Secretum

Obviously, I knew the rest of the tale inside out, and while, docilely but distractedly, I accepted Cloridia's sweet pressures on my body, I repeated mentally after her: the Queen took such delight in the sight of Andromeda in the act of venery that she became pregnant with a maiden similar to her; this explanation was given by the Gymnosophists who were the most learned men in that land. And Aristotle confirms…

I could console myself, I thought as I impatiently awaited the end of the tale: if the great Hippocrates, and Pliny and Avicenna too, had had the impudence to perjure themselves before a judge, coolly inventing such tali stories in order to save the lives of a mother and her child, my spouse was in good company.

'Alciatus, and before him Quintilian,' continued Cloridia while she disarranged my clothing and gave ampler freedom to her appetites, 'freed another woman from the same accusation who had given birth to a black daughter, her husband being white, because there was in her chamber the painted figure of an Aethiopian.'

'And then? Did you tell him the tale of Jacob's sheep?' I asked her in order to please her, as I was beginning to fear the outcome of her manoeuvres.

'Obviously,' she replied, without allowing herself to be distracted from her intentions.

'And your theory that even mere food could influence the appearance of the newborn child?' I asked, caressing the palms of her hands with my lips, so as to keep her under control and to distract her from the inspection which she was obstinately intent upon carrying out.

'Mmm, no,' she replied with a hint of embarrassment. 'Do you remember, when I attended the confinement of the wife of that Swiss coffee-house owner? Well, when I tried to assuage the suspicions of the husband, explaining to him that in animals one finds more resemblance than in men, because they eat always the same food, while men eat different foods, he replied with an ugly expression that in his part of the world Alpine men and women ate nothing but chestnuts and watered-down goat's milk, despite which they were born with the same differences as ourselves.'

'And what did you say to that?'

'I still managed, using the story of feminine imagination. I swore that it was universally known to be true, indeed most certain, that a strong imagination and the fixed thought of a woman could mark the body of her child with the semblance and image of the thing desired. Do we not see every day infants who are born marked with pig's skin, or wine, or grapes, or other similar stains? A strong imagination can then mark in a woman's womb a body already fully formed, so much as to imprint the most varied forms on its skin, for these represent the woman's thoughts. So in the end I told him: 'You who exploit your poor wife night and day serving coffee at table now have your just deserts: the poor thing, by dint of spending so much time looking at coffee, has produced for you a son of the same colour!''

Alack and alas. As we can read in the works of Cesare Baronio, the great Tertullian, a man of great fame, let himself be persuaded by a vile woman of no account that the souls of the just were coloured. Then just imagine my sharp-witted and erudite Cloridia allowing herself to be caught out by some cuckold coffee-house proprietor and, what's worse, with the thick skull of a Switzer. With this mute consideration, I accepted with resignation the account of my lady's prowess, while she in the meanwhile had resumed her effusions.

'Is a man's imagination worth nothing?' I asked, feigning astonishment and surprise in order to free myself a little of her over-active embrace.

'Here, there arises a considerable doubt. According to Aristotle, yes. According to Empedocles and Hippocrates, whose view I praise, a man's imagination will succumb to a woman's, which is most vehement,' said she, while she acted most vehemently. 'Save in a single case. That of the wise father with a foolish son. Why should a foolish son sometimes be born of a wise father? It is not possible that the mother should desire this. And yet, yes, that is the case. Most studious husbands are of ever-melancholy humour, and melancholy is sister in the flesh to madness: both especially hated by women when it comes to lovemaking. It may then be that during the carnal act their imagination may run to desiring a happy fool rather than a melancholy sage. Quite apart from the fact that distracted husbands do not pay sufficient attention to that task…'

I winced for shame. Cloridia was right. I had not responded to her ardour and had remained melancholy and absent. Not even when she had put all her womanly arts into play, from the most subtle to the most manifest, had she succeeded in calling my anxious member to his sweet and sacrosanct conjugal duties. And to think that only a little earlier I had so longed for her! The Devil take those damned thoughts of the Abbot, the bookbinder and the thieves and all those things which had so horribly cast me down into that pit of anguish.

'Would you then prefer a silly but happy consort, dear wife?' I asked her.

'Well, a happy and foolish man is always a good thing for the quality of the offspring, for he greatly pleases the woman in their encounter and will make her desire wisdom to be united to so much gaiety, so that, through the power of the imagination, she will succeed in generating a son who is both joyful and wise in spirit.'

I smiled, embarrassed. She sat up and laced her bodice.

'Come, what's so perturbing you?'

Thus, I was at last able to tell her: of Atto's arrival, the theft of my memoir, the task of serving as the Abbot's biographer during this time and, at last, of my suspicions and lacerating doubts, without forgetting Atto's wounding, the strange death of the bookbinder, as well as the double raid on our home and against Buvat. But above all I told her of the mysterious Maria, who had then turned out to be Madama the Connestabilessa Colonna, with whom Atto was secretly in correspondence, and of the disquieting visit to the Vessel. Lastly, the news of how the incursion had turned our nest upside down caused her a shudder.

'And only now are you telling me?' was Cloridia's sole response as she looked at me wide-eyed, as though she had suddenly discovered that she had married an idiot.

My prickly consort had already forgotten how long I had had inanely to await the end of her chatter. She calmed down quickly enough: learning of the tidy little sum which the Abbot had already paid us put her in a good mood at once.

'And so Abbot Melani is again in these parts, doing damage,' commented Cloridia.

My wife had never had much sympathy for the Abbot. Through me, she knew of all the base deeds of which the castrato had been capable, and thus was not in the least impressed either by the diplomat's eloquence or by my experience of countless adventures by his side.

'He sends you his greetings,' I lied.

'You may reciprocate,' she replied with a hint of scepticism. 'And so your castrato abbot has been pining for a woman these thirty years,' she added, in a tone halfway between sarcasm and satisfaction. 'And what a woman!'

Cloridia, being a good tattler, had already heard tell of Maria

Mancini and knew from high authority of her Roman vicissitudes as the wife of the Constable Colonna.

On the visit to the Vessel and the enigmatic apparition which I had witnessed, she made no comment. I should very much have liked her to enlighten me with her wise opinion, for she had once been so expert in the occult arts such as reading the palm, the science of numbers and guidance by the ardent rod, but my wife passed directly to the next phase: she would ask around, among her women, in order to help us with our inquiries. She would set in motion the powerful and secret network of feminine word of mouth; a thousand eyes would keep vigil — observing, following, memorising for us, shooting astute glances — unseen, behind the deceptive appearance of an expectant mother's calm contemplation or the languid eyelashes of a spouse.

We talked for a long time and as usual she was prodigal with politic advice, wise recommendations and exaggerated praise of my virtues. She knew me well and knew how much encouragement I would be needing.

I had no more doubts. Now that I had told her all and had put my trust in her, my fears had dissolved, and with them the weight which drained my senses of all strength and tumescence.

We lay together and at last we loved each other. In the shade of the great beech, like some new Titirus, I sweetly modulated my flute in honour of my woodland muse.

We had by now been overtaken by nightfall. Freeing myself from my Cloridia's embrace, I discreetly rearranged her apparel and walked slowly towards the great house and my meeting with Abbot Melani.

It was then that, my soul being touched by the grace of conjugal love, I first beheld the gardens of the villa in the gay fullness of their splendour. Cardinal Spada had spared no expense to bestow upon the festivities every imaginable perfection. Villa Spada was smaller and more modest than other noble dwellings, but its master desired that it should for the occasion be among the foremost in the display of magnificence. He had not failed to enhance that which, more than all else, makes Roman villas so very special and different from those in all the rest of the world, namely their unique situation; for, wherever their site may be, there is perforce a most delightful conjunction