The beautiful concentric flower beds with shrubs along their borders, divided up by radiating drives arranged for the occasion by Tranquillo Romauli, the Master Florist, had been adorned with columns, sarcophagi and steles, while along the outer wall, fragments of capitals alternated with espaliered citrus trees; even at the main gates, above the stairway of a ruin, rose a pergola supported by trellises, as though time, waving the green banner of nature, wished to signify the overthrow and vanity of human endeavours.
But Villa Spada was but a small example: Rome's villas often enclose temples which remain almost intact, or even entire sections of aqueduct. In the Villa Colonna at Monte Cavallo there was for a long time preserved (and then, alas, thoughtlessly demolished) a fine piece of the gigantic Templum Solis. In the Villa Medici on the Pincio, the Templum Fortunae was to be found. In the Villa Giustiniani on the Lateran Hill, the boundary was marked by the aqueduct of Claudius, flanked by other enormous, anonymous ruins. Even the interior of the Mausoleum of Augustus, a glorious and solemn vestige of the greatest of emperors, was transformed into a garden when it was the property of Monsignor Soderini. On the Palatine Hill and on the Celio, villas and ruins, edifices new and old stretched in a single inextricable web. And likewise, the little Gentili Palace backed onto the ancient Aure- lian Walls, of which it had even incorporated a tower; while the Orti Farnesiani (the inestimable work of Vignola, Rainaldi and Del Duca) fused harmoniously with the vestiges of the imperial palaces on the Palatine. Even Cardinal Sacchetti, when in his villa in the Pigneto he wished to offer a sepulchre to his favourite ass Grillo, used ancient Roman remains which had come into his hands there, on his own lands, where one had only to sink a spade into the ground to strike marble from the centuries of Cicero and Seneca.
In the Villa Ludovisi a pavilion had been erected for the sole purpose of housing the statues, while at Villa Borghese, Cardinal Scipione had devoted most of the space to his collection of busts and figures.
However, antiquities were not the only items employed for the embellishment of the vineyards and casino of the Villa Spada. The avenues which led to fountains and nymphaeums, as well as the little wood, had been adorned with obelisks, as at the Del Bufalo Garden at Villa Ludovisi; or then there was the obelisk in the Medici Garden, of which I had admired splendid engravings in the books of my late father-in-law. However those at the Villa Spada were ephemeral, made of papier maché in imitation of the admirable architectural designs of the Cavalier Bernini erected in the Piazza Navona or the Piazza di Spagna to celebrate the birth of princes or other worthy events, wonders destined to last only for the duration of a few nights' festivities.
Every Roman villa was a place conceived for repose and pleasure, as in the days of Horace (and so I believe it will still be in the centuries to come), and thus also a venue for games, extravagances and all manner of delightful distractions. And Villa Spada seemed to be rising to the present nuptial occasion as a veritable compendium of all these things.
I would have liked to stop and admire one by one the thousand delights and marvels which the villa offered, but the evening was advancing. Taking leave of my reflections, I hastened on my way to my appointment with Abbot Melani; and with the Connestabilessa who, according to what I had read in her letter to the Abbot, was expected after Vespers.
"Good heavens, dear boy, whatever have you been doing to yourself? I seem to be receiving a delegation of Arcadian shepherds."
I lowered my head in response to Atto's remark and took an embarrassed look at my clothing, crumpled by amorous activity and stained by the grass on which I had lain with my wife.
"Buvat, put some order in these rooms," he ordered his secretary suddenly, as though he were addressing some slovenly manservant. "Wipe the floor with some cloths, and if you can find none, use the sleeves of your jacket, as you never change it. Pile up my papers, and go and get something to eat. And do it quickly, for heaven's sake, I am expecting guests."
Although unaccustomed to performing servants' duties, and wondering why Atto did not instead employ an ordinary valet de chambre, yet Buvat dared not rebel, seeing his master's extreme nervousness. So he began at random to tidy up the Abbot's documents, the ornaments, the remnants of luncheon still strewn on the divan and the numerous piles of books encumbering the floor here and there. Such was Buvat's inexperience that, despite the fact that I gave him a hand, instead of diminishing, the chaos only increased.
I saw that the Abbot was rubbing his injured arm.
"Signor Atto, how is your wound?" I asked.
"It is getting better, but I shall have no peace until I know who reduced me to this state. The strangest things have been happening in the past few days: first, my arm is wounded in the bookbinder's presence, then the poor man's death and, to cap it all, the attempt to rob you two..."
At that moment, someone knocked at the door. Buvat went to open it. I saw him take delivery of a letter from a messenger which, after closing the door, he hastened to hand to Abbot Melani.
Atto broke the seal and read swiftly. Then he stuffed the letter into his pocket and, speaking in a low voice, told us reluctantly of its contents.
"She will no longer be coming. She has had to stop, owing to a light attack of fever. She begs to be excused for her inability to advise me earlier, et cetera, et cetera''
A few minutes later, Abbot Melani showed us the door. The reason, as had also been the case the day before, lay in the letter from the Connestabilessa, which Atto wished to read properly, far from our curious looks.
Once I had closed the door behind us and taken my leave of Buvat, who was going to take a look at the library of the great house, I began to feel ill at ease. What had the Abbot summoned me for if he was now dismissing me without having commanded, asked or said a single thing? Bad news of the Connestabilessa's unexpected delay had indeed arrived; besides which, my task of keeping a chronicle had only just begun the day before. Yet, when I came to think of it, Atto had used me more as an informer (as at dinner the evening before) than as a biographer. Not only that: about the nature of that little book which seemed to lie at the heart of a singular series of misadventures, the Abbot had been distinctly sparing with information. Yet, hardly had he learned of the death of the bookbinder than Atto had rushed in furious haste to recover it.
Buvat had rejoined Melani, who was conversing with other guests in the gardens of Villa Spada when, an hour later, keeping the Abbot under frequent observation with his own spyglass, I set to work looking for the little bound book. When the binder had delivered it to him, it had been wrapped in a blue velvet cloth, and that now made it impossible to identify the appearance and colour of the binding.
I searched the apartment from top to bottom and examined all Abbot Melani's volumes one by one, but alas, not a trace did I find of a newly bound book: all the tomes showed signs of wear and frequent consultation. It was quite clear that Atto had brought with him to the Villa Spada only those books he most needed. Consequently, a brand new binding would certainly have caught my eye. For a few moments, I stopped again to peruse a few pages containing piquant episodes concerning cardinals: these had already proved very useful to me when it came to following the allusions and jokes which the eminences exchanged at dinner. Then I searched everywhere once more, but of that little volume there was no trace. Perhaps the Abbot had lent it to some other guest? If that were the case, the matters dealt with in the book could not be so very confidential.
Atto, as I already knew, feared that he might have been the victim of an anti-French plot, perhaps at the hands of the imperial party. Of this he was, however, not at all convinced. Sfasciamonti's talk of the cerretani, of whom he had never previously heard tell, had made him uncertain. To the Connestabilessa he had written that he wished to request an audience with the Imperial Ambassador, Count von Lamberg, but the latter, who was expected at the Villa Spada, had not yet arrived. He would surely be present on the morrow, at the wedding. Until then, the Abbot - and I - must needs wait.
Abbot Melani had really aged, I concluded rather sadly. Now, rather than by word of mouth, I was obtaining clues and news mainly from his personal effects, which I had surreptitiously examined, from his clothing (among which I had discovered my little pearls) and, above all, from the secret correspondence with the Connestabilessa.
Madama la Connestabilessa, the Princess Maria Mancini Col- onna: on her account Atto had spoken with passionate prolixity during our excursion to the Vessel a few hours earlier. But that tale dated back to many, many years ago, and had nothing to do with the forthcoming conclave. Indeed, Atto had been at great pains to keep the "current" state of his relations with the Connestabilessa strictly to himself; he had not yet, for example, breathed a word to me of their common interest in the matter of the Spanish succession. Nor of whatever the Connestabilessa, born in Rome and brought up in Paris, might have to do with the Kingdom of Spain.
At length I gave up my search for the little book bound by the late lamented Haver, plunged my hands again into the Abbot's dirty linen and took out the folder of secret correspondence between him and the Connestabilessa. As on the first occasion, I found the letter from Maria Mancini together with the reply, as yet unsealed, by the Abbot. I scanned rapidly through both: I wanted also to have time to take a glance at the previous missives, which I had set on one side the day before.
The Connestabilessa's letter opened with a reference to the assault suffered by Abbot Melani:
What pain you have caused my heart, my friend! How are you? How is your arm ? Is there really any reason to suspect the hand of the cruel Empire behind all this? I pray ardently that you should at least be spared by the hand of the Imperial assassins; for many, far too many, dead men bear a banner marked with the two -headed eagle of Vienna.
Take care, keep looking all around you. I tremble at the idea of your requesting an audience with Count von Lamberg. Do not eat at his table, drink not from the chalice filled by his hand, accept nothing from him, not even a pinch of snuff. Where the dagger failed, poison, the Imperial agents' weapon of choice, might succeed.
Do you always keep on your person the Bezoar stone which I sent you a few years ago? It will preserve you from all things toxic, never forget that!
I turned my mind again to the question: had I not found a pistol among Atto's personal effects? Clearly, he had not taken his own security lightly. The letter continued:
Never forget the horrible death of the Duke of Osuna who, no sooner had he been appointed general in charge of coastal defences in the Mediterranean, began to work for a truce with the French; but alas, after taking a pinch of snuff he was struck down by paresis of the spine and suffocation, and died at three o 'clock in the morning, without having been able to utter a word. And what should we say of the sudden and mysterious death of the Secretary of State, Manuel de Lira, who strove so hard for peace with France? Finally, permit me to remind you, despite the pain which the very thought causes me for reasons well known to you, of the most atrocious crime of all: the late Queen of Spain, our most beloved Marie- Louise of Orleans, the first wife of King Charles II, who never lost an opportunity to convince her consort of the need not to join the league against the Most Christian King, his uncle, and was hated by many in Spain, amongst them, Count Mansfeld, the Ambassador of the Empire.
Do you not recall? The poor Queen was afraid; she had even written to the King of France, begging him for an antidote for poison. But when this reached Madrid, Marie-Louise was already dead.
The evening before - I read in the Connestabilessa's letter - the Sovereign wanted milk, but little was available in the capital. It was said that, at the last moment, the Countess of S, a friend and protegee of the Imperial Ambassador, as well as an exile from France following the Affair of the Poisons, the first victim of which, some thirty years earlier, had been Madame, Marie-Louise's mother, arranged for her to have a little. When the Queen of Spain died in dreadful agony, some swore that the fresh and delicious milk which she had drunk before feeling ill had been prepared at the house of Ambassador Mansfeld. And it was perhaps no coincidence if the Countess of S left suddenly on the morning after the crime, so arranging matters that all trace of her was lost.
I noticed that here Maria Mancini had been at pains to conceal the name of the presumed poisoner, of French origin, yet a member of the imperial party. I would also have liked to know what the reasons "well known" to Atto might have been, which made the memory of the deed so painful for the Connestabilessa, but the letter continued with a heartfelt address to that Silvio, which pseudonym I presumed must, by means of a set of screens behind screens, conceal the person of Abbot Melani himself:
Silvio, Silvio, vain boy, if you imagine this mishap by chance befell, you widely are deceived. These accidents so monstrous and so strange befall us mortals by divine permission. Don't you reflect the Gods by you were slighted, by this your haughty pride and high disdain of love and everything the world deems human? They cannot abhor, although it be in virtue. Now you are mute, who were but now so haughty!
I wondered yet again at the vehemence with which the Connestabilessa hurled indecipherable accusations against Abbot Melani.As though that were not enough, after a few lines of excuses for her own delay (brought about by some slight fever), came the usual note about that so-called Lidio:
You charge me with according scant value to Lidio's presumed felicity. Yet I reply to you that in every matter it behoves us to mark well the end: for oftentimes God gives men a gleam of happiness, and then plunges them into ruin. And to him I repeat: with respect to that whereon you question me, Lidio, I have no answer to give, until I hear that you have closed your life happily.
Who then could this mysterious Lidio be, whom the Connestabilessa addressed through Atto's mediation, employing such impenetrable expressions? And what was the obscure mirror game which, from time to time, caused her to address the Abbot by the name of Silvio?
Nor did I learn much from Atto's reply; I was soon bogged down in a larding of unctuous flattery and affectation:
O that delightful rock on which so oft whole floods of tears and gales of sighs have struck in vain! Must I believe you live and feel some tender strokes of pity for my suff'rings?Is that a human breast, or is it marble?
Your sweetness moves me, my friend, and I tremble with anger at myself for having so improvidently caused you such agitation. Was the fever perhaps my fault too ?
My ink tipp'd pen, and you curst arrows (which have pierced her side, so well by me belov'd), ye native brethren, or else for cruelty so called, I'll break you all. No longer darts or arrows shall you remain, but rods with useless wings, headed with steel in vain, lopped of your points and feathers!
And here the Abbot's letter was stained with ink; Atto had actually broken his goose quill, guilty of having written things that had worried the Connestabilessa and perhaps even made her ill. After a moment of sheer astonishment at such vehemence, I resumed my reading. (Melani had obviously found a new pen.)
Wound me then likewise with your plume, I beg of you. Indeed I demand it!
Ah, do not wound, but spare these eyes, these hands, which were the guilty ministers because by an unguilty will they were directed. Here, strike my breast, that enemy to love, foe to all tenderness, this cruel heart which was so harsh to thee. My breast is open.
After that, the tone, relinquishing passion, returned to the realms of common sense. Atto was concerned above all to show courage and boldness in his dealings with Lamberg, and not to betray the anxiety which must,
however, be tormenting him.
As for me and my life, fear not, my goodfriend. Of course, I have with me your beautiful oriental stone. How could I ever forget the Bezoar? In France, too, it is esteemed as a protection against malignant fevers and poison. When I am received by the Ambassador, I shall keep it jealously in my pocket, ready to help me in the event of my feeling in any way unwell.
However, when young, I knew Count von Lambergs father well: he was Imperial Ambassador to Madrid just when I was with Cardinal Mazarin at the Isle of Pheasants for the peace treaty between France and Spain. We snatched the hand of the Infanta Maria Teresa, for whom the Emperor Leopold so longed, from under his nose. Indeed, King Philip IV ended up by granting her to Louis XIV after much arm- twisting, so as to be able to gain less humiliating peace terms. And that was mostfortunate: but for this, today the Most Christian King would not be able to lay claim to rights to the Spanish Crown for his nephew the Duke of Anjou. Philip IV did, it is true, make Maria Teresa sign a document renouncing any claim to the Spanish throne (just as Anne of Austria before her had done when she married Louis XIII of France); but since then plenty of jurists have demonstrated that such renunciations are invalid.
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