pilaster.
I drew near to the first inscription and read:
Discretion is the mother of virtue.
Not all men of letters are learned.
Better a good friend than a hundred kinsmen.
One enemy is too many, and a hundred friends are not enough.
A wise man and a madman know more than a wise man alone.
It matters more to know how to live than to know how to speak.
One thing is born of another, and the World governs it.
With scant brains is the World governed.
The World is governed by opinions.
At either side of the loggia stood two half-pilasters, each with its corresponding proverb:
At court, no one enjoys himself more than the jesters.
In his villa, the wise man best finds contemplation, and pleasure.
'I knew of the inscriptions at the Vessel,' said Atto then, as he discovered them alongside me, 'but I could never have imagined that there could be so many of them, and painted everywhere. A truly remarkable piece of work. Bravo Benedetti! Even if they're not all flour from his own sack,' he concluded with a malicious smile.
'What do you mean?'
''The World is governed by opinions,'' Atto once more recited in an insidious, strident voice, pulling down his clothes as though to mimic a surplice, his eyebrows arched in a severe ex pression and two fingers under his nose as though to ape a pair of moustaches.
'His Eminence Cardinal Mazarin?' I guessed.
'One of his favourite phrases. He never wrote it down, as he did with so many others.'
'And which other maxims do you recognise here?'
'Let's see… 'Discretion is the mother of virtue': that was by my late lamented friend Pope Clement IX. Then… 'Better one good friend than a hundred kinsmen.' Her Majesty Anne of Austria, the late mother of the Most Christian King, would often repeat that… Did you say something?'
'No, Signor Atto.'
'Are you sure? I could have sworn I heard something like… a whisper… Yes, that's it.'
We looked all around us for a moment, vaguely perturbed. Seeing nothing, we could but continue the visit while, quietly, almost inaudibly, the melody we had heard before began again.
'A folia' commented the Abbot.
'Yes, it is all rather weird in here,' I concurred.
'But what do you think I meant? I am speaking of the melody we're listening to: these are variations on the theme of the folia. Or at least that is what it sounds like, from the little one can hear of it.'
I said nothing, not knowing what the theme of the folia might be, in music.
'It is a popular tune of Portuguese origin, originally a dance,' said Atto, answering my tacit query, 'and it is quite well known. It is all based on what one might call a musical canvas, a very simple musical warp and weave, on which musicians improvise a great number of variations and the most virtuosic counterpoints.'
We stayed a while again listening to the melody, which gradually unfolded as a deep, severe motif gave way to a warm, brilliant one, then to melancholy. This music was always fickle, forever on the move.
'It is very beautiful,' I murmured breathlessly, while the enchantment of the music began to make my head spin.
'It is the basso ostinato, it, too, varied, which accompanies the counterpoint. This always captivates dreamy natures like yours,' sniggered Atto. 'However, in this case, you are perfectly right.
Until now, I had always believed there were no better variations on the folia than those of maestro Marais at Versailles; however, these ones in the Italian manner are enchanting. The composer is really excellent, whoever he may be.'
'But who first composed the folia? ' I asked, beset by curiosity, while the music vanished into thin air.
'Everyone and no one. As I told you, it is a popular melody, a very ancient dance. Its origins are lost in the mists of time. Even the name 'folly' is mysterious. But let me read now, here there's something by Lorenzo de' Medici,' Atto continued, preparing to peruse a few verses, then breaking off suddenly.
'Did you hear that?' he hissed.
I had indeed heard it. Two voices. One masculine, the other feminine. Quite close to us. Then, footsteps on the gravel.
We looked all around us. There was no one.
'Well, after all, we are here on a friendly visit,' said he, releasing the breath we had both been holding back. 'There's no reason to be afraid.'
Once again we resumed our exploration. I had been impressed by those verses on the walls of the vessel which enjoined one to withdraw from the world's vanities and to seek truth and wisdom in the safe harbour of nature and friendship. How curious, I thought, to find in this very place, when we were on the trail of the secret meeting of three cardinals, thoughts and words which exhorted us to accord no value to the cares of politics and business. I had withdrawn far from worldly things; I had renounced my ambition to become a gazetteer and had enclosed myself in my little field with Cloridia. Seventeen years later, Atto was still attached to these things, quite intensely! Only now (but this might be an illusion) had these verses, with their suave insistence on the vanity of sublunary things, seemed to awaken in his countenance a shadow of doubt, of reflection and regret.
'These verses… You know them, you reread them for the hundredth time, and yet they still seem to have something to tell you,' he murmured, almost as though speaking to himself.
We read, between the arches, fine verses on the seasons by Marino, Tasso and Alemanni, and distiches by Ovid. Our attention was then caught by a series of wise maxims on the wall between the windows:
He who loses faith has nothing else to lose
He who has no friends will have no great luck
He who promises in a hurry spends a long time regretting
He who always laughs often misleads
He who seeks to mislead is often misled
Whoever wants to speak ill of others should think first of himself
Whosoever well conjectures guesses well
He who acquires a reputation acquires stuff
He who wants enough friends finds few
He who nothing ventures nothing gains
He who thinks he knows most understands least
'Curses!' Atto hissed all of a sudden. 'What's wrong?'
'How could you not have heard? A sharp noise, here, right in front of me.'
'In truth… Yes, I heard it too, like a branch breaking.' 'A branch breaking on its own? Now, that would be really interesting,' he remarked ironically, looking around himself with a hint of annoyance.
I was unwilling to admit it, but our exploration seemed to be taking place along two parallel tracks: the inscriptions which we deciphered and the mysterious noises which beleaguered us, as though those two heterogeneous realities, the written word and the murmurings of the unknown, were in truth but calling out to one another.
Yet again, we summoned up our courage and moved on. The list of maxims continued in the second embrasure:
H e who wants everything dies of rage
He who is unused to lying thinks that everyone tells the truth
He who is inured to doing evil thinks of nothing else
He who pays debts builds up capital
He who wants enough should not ask for too little
He who looks at every feather will never make a bed
He who has no discretion deserves no respect
He who esteems not is not esteemed
