'You would, I imagine, like to have your own inn.'
'No, Signor Abbot. I would like to become a gazetteer.'
'Now, that is a fine one,' said he with a mischievous smile.
I explained to him that the pious and kindly woman to whom I had been entrusted had arranged for me to be instructed by a former serving maid. That old woman, who had previously been in a nunnery, had initiated me into the arts of the Trivium and the Quadrivium, in the sciences de vegetalibus, de animalibus and de mineralibus, in humanae litterae, in Philosophy and in Theology. She had then made me read many historians and grammarians, as well as Italian, Spanish and French poets. Yet, more even than arithmetic, geometry, music, astronomy, grammar, logic and rhetoric, I grew passionately interested in the things of this world, and, most of all, my spirit was inflamed by the telling of the exploits and successes, both near and far, of princes and reigning monarchs and of wars and other admirable things which…
'Good, good,' he interrupted me, 'so you want to become a gazetteer, or scribe, if you prefer. Men of wit often end up engaged in that trade. How did the idea come to you?'
I was often sent on errands to Perugia, I replied. In town, if I was fortunate enough to be present on the right day, I could listen to the public reading of gazettes, and for two pence one could purchase (but this one could in Rome, too) broadsheets with many notable descriptions of the most recent occurrences in Europe…
'My goodness, young man, I have never come across one like you!'
'Thank you, Sir.'
'Are you not rather too learned for a mere scullion? Those of your kind usually do not even know how to hold a pen,' said he, grimacing.
That remark upset me.
'You are very intelligent,' he added, softening his tone. 'And I understand you: at your age, I too was fascinated by the scribbler's trade. But I had so many things to do. To write skilfully for newspapers is indeed a great art, and always better than working. 'And then,' he added between one mouthful and the next, 'to be a gazetteer in Rome is most exalting. You will know all about the question of the franchises, the Gallican controversy, Quietism…'
'Yes, I believe that… is so,' I murmured, trying in vain to conceal my ignorance.
'Some things, young man, one must needs know. Otherwise, about what will you write? But of course, you are too young. And then, whatever could one write about these days in this half-dead city? You should have seen the splendour of Rome formerly, indeed, only a few years ago. Music, theatres, academies, the introduction of ambassadors, processions, balls: all was refulgent with a wealth, an abundance that you can scarcely imagine.'
'And why is it no longer so today?'
'The grandeur and felicity of Rome ended with the ascension of this Pope, and they will return only with his death. Theatrical performances are forbidden, the Carnival has been suppressed. Can you not see it with your own eyes? The churches are neglected, the palaces are crumbling, the streets are full of potholes and the aqueducts are close to collapse. The master builders, architects and workmen are all returning to their own countries. The writing and reading of those handbills and broadsheets, for which so you have such a passion, are prohibited, although that ban is not always complied with; punishments are even harsher than in former times. Even for Christina of Sweden, who came to Rome abjuring the religion of Luther for our own, no longer are there festivities at the Barberini Palace, or spectacles at the Teatro Tor di Nona. Since the accession of Pope Innocent XI, even Queen Christina has had to cloister herself in her palace.'
'In the past, did you live here in Rome?'
'Yes, for a time,' he replied, then suddenly corrected himself, 'indeed, more than once. I arrived in Rome in 1644, when I was only eighteen and studied with the best masters. I had the honour to be a pupil of the divine Luigi Rossi, the greatest European composer of all time. Then, in the Palazzo alle Quattro Fontane, the Barberini had a theatre with three thousand places and the theatre of the Colonna family in the Palazzo al Borgo was the envy of all the reigning Houses. The artists who designed the scenes bore the most celebrated names, and included even Gian Lorenzo Bernini himself, and the stage astonished, kindled the emotions and entertained, with apparitions of rain, suns setting, bolts of lightning, real living animals, duels with real wounds and real blood, palaces more palatial than real ones and gardens with fountains from which gushed fresh, clear water.'
I realised at that point that I had not asked the abbot whether he was a composer, an organist or a choirmaster. Fortunately, I withheld that question. His almost hairless face, unusually gentle and womanish movements, and above all his very clear voice, almost like that of a small boy who had unexpectedly attained maturity, revealed that I was in the presence of an emasculated singer.
The abbot doubtless remarked the flash of recognition which my look must have betrayed at the instant when I received this illumination. He continued, however, as though nothing had transpired.
'Then, there were not as many singers as today. For a good many, the way lay open and they could travel far and attain unhoped-for goals. As for myself, besides possessing the talent which heaven was pleased to bestow upon me, I had studied with some alacrity. Thus it was that my patron, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, sent me to Paris in the retinue of my master, Luigi Rossi.'
So that was where that strange 'r' came from, thought I to myself, in which he seemed to take such delight.
'Did you travel to Paris in order to continue your studies?'
'Do you imagine that one would still need to study who possessed letters of recommendation to Cardinal Mazarin and to the Queen in person?'
'But then, Signor Abbot, you have had occasion to sing for those Royal Highnesses?'
'Queen Anne enjoyed my singing, I might say, more than ordinarily. She loved melancholy airs in the Italian style, in which I was perfectly able to satisfy her. No two evenings passed without my going to serve her, and every time for at least four hours in her apartments, no thought could arise of anything but music.'
He broke off and looked out of the window, as though oblivious.
'You have never visited the court of Paris. How could one explain this to you? All those nobles and cavaliers rendered me a thousand honours, and when I sang for the Queen, I seemed to be in paradise, surrounded by a thousand angelic faces. The Queen went so far as to beg the Grand Duke not to recall me to Italy, so that she might still enjoy my services. My patron, who was her first cousin on his mother's side, complied with that request. It was the Queen in person who, a few weeks later, showed me, while gracing me with the sweetest of smiles, the letter from my patron permitting me to remain in Paris yet awhile longer. When I had read it, I felt myself dying from jubilation and contentment.'
The abbot had then returned more and more often to Paris, also in the retinue of his master, Luigi Rossi, whose name caused his eyes to shine with pent-up emotion each time that he pronounced it.
'Today, his name means nothing. But then, all accorded him the honours which were his due: for he was a great-indeed, a very great-man. He wished me to play the hero of the Orfeo, the most splendid opera ever to be performed at the French court. It was a memorable success. I was but one and twenty years old then. And, after two months of continuous performances, I had barely the time to return to Florence before Mazarin begged the Grand Duke to send me back to France, so much did the Queen miss my voice. Thus it was that, after returning with Seigneur Luigi, we found ourselves caught up in the turmoil of the Fronde and were forced to flee Paris, together with the Queen, the Cardinal and the little King.'
'So you knew the Most Christian King as a child!'
'Very well, even. During those terrible months of exile at the Chateau de Saint-Germain, he never left his mother's side, and would listen to me sing in silence, rapt silence. Often, in empty moments, I would try to distract him, inventing games for him; thus His Majesty recovered his smile.'
I was for a while both galvanised and stunned by my double discovery. Not only had this bizarre guest a glorious past as a musician; he had been an intimate of the royal highnesses of France! And, what was more, he was one of those singular prodigies of nature who united with a man's form vocal gifts and a quality of soul that were utterly feminine. I had almost at once noticed that unusual timbre in his voice. But I had not dwelt sufficiently on other details, thinking that here might be a simple sodomite.
I had, however, chanced upon a castrato. I knew, in truth, that in order to conquer their extraordinary vocal powers, emasculated singers had to undergo a painful and irreversible operation. 1 knew the sad tale of the pious Origen, who had voluntarily parted with his masculine attributes in order to achieve supreme spiritual virtue, and I
