assistance of heaven. And yet it would be even stranger if this Maria were a woman of this world. The sigh with which Atto had murmured that name and the pallor which came into his face suggested a promise not kept, an old and unrequited passion, a torment of the heart: in short, a love entanglement.
Love for a woman: the one test, I thought, to which Atto the castrato would never be equal.
'You will have a long ride under the sun to Palazzo Rospigliosi, if you want to recover your shoes,' said I, turning to Buvat, as I looked in the direction of the stables, seeking the groom.
'Alas,' he replied with a grimace of discontent, 'and I have not even had lunch.'
I seized the opportunity without an instant's hesitation.
'If you so desire, I shall arrange for something to be prepared for you quickly in the kitchens. That is, of course, if you do not mind…'
Abbot Melani's secretary did not need to be asked twice. We turned swiftly on our heels and, after leaving the great house through the back door we were soon in the chaos of the Villa Spada's kitchens.
There, amidst the to-ing and fro-ing of the scullions who were cleaning and the assistant cooks who were getting ready to prepare the evening meal, I gathered together a few leftovers: three spiny needlefish cleansed of their salt, two unleavened ring-cakes and a fine white and azure chinoiserie in the form of a goblet, full of green olives with onions. I also obtained a small carafe of Muscatel wine. For myself, by now almost dying of hunger, I broke off a pair of rough hunks from a large cheese with herbs and honey and laid them on lettuce leaves which I retrieved still fresh from the remains of the luncheon's garnishings. It was certainly not enough to sate my appetite after a day's work, but it would at least enable me to survive until suppertime came.
In the febrile activity of the kitchens, it was not easy to find a corner in which to consume our late meal. What was more, I was looking for a discreet recess in which to further my acquaintance with that strange being who was acting as secretary to Atto Mel ani. Thus I might perhaps be able to clarify my ideas somewhat about this Maria and the singular behaviour of the Abbot, as well as the plans which the latter was hatching for his own future and, a fortiori, for mine.
I therefore proposed to Buvat, who needed no persuading, that we should sit on the grass in the park, in the shade of a medlar or peach tree, where we should also enjoy the advantage of being able to pluck a tasty fruit for our dessert directly from the tree. Without so much as a by-your-leave, we seized a basket and a double piece of jute and walked along the gravel scorched by the midday sun in the direction of the chapel of the Villa Spa da. The dense grove of delights which stood behind it was the ideal place for our improvised picnic. Once within the perfumed shade of the undergrowth, the soft freshness of the ground gave instant relief to the soles of our feet. We would have settled on the edge of the wood near the chapel if a subdued and regular snoring had not revealed to us the presence of the chaplain, Don Tibaldutio Lucidi, curled up in the arms of Morpheus, evidently having thought the time ripe to enjoy a brief respite from the fatigues of divine service. After, therefore, placing a certain dis tance between the chaplain and ourselves, we at length chose as our roof the welcoming umbrella of a fine plum tree replete with ripe fruit, ringed by little wild strawberry bushes.
'So you are a scribe at the Royal Library in Paris,' said I to open our conversation, as we stretched out the ample piece of sacking on the sward.
'Scribe to His Majesty and writer on my own behalf,' he re plied, half seriously and half facetiously as he fumbled greedily in the basket of provisions. 'What Abbot Melani said of me today is not exact. I do not only copy, I also create.'
Buvat had resented Atto's judgement, yet there was a hint of self-deprecating irony in his voice, the fruit of that resigned disposition which — in elevated minds destined to fill subaltern roles — results from the impossibility of being taken seriously, even by themselves.'What do you write?'
'Above all, philology, although anonymously. On the occasion of a pilgrimage I made to Our Lady of Loreto, in the Marches of Ancona, I arranged for the printing of an edition of certain ancient Latin inscriptions which I had discovered many years previously.'
'In the Marches of Ancona, did you say?'
'Yes,' he replied bitterly, allowing himself to fall to the ground as he plunged his fingers into the goblet of olives. ' Nemo propheta in patria, saith the Evangelist. In Paris I have never published a thing: I must even struggle to obtain any pay. 'Tis as well that Abbot Melani is there to commission some small piece of work from time to time, otherwise that envious old skinflint of a librarian… But do tell me about yourself. It seems that you too write, or so the Abbot tells me.'
'Er… not exactly, I have never had anything printed. I should have liked to do so, but did not have the means,' I replied, embarrassedly turning away my gaze and pretending to fuss over serving him some slices of needlefish with butter. I said nothing to him about my one and only opus, the voluminous memoir of the events which had befallen the Abbot and myself at the Donzello inn many years before, and which Atto had now stolen from me.
'I understand. But now, if I am not mistaken, the Abbot has commissioned you to keep a record of these days,' he replied, grasping an unleavened focaccia and greedily hollowing it out to make room for the stuffing.
'Yes, although it is still far from clear to me what I am supposed to…'
'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
