And on the sleeve a cuckoo bird.
'Nevertheless, 'tis quite true, many strange things do happen here,' I swiftly interposed, fearing that the tourney might all too easily degenerate, what with the pair calling one another mad. 'I mean,' said I, correcting myself at once, for Atto was showing signs of impatience at my observation, 'that 'tis said that corrupt vapours circulate here, or other strange exhalations able even… how can one put it?… to produce hallucinations.'
'Exhalations? Perhaps. That is the beauty of this place. Did not nature's prudence perhaps bestow upon children the seal of folly wherewith to increase the pleasure they can give their educators and to soften the latter's trials? Likewise, this villa lightens the cares of travellers who find solace therein.'
As he spoke, he placed the violin in its case, from which he drew a series of sheets of music.
'Do you perhaps mean that the Vessel possesses magical qualities?' I asked.
'No more than love possesses.'
'What do you mean?'
'Did not Cupid, the god of love, take on the guise of a thoughtless and crazy little child with flowing locks? And yet love, as the poet puts it, moves the sun and the other stars.'
'You speak in riddles.'
'No, no, 'tis quite simple. One needs only a child's innocence to move the world. Nothing is more powerful.'
Abbot Melani raised his eyebrows smugly, looking at me through half-closed eyes as though to tell me that Albicastro seemed to him somewhat touched.
Meanwhile, the musician continued:
The world was Alexander's fief:
A poisoned drink brought quick relief;
And likewise King Darius fled
His troubles: Bessus struck him dead;
And Cyrus' pride had no duration:
His blood supplied his last potation.
On earth no ruler comes so high
That termination isn't nigh.
In history, at least my version,
The realms Assyrian and Persian,
And Macedonian and Grecian,
And Carthage and the Roman nation,
They all have come at last to dust.
The verses recited by the Dutchman struck me no little; they seemed closely to echo what Melani had told me of the powerful Cardinal Mazarin's fear of dying.
'Again your Brant. You speak always of folly, you love playing the folia,' the Abbot intoned with ill-concealed scepticism.
'Scorn not folly, for 'tis no defect. Do you not, too, concur with my ancient compatriot of Rotterdam that to pardon one's friends' errors by trying to hide them, deceiving oneself about them and doing one's best not to see them — even going so far as to appreciate their vices as great virtues — is all too similar to folly? Is that not the greatest wisdom?'
Atto almost imperceptibly lowered his eyes: Albicastro had struck home. He seemed almost privy to the talks between Melani and me and my musings concerning our tormented friendship.
Meanwhile, the Dutch musician, turning back to rummage among his sheets of music, began to recite to himself:
We don't find friendships like the one
That David had with Jonathan,
Or of Patroclus and Achilles,
Orestes and his friend Pylades,
Like Pythias, to Damon true,
And King Saul's armour-bearer too,
Or Laelius and Scipio.
Self-seeking is our chief est sin,
Ignoring friendship, kith and kin.
No Moses now among our brothers,
Who, as himself could love all others,
No Nehemiahs to be found;
And pious Tobits don't abound.
The Abbot raged inwardly, but uttered not a word.
'And if folly is the highest wisdom,' resumed the Dutchman, turning again to us, 'where could it find better lodgings than in this Vessel which, as you yourselves acknowledged yesterday, is literally plastered with proverbs of wisdom?'
'Did you spy on us?' exclaimed Atto with a movement of surprise and disdain, beginning to suspect that all Albicastro's uncomfortable allusions to friendship might not be a matter of pure coincidence.
'I heard you when you raised your voices. Your words resounded up into the tower,' he replied without any loss of composure. 'But you will have other matters with which to occupy yourselves, so permit me now to leave you.'
He descended the spiral staircase and within instants we had lost even the echo of his footsteps. Abbot Melani's features were livid.
'Quite insufferable, that Dutchman,' he muttered.
'Holland is no country for you, Signor Atto,' I could not help observing. 'Why, once, if my memory does not betray me, you could not bear even the presence of Flemish cloth.'
'Now, thanks be to heaven, that is no longer the case, ever since that people of stingy heretics improved their techniques for dying cloth, at long last attaining the quality of France's royal manufactures. But this time, I'd rather have been assailed by three hundred sneezes than have to put up with that Albicastro's nonsense.'
We took the main stairs then to the floor above, where we were setting foot for the first time and where no few unforeseen events awaited us. The first surprise in truth found us even as we were making that ascent. The spiral stairs were carpeted with inscriptions:
So many friends. No friend
Be a friend to your own soul
Correct the friend who errs, but abandon the incorrigible Believe only the friend with whom you've old acquaintance Place not new friends before old
To adulate friends does more harm than to criticise enemies
Amity is immortal, enmity mortal
Attend to your enemies, but fear them
Be slow to form new friendships. Once forged, be steadfast
As I climbed, and those proverbs ran before my eyes, I was once more assailed by the bizarre impression that something in the Vessel, like an obscure and impersonal sense organ, had read my thoughts concerning friendship and was now dictating, if not the answer, at least an acknowledgement of my secret ponderings. I remembered: had I not already, during our first incursion, read sayings about friendship carved on the pyramids in the garden? The series of events that had unfolded was coherent, it was perfectly clear. First, the quarrel with Atto; then Albicastro's words and verses on friendship; the latter were perhaps more a consequence of having listened to the music than some enigmatic manifestation of cause and effect, but here now were new phrases which seemed to be trying to rub salt into my inner wound.
Climbing those stairs, I felt myself like Cardinal Mazarin persecuted by the nightmare of the Capitor: the more I rejected the hints implicit in those proverbs, the more they obsessed me.
So many friends. No friend. With so many at the Villa Spada I exchanged pats on the shoulder; yet I could in truth count none as true friends, least of all the Abbot. Be a friend to your own soul. Atto and I shared the same soul — was that not so? — thought I sarcastically, the Prince of Dupes and the King of Intriguers… Correct the
