"And above all, than the judges," he continued, "because in our mad and supposedly modern times, which are nevertheless still the sucklings of a very recent past — times which I would call the Universal Republic of Verbiage — facts count only on the basis of the name they're given. The judges are honorary citizens of this republic, because their task is to satisfy the thirst for revenge of the powerless and the victims of injustice who have ever and will ever crowd their antechambers; antechambers which one leaves with few real facts in hand and many words, for it is precisely of words that this republic consists, as their eminences will be readily aware."
Atto's sally had cast all in the blackest embarrassment. He was at one and the same time addressing the highest wearers of the purple and myself, a mere plebeian. But such insolence, already grave and unusual, was as nothing beside the factious content of his discourse, which sounded like a hymn to mischief making.
"Through the judges' hands passes the world's future," he continued, "for when man counts for little, as in our times, the law is triumphant. Being intrinsically void of any substance, like insanity, it takes up whatever free space it can find. If you should read in a gazette, 'The Judges have ordered the arrest of the alleged swindler Such-and-Such', you will at once think that good has triumphed over evil, for the judges are called judges and the newspaper has called the man they've arrested a swindler. This being said, even before his trial, the death blow against Such-and-Such has already been struck, for fame has plenty of breath and immense wings and aims the darts that are placed in its quiver at whomsoever it will, without paying the slightest attention to any poison in which they may have been dipped. So no one will tell you that those Judges often lie or accept bribes, that they are marionettes, dolls, dummies created out of nothingness and manipulated so as to strike at adversaries, to create diversions, to subvert and to distract public opinion."
I looked around me. The cardinals present during Atto's rash coup de theatre were grey in the face with consternation. The afternoon was supposed to be dedicated to academies, not the justification of revolt.
"Take careful note, however, the Universal Republic of Verbiage is certainly populated by puppets and marionettes, yet it is built of stones as massive as those of the walls of Ilium; these are called justice, truth, public health, security… Each one of these is a cyclopic mass that can neither be discussed nor moved, because the power of words is the only sovereign in our times. Whosoever stands up against seeming truth and seeming Justice will always be called deceitful and dishonest, whoever resists public health will be labelled a spreader of the plague, and if they take on security, they will be damned as subversives. Any attempt to convince others, many others, that behind those words there often, oh so often, lies concealed their very opposite, will be as effective as trying to lift those walls and transport them over a thousand leagues. Better by far to put one's hands over one's eyes and simply keep going, like those who have always decided the fate of nations, the sovereigns and their occult counsellors: well they know that perverse wheel of fortune, and indeed they encourage it, for they want the judges, the catchpolls and all the other marionettes of that sad and grotesque Republic of Verbiage to remain their slaves, and our butchers. Until, perhaps, one day they too are hanged on the orders of a judge."
"Abbot Melani, you are challenging the order of things."
It was Albani. As on the evening before, Atto was being menacingly called to order by His Holiness' Secretary for Breves.
"I am challenging nothing and nobody," Atto replied amiably, "I am merely meditating on…"
"You are here to provoke, to stir up trouble and confusion. You are promoting disorder, inviting people to mistrust judges, to disobey the police. All that, I heard quite clearly."
"Stirring up trouble? Far from it, Your Eminence. As a French subject…"
"That you are on the side of the Most Christian King, that, everybody knows by now," Albani interrupted him yet again, "but there are limits you should not overstep. The Papal See is not some land
to be overrun by this or that power. The Holy City is the universal haven of peace, open to all men of goodwill."
His tone admitted of no reply.
"I bow down to Your Eminence," was Atto's sole response as he made a deep bow to his contradictor, and attempted to kiss his ring.
To complete the insult, however, Albani did not see (or wish to see) the gesture and turned sharply towards the rest of his company, commenting harshly on what had just taken place.
"Incredible! To come here, to the home of the Secretary of State, making propaganda for France, and then spreading ideas…" he exclaimed indignantly to his fellow cardinals.
Atto was thus left kneeling before Albani's back. Someone among the latter's friends noticed this and sniggered. The humiliation was as grave as it was comic.
Moments later, Melani had returned to the salon; I followed him discreetly. His rash speech had been made in my presence too. It might appear to be the ravings of one beside himself, which I had witnessed by pure chance. But one must not go too far: we must avoid word getting around that I was in his service, otherwise I too would come under a cloud of suspicion and mistrust. I did not want to protect his interests but my own. What if Cardinal Spada were to decide that I was mixed up with with a troublemaker? I ran the risk of dismissal.
We crossed the salon, still crowded with guests, keeping our distances. Melani gestured that I was to follow him to his lodgings on the upper floors.
"So, have you understood how the Republic of Verbiage works?" he resumed, as though his speech had never been interrupted.
"But Signor Atto…"
