"But they are surely not all cerretani, Tawneymen or Dommerers. . ." said I casually, hoping that the names of the sects would loosen the tongues of the twain even more, so that I might pick up some interesting morsel.
"Cerretani" exclaimed the innkeeper in surprise.
"Those who steal," the other translated.
"No, they're all the same: cerretani, beggars, Romei, pilgrims and vagabonds! If you want to work you look for it and you'll surely find some honest occupation. Those who don't want work - let them rot!"
"I had hoped that the lively conversation between the two would yield some useful information, some indiscretion, and that this might prove to be one of those not infrequent occasions on which vox populi reveals the best hidden secrets. As it turned out, the publican had only the most approximate idea of who the cerretani were and the same was true of his friend. I could glean nothing from them that might be of any use for the purposes of Atto's investigations. Only one thing was news to me: the fact that a good many Romans nurtured feelings of disgust and resentment for the poor, not pious pity. I had originally believed the indigent to be all good. Then, upon learning of the sordid secret world of the cerretani, I had supposed them to be divided into the poor but worthy and the bad eggs. Now, however, the opinion of the man in the street was teaching me to mistrust the supposedly worthy no less than their rascally companions and to suspect that the prime cause of their condition might be not indigence, but indolence.
Who, I wondered, could ever find salvation in a world in which even the humblest and most outcast were sinners?
Yet these thoughts had no time to take wing. No sooner had I taken my leave of the publican and the shoe-vendor than I realised it was becoming late; I must hasten back to the Villa Spada and report for work. The festivities would be resuming straight away after luncheon. I cast aside the oily yellow carton from which I had eaten the fried fish and headed back.
When I reached the villa, it was almost time for the latest festive entertainments to begin. As I have said, it was agreed that the guests would return to the Villa Spada only in the early afternoon. Those who had chosen to sojourn at the villa would enjoy a leisurely lunch, a sort of picnic, for the heat was such as to rein in even the heartiest appetites. With this in mind, great pieces of coarse canvas had been spread out in the shade of the trees, covered with fine sheets of damasked stuff, on which baskets of fruit and flowers had been agreeably arranged, together with others brimming over with fresh bread, jars containing tender junket or tasty Provolone cheeses, others filled with hams of pork, venison, rabbit and bear, piles of olives stuffed with almonds, dishes of dried fruit most attractively presented, bowls of sweetmeats hot from the oven and a thousand other delicacies, both fresh and simple, such that even under the burning rays of Sirius, the guests should be disposed to eat their fill out in the open, discreetly caressed by the breezes of the Janiculum Hill, enjoying with bucolic torpor the view over the Holy City and the soft couch of the lawn.
The coaches of the guests were already crowding the square in front of the entrance; among them, I thought I recognised those of Duke Federico Sforza Cesarini, Marchese Bongiovanni and Prince Camillo Cybo; soon I would behold those great gentlemen themselves, together with others no less illustrious, honouring the nuptials between Maria Pulcheria Rocci and the young Clemente Spada by engaging their precious intellect in that most noble of pastimes: an academic discussion.
Academies, or cenacles of august intellects coming together for discussion and contemplation, had existed in Rome as far back as the fifteenth century. They had emerged joyously, out in the open, amidst the city's gardens and the perfume of freesias, under the stripy shade of wisterias and pergolas; so it was that they were graced with such names as the Academy of Husbandmen of the Vine, or the Academy of the Farnese Gardens. In the middle of the century, there had arisen the most learned Academy of the Vatican Nights and that of Civil and Canon Law, the which engaged in discussions concerning the most elevated topics of theology, logic, philosophy and gnosiology.
It was, however, in the final years of the last century that they had attained their full flowering. There was not a palace, a salon, a courtyard, a garden or a terrace unfrequented by eloquent confraternities of men of learning and genius, intent upon measuring up against one another in a noble jousting of intellects. For days on end, orations, disputes, controversies and debates followed one another, keeping minds busy late into the night.
These cenacles were, of course, not open to all comers. Every candidate had to pass a rigorous examination, upon passing which he would be baptised with some unusual name like Indomitable Starry One or Dewy Academic of the Night, or else some name forged from the models of antiquity, like Honorius Amaltheus, Elpomenides Maturitius, Anastasius Epistheno or Tenorius Autorficus.
The elevated topics forming the battlefield on which wits clashed were often drawn from the names of the cenacles concerned: the Ecclesiastical Academy, or the Academy of Divine Love, and those of Theology, the Councils, and Dogmas, all plainly engaged in discussions pertaining to the faith. On the other hand, the mathematicians and astronomers of the Academy of Natural Philosophy were concerned with science, as were the Academy of the Lynxes (so called because each thing was to be observed with the sharp eyes of the lynx). The Academicians of the New Poesy met to talk of rhymes, as did those of the famous Arcadia, a name taken from the Arcadian shepherds who populate the bucolic visions of so many excellent poets. Last but not least, the members of the Academy of Saint Cecilia, the patroness of music and singers, met to celebrate the cult of music.
Less plain, however, was the raison d'etre of academies with obscure names which sometimes dedicated their studies to the most curious matters. Such was the Academy of the Oracle, whose members met in the Roman countryside. One of its members, of robust build, would sit upon a rock, enveloping himself completely in his cloak and pretending to be an oracle. Two others stood on either side of him, to act as interpreters of his prophecies. Then another member of the congregation would approach the oracle, playing the part of a stranger, and would consult him about some future event, for instance whether such and such a marriage would or would not take place. The oracle would respond with apparently meaningless words like "pyramid!" or "button!" and the two interpreters would have to explain the meaning of the reply, illustrating the angles, the figure or the purpose of the pyramid, or the nature, form and use of the button. Two exceedingly severe censors would check the explanation with rigid discipline, marking down even the most insignificant errors of language, accent and pronunciation of the two interpreters. Mistakes were punished by a fine, to be paid in cash, which, once collected, served to acquire victuals wherewith to feed and joyously restore the entire company.
While some doubts might be permitted as to the usefulness of such congregations, it was not even possible to guess at the activities of certain others. One could readily suppose that the Academy of Husbandmen of the Vine concerned itself with matters of art and the spirit, preferably under the foliage of a vineyard. It was suspected that the Symposiacs met from time to time to raise their elbows, as we say, and the symposium was indeed nothing but a topers' reunion. Likewise, the Humorists were inclined to joke. What, however, the Academy of the Precipitate, that of the Snowy or the Academy of the Flour-faced might get up to, who the deuce can know? What was the real vocation of the Abbreviators or the Neglected? How did the Equivocals manage to agree matters among themselves? And did the meetings of the Suffocated take place only in writing?
The mystery grew thicker when one realised that academies did not arise one by one but in groups; like contagions and diseases. Thus, within the space of a few years, there had arisen the Imperfects, the Inexperts, the Impetuous, the Incautious, the Incongruous, the Incompetents, the Ineffectual, the Inflammables and the Informals.
Fashions changed and it soon became the turn of academies inspired by sadness (the Debilitated, the Delicate, the Depressed, the Despised and the Disunite
d), by passivity (the Melancholies, the Malingerers, the Maltreated and the Moderates), by danger (the Ambitious, the Angry, the Ardent, the Argumentative and the Audacious) or by their very benightedness (the Occult, the Occluded, the Obstinate, the Otiose).
Silence was, however, almost total when it came to certain semi-clandestine academies. Perhaps these were destined to develop under water, like that of the Fluctuators; or perhaps even secretly to accept non-human members, like the most mysterious Academy of the Amphibians.
Not unnaturally, such fervid activity did occasion some expenses; however, a prestigious seat in some patrician palazzo, money for refreshments, for the printing of the best (of the rare) works written by the academicians, together with the extravagant (and somewhat less rare) junketing and festivities, were as a rule all bestowed by some benevolent patron, to whom the academicians dedicated their poetic, scientific or doctrinal offerings. Normally, this would be a cardinal or the scion of some wealthy family of the highest standing, when it was not indeed a pontiff who, for reasons of state or out of simple affection, took an interest in the arcane activities of this or that group of studious gentlemen. When the generous patron moved on to a better life, the academy, bereft of its benefactor, would typically opt for its own dissolution; as when the death of Queen Christina of Sweden in 1689 turned dozens, indeed perhaps hundreds of artists, musicians, poets and philosophers onto the streets. They all had to abandon Christina's palace on the Via della Lungara post haste and swiftly seek some other way of earning their keep. With the demise of their Maecenas, the ingenious activities of the Sterile, the Vague or the Aggravated Ones were all too prone to peter out; but their members usually belonged to several academies and kept on founding new ones. Human Knowledge was safe.
Whether they dealt in games for the bon viveur or serious scientific discussion, one thing was clear: Rome had become a unique Universal Forum for Chatterboxes, in which at least one of the noblest of human faculties was guaranteed ad libitum, talk, talk, talk. It goes without saying that the speaker of the moment would set forth the most high-flown concepts and the most learned of meditations.
I was just thinking that I would, that evening, be attending such an event: a series of discussions for the finest and most select wits, held by academicians invited to the Villa Spada for the express purpose of enlivening the conversation, in whose presence I expected that I would, in all humility, have to struggle from beginning to end to keep myself from yawning. Matters, however, went somewhat differently.
Hardly had I donned my daytime uniform when a familiar voice caught my attention.
"We are terribly late, the guests are waiting! And it should be nice and warm, not all murky and muggy! Did you add almonds, hazelnuts and orange water? And half an ounce of carnations?"
It was Don Paschatio, who was rebuking two of the Steward's assistants for what he saw as the mediocre quality of the chocolate. The two stared at him with insolent, bovine eyes, as though he were some silly old uncle.
"Mmm. . ." said Don Paschatio, raising his eyes to heaven as he licked a finger coated with chocolate. "It seems to me that he has forgotten to add the two reals of aniseed. The Steward! Call the Steward!"
"To tell the truth... He has taken half a day's leave," said one of the assistants.
"Leave? With the guests still arriving?" exclaimed Don Paschatio, growing pale.
"He said he was offended by your latest reprimand."
"Offended, says he. . . As though a Steward had any right to take offence," he moaned disconsolately to himself. "It no longer counts for anything to be Major-Domo. O tempora, o mores!"
He turned around suddenly and saw me. His face lit up.
"Signor Master of the Fowls!" he exclaimed. "How very fortunate that you should be here, at the service of the most noble House of Spada, instead of shirking your duties like so many of your fellow servants."
Before I could even begin to answer, he had placed a heavy silver tray in my hands.
"Take this tray. Let us at least make a start!" he commanded the other two.
So it was that I found myself holding up with the tray a great jug of fine pink-onion-coloured porcelain full of hot chocolate, surrounded by twelve clinking cups, as well as little jars of vanilla to sweeten the bitter potion. As I set off, I found before my eyes the lovely undulating buttocks of a Diana, painted on the jug, who with her bow and quiverful of arrows was chasing through the woods some poor stag destined for the spit. With the cups tinkling against one another, I was already entering the great salon on the ground floor of the great house where the shade extended calm to fugitives from the heat of the day, inviting palates to enjoy the exotic refreshment.
Once I had made my entry into the great hall, I found before me a scene very different from that which I had expected. There was in fact no academy whatever. Or, to put it better, no orator was to be seen, as the tradition of intellectual confraternities demands, before an audience of silent and absorbed listeners. The salon was full of little groups of guests, randomly gathered: some standing in tight knots, others seated in a semicircle; while yet others wandered around, congregating then going their separate ways, greeting the new arrivals and attending first to one speaker, then another. It reminded me of those clouds of summer gnats which one sees against the light in clearings; they seem at first to form a community, but when one looks more closely, they turn out to be nothing but a mass of chaotic singularities.
One could, however, hear outbursts from the liveliest speakers who, before that undulating and disorderly sea of heads and bodies, discoursed upon the immortality of the soul, the movement of the planets, the latest maps imported from the New World and the antiquities of Rome.
All that great conflation of scientific and philosophical discourse, amplified by the echo of the huge room, blended into a dense, milky cloud in which it was possible to distinguish only one or two sentences at a time.
"For, as Jovius opined in Book Four of his opus..." one pedant was proclaiming to my left.
"Thus, as it is written concerning Dionysius of Halicarnassus . .." some eloquent fellow was opining to my right.
"Your Excellencies cannot be unaware that the sublime doctrine of Aquinas..." bellowed a third speaker.
In actual fact, no one was listening, for in Rome they assemble for no purpose other than vain chatter as a pretext and garnishing for food and drink. Romans have always been inclined to judge human events by the immemorial measure of the Roman Empire or by the eternal paradigm of the Catholic Church. Erroneously believing themselves to have title to those temporal or spiritual powers, of which they are merely adventitious offshoots, they end up by regarding all matters quotidian as less than nothing, and look down on all things from on high.
Atto came to meet me, perfectly at ease in the midst of that bedlam of noise and confusion.
"'Tis ever so: they all eat and drink and no one listens," he whispered in my ear. "And yet there's a Jesuit behind those people," said he, pointing towards a nearby group, "who is holding forth in a most interesting discussion concerning the problem of obedience to or rebellion against princes. Quite in vain, for they are all talking with their neighbours about their own little affairs. 'Tis quite true, if the Parisians meet a strumpet, they take her for a saint and go down on their knees before her. As for the Romans, if they meet a saint, they take her for a strumpet and ask her how much she wants."
Hardly had I shown my tray and laid it on a serving table in order to fill the cups than a crowd of gentlemen flocked around me with jovial exuberance.
"Look Marchese, there's chocolate!"
"Come, Monsignor, they are serving us."
"And what of the dissertation on the Decades of Livy?" protested one prelate who was taking part in an academic discussion.
"If you'll not let your Decades be bygones, 'tis the chocolate itself that will be gone," retorted another, and the whole company roared with laughter.
Leaning on the table, I had barely time to fill the cups
than they had all been snatched up and the contents of the great jug vanished down the maws of the bystanders. Fortunately, other servants were by then arriving in reinforcement, taken by storm in their turn by new groups of guests, while yet others were besieged by princes and archpriests, secretaries and chamberlains.
While before me one such free-for-all was taking place, I heard behind me a brief conversation which intrigued me no little.
"Have you heard? It seems they intend to resurrect Monsignor Retti's project."
"The plan to reform the police, from back in the days of Pope Odescalchi?"
"Precisely. And I am all for it! It is high time that all those infamous corrupt catchpolls were taught a lesson."
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