The letter ended in honeyed tones, which I could scarce have imagined on the lips or pen of Atto Melani:
You cannot know how bitter was the Dolour inflicted on me by the Knowledge that you will tarry e'en longer at the Gates of Rome.
Ah, cruel one! If thou hast shot at me, 'twas thine own Mark, and proper for thine Arrow. The Letter, which gave the deadly Wound, obeyed the sure direction of your lovely Eye.
My Arm has once more begun to bleed and 'twill bleed on until it has the Joy and Honour to support Yours. Haste you then to the Villa Spada and to me, my most beloved Friend, or you will have me on your Conscience.
After the intolerably cloying sirop of those lines, I read a postil:
Even now, then, is Lidio's Felicity Nothing to you?
Here, once again, was that Lidio. I did not even ask myself who this stranger with the curious name might be. I was most unlikely to learn that unless I could first discover the identity of Abbot Melani's mysterious correspondent.
So, I summed up, this Maria was also expected at the Villa Spada. And she was late; that explained the frown on the face of Abbot Melani when he read her letter. I reflected that she must be a noblewoman of a certain age, given that Atto spoke to her as to an old friend. In the two letters, moreover, he made no mention of her family; it seemed indeed that she was travelling alone. She must truly be a personage of great importance, as well as of high rank, thought I, if they had dared invite her to the wedding unaccompanied: ancient and single noblewomen, whether or not they be widowed, generally enclose themselves in the isolation of prayer, when not indeed in cloister. They withdraw from society and no one dares disturb them save for pious works. This lady seemed, what is more, to be of a truly singular temperament to have accepted the invitation!
1 felt deeply curious to know her or at least to know who she might be. I glanced rapidly at the other letters in the bundle; they were hers, and they spoke of events in Spain. She must be Spanish; or perhaps an Italian (for she wrote my language so beautifully) who dwelt there or at any rate possessed great interests in that country. In all the epistles, the secret of the writer's identity was, alas, well preserved. I must therefore resign myself to awaiting her arrival at the villa, who knows when; either that, or discreetly interrogate Buvat.
I put off reading these letters to another day; I had profited unduly from the Abbot and his secretary's absence. I durst not risk discovery one moment longer.
As I had intended to do before my incursion into the Abbot's apartment, I returned downstairs in order to obtain something for supper and then to present myself to the Major-Domo.
I returned the keys to the Abbot's chambers to their proper place and was about to enter the kitchens when I saw the coachman who served Cardinal Fabrizio at the Apostolic Palace emerging all breathless and red in the face. I asked a Venetian milkmaid who frequented the villa and was on the point of leaving whether by any chance something had happened.
'No, 'tis nothing. 'Tis only Cardinal Spada who is always in a furious rush these days, for it seems there's much afoot at the Apostolic Palace. And it must be something really important to give him such a headache, that it must. His Eminency is always in such ill humour and the coachman is almost going out of his mind, what with carting the master back an' forth from a cardinal to an ambassador and then back again for some business about a papal bull or I know not what, and having to put up with his state of nerves.'
I was dumbstruck. The power of women! This modest milkmaid had needed only the few minutes of her regular visit to the villa's kitchens to understand what it would have taken me a whole day, and much good fortune, to get wind of. I had come to realise this when my Cloridia became one of the most respected and sought-after midwives for Rome's noble matrons (and their maids): with all the news that she brought back home every day I could easily have filled a gazette.
'Ah, and please give my regards to the Signora your wife and a kiss to the little ones,' added the milkmaid, as though she had been reading my thoughts. 'You know, my sister's confinement has been going perfectly since la Cloridia brought that old goat of a brother-in-law of mine to reason. She's a really fine woman, your wife, you know.'
Of course I knew that Cloridia was now not just a midwife but a veritable godmother: an authoritative and willing counsellor to whom women, both those of the people and society ladies, went for advice and assistance in the most intimate and delicate matters. From the education of the husband during his wife's pregnancy to the weaning of the infant: for every circumstance, my wife had a smile and the right words. Such was her ability that she was sometimes called upon by the famous medicus and chirurgeon Baiocco to assist him with confinements that took place within the ancient walls of the Fatebenefratelli Hospital on the island of San Bartolomeo on the Tiber.
Affable, gay, gracious, bantering, courageous, Cloridia always enheartened women with child, assuring them that they would give birth without much pain. She could tell that from many signs which, she swore, she had observed in others; the which, although untruths, were recommended even by Plato in The Republic for consoling the sick.
All in all, after fifteen years exercising the office of midwife, Cloridia was accorded by her women, and not only them, the respect due to a judge presiding over a family court.
Once I had quit the milkmaid, I found myself a place at a corner of the table where the servants were devouring their supper. While eating my meal in silence, I meditated upon Atto's words: to know the world, all you need is to make good use of your eyes, ears and brain. Was that not exactly what my Cloridia did too? I, however, was unable to do that, and I was perfectly aware of the fact; in this respect I had not progressed one iota since the days when I was a young and innocent apprentice at the Locanda del Donzello. In those days, inexperience played its part, but now I was, on the contrary, held back by an excess of accumulated experience which had prompted me to withdraw in disgust from the mean quotidian round of worldly affairs.
Perhaps my wife was right to reprove me for being a new Cincinnatus. It was true. Leaning upon my hoe and on Sundays over my books, I neither saw, heard nor ever asked myself questions. Even with the neighbours, I had been at pains never to form bonds of friendship, scarcely even of acquaintance. So much so that, whenever I happened to learn some news and to mention it to Cloridia in the evening, I would invariably receive the same reply: 'Well, are you surprised? That's old hat. By now, everybody knows.'
Mine was disdain for the world but also — yes, I must confess — fear of it, fear of the evil I had seen there.
Now, however, something had changed. The sudden reappearance of Abbot Melani had brought about an earthquake in my life. Cloridia would — I knew — mock me to scorn for allowing myself once more to be caught in Melani's gins. But what did that matter? I loved her so, even when she lashed me derisively with knowing words, as though I were a mere schoolboy. Besides, she'd not laugh so much at the twelve hundred scudi which my memoir had earned for us…
Yes, something had changed; although I remained a dwarf in body as in spirit, yet it was time now to disinter and put to good use those few talents which Divine Providence had given me. Of course, with Atto one knew where one was starting from but not where one would end up. On the other hand, as I had been able to discover from his scapular, old age had markedly increased the Abbot's fear of God.
How much did I really owe Abbot Melani? I owed him not only the disillusionment which had engendered so much mistrust in me, but also such good things as had happened in my poor life: Cloridia, above all. If the Abbot had not come seventeen years earlier to upset the rhythm of my days and those of the other lodgers at the Locanda del Donzello, never would I have approached my beloved wife, and she herself would have remained caught up forever in the turbid profession in which I had found her. Neither would I ever have been able to acquire the science of men's thought nor indeed knowledge of the affairs of the world, wherewith I was now measuring that world. It was, without a doubt, a most bitter science, but one which had from a tremulous lad forged a man.
After supper, I set such thoughts aside and, as I rose from the table, I began once again to reflect upon the latest news. Going by the information I had received from the milkmaid, I must acknowledge that Abbot Melani was right. On the upper storeys of the Apostolic Palace of Monte Cavallo, important manoeuvres were taking place.
Barely had I had time to take my cordial leave of the chief cook and set foot outside the kitchen than a voice recalled me to my duties: 'Signor Master of the Fowls!'
He who was now calling me by a title which in reality I did not deserve was just the man I sought: Don Paschatio Melchiorri, the Major-Domo.
Don Paschatio was above all things respectful of the prerogatives of those whose labour he, with the most
