eminences and princes. Many of these personages were indeed aged or suffering from gout and thus always in need of a helper at hand.
While we waiters served at the high table, which stood upon camelhair-coloured carpets, other janissaries, perspiring yet impassive, upheld great torches which generously illuminated the table.
Thus it was in the midst of such splendour that the dinner began, opening with the very dishes which I myself, amongst others, was serving. Well-nigh stunned by such luxury and pomp, I drew near to that great theatre of pleasure and prepared to serve the guests in accordance with the orders of the Chief Steward, who had appropriately placed himself behind a torch to be able, like one conducting an orchestra, to direct the peaceful militia of the waiters. The wine had just been served to the last guest, and so I moved towards the table. I realised that I was about to serve someone important, for Don Paschatio's eyes and those of the Steward followed me, blazing with anxiety.
'… And so I asked him once again: Holiness, how do you think you can resolve the problem? The Holy Father had just finished eating and was at that very moment washing his hands. And he answered me: 'Really, Monsignor, can you not see? Like Pontius Pilate!''
All those at table burst out laughing. I was so nervous about my delicate and unexpected task that this sudden outburst of hi larity, which I would never have expected from that assembly of high prelates and persons of noble lineage, that I was left well-nigh paralysed. He who had aroused the good humour of the company was none other than Cardinal Durazzo, recounting with malicious wit the words of one of the many pontiffs he had known during the course of his long career. Glancing at the far end of the table I no ticed that, curiously, only one face remained impassive and almost glacial; later, I was to learn the explanation for this.
'And yet he was a holy pontiff, one of the most virtuous of all time,' added Durazzo when some of the guests had quietened down and were wiping away the few tears brought on by excessive laughter.
'Holy, truly holy,' echoed another eminence, rapidly dabbing with a napkin at a few drops of wine that had run down his chin.
'Throughout all Europe, they want to beatify him,' one added from the far end of the table.
I raised my eyes and saw that the Steward and Don Paschatio were striving desperately to attract my attention, gesticulating wildly and pointing at something under my nose. I looked: Cardinal Durazzo was looking at me fixedly and waiting. Half stunned by the general outburst of laughter a few moments before, I had forgotten to serve him.
'Well, well, my boy, rather than Pontius Pilate, do you want me to be like Our Lord in the wilderness?' said he, causing yet another storm of laughter.
Hurriedly, I served the figs to the Cardinal and his neighbours, overcome by a deplorable state of mental confusion. I knew that I had committed an unpardonable gaffe and caused Cardinal Spada to lose face and, if only for a few moments, I had become the laughing stock of the company. My cheeks were on fire and I cursed the moment when I had offered my services to Don Paschatio. I dared not even raise my eyes; I knew that I would find those of the Major-Domo fixed on me, full of anxiety, and those of the Steward, full of fiery wrath. Fortunately that evening was not yet the official feast. Cardinal Spada himself was absent and would be coming only two days later, at the start of the formal festivities.
'… But yes, he's right to think that he will soon be better. Or so we hope, at least,' said someone speaking in sad tones as I continued serving.
'So we hope, ah yes,' echoed Cardinal Aldrovandi, whose name in truth I did not yet know. 'In Bologna, whence I arrived today, they keep asking me insistently for news of his health, every day and at all hours. They are all very worried.'
I understood that they were speaking of the Pope's health and every one of them had his word to put in.
'We hope, we hope, and we pray; prayer can resolve everything,' said another prelate in a sorrowful and in truth rather insincere voice, ending up by crossing himself.
'How much good he has done for Rome!'
'The Hospice of San Michele a Ripa Grande along with a hundred and forty thousand scudi every year for the poor…'
'A pity that he did not succeed in draining the Pontine Marshes.. ' said the Princess Farnese.
'Your Highness will permit me to remind her that the miserable state of the Pontine Fields and the unhealthy effluvia that issue therefrom to oppress Rome are not the fruit of nature, but of the imprudent deforestation practised by past popes, above all Julius II and Leo X,' retorted Monsignor Aldrovandi, striving to stifle at once the least allusion to any lack of success on the part of the reigning Pope, 'and, if I am not mistaken, Pope Paul III too.'
This last barb was a polite reminder of the fact that the Princess was herself a descendant of Paul III, Alessandro Farnese.
'The Baccano Woods,' she retorted, 'were cut down because they were a refuge for assassins and thieves.'
'As is happening today with the forests of Sermoneta and Cisternal' came the heated rejoinder of one whom I was later to recognise as the Prince Caetani. 'We should cut them all down and leave it at that. For the sake of public order, I mean,' he added, embarrassed by the coolness of his audience.
The Princes Caetani, and this I had myself learned some time previously, asked every new pope for permission to cut down those woodlands, which belonged to them, so that they could make money from the operation.
'His Holiness Innocent XII has for years issued decrees for the defence of heaths and woodland,' replied Monsignor Aldrovandi imperturbably.
A murmur of approval flowed down the table, at least among those who were not engaged in close, gossipy conversation with the person seated next to them.
'A pity that he had the Tor di Nona Theatre demolished,' said the same gentleman who had not laughed at Cardinal Durazzo's joke.
Monsignor Aldrovandi, who had not realised that all his praise of the Pope resembled an obituary, had succeeded in silencing the first, veiled criticism of the Pontiff, but this second one (referring to the unpopular decision to destroy one of Rome's most splendid theatres) he pretended not to hear, turning to his neighbour and showing his back to the person who had addressed him.
While serving him, I was fortunate enough to hear two ladies whisper: 'But have you seen Cardinal Spinola di Santa Cecilia?'
'Oh, have I seen him!' giggled the other. 'With the approach of the conclave he's been trying to put it about that he no longer suffers from gout. In order not to be left out of the charmed circle, he goes around behaving like a young lad. And then this evening, here, eating, drinking and laughing, at his age…'
'He's Spada's bosom friend, even if both of them try to hide it.'
'I know, I know…'
'Has Cardinal Albani not arrived?'
'He will be coming in two days, for the wedding. They say that he is working on a very urgent papal breve.'
The dining table was shaped like a horseshoe. Having almost reached the end of the second branch of the table, I was serving a guest with familiar features, and whom I was shortly to recognise, when I felt a sharp but powerful blow to the arm which was holding the charger. It was a disaster. The figs, catapulted to the left together with the leaves, flowers and snow, landed on the face and clothing of the aged nobleman whom I had just served. The dish crashed to the ground with a clangour like that of a breaking bell. A murmur halfway between amusement and disapproval spread among the nearby guests. While the unfortunate nobleman removed the figs with dignity, I looked all around in panic. How could I make Don Paschatio and the Steward understand that what had just occurred was not my fault and that it had been the guest whom I was just serving who had sent my dish flying? I looked at him, full of mute resentment, knowing well that I could do nothing against him, for the servant is always in the wrong. And then I recognised him. It was Atto.
Punishment was swift and discreet. Within five minutes, I was no longer holding a charger in my hand, but one of those enormous, immensely heavy, incandescent torches which illuminated the dinner as though it were almost daylight. I was bursting with rage at Abbot Melani and tormented myself with wondering why he should so cruelly have tricked me, getting me punished and imperilling my present and future employment at the Villa Spada.
