Secretum

by Rita Monaldi;Francesco Sorti

  Tired and confused by this infernal round, the King is struggling to cope with a sense of guilt, shame and profound sadness. He is visiting the crypt of the Escorial ever more frequently, where he has the tombs of his ancestors opened in order to look upon their faces, thus condemning those regal corpses to immediate decomposition. When they opened the coffin of his first wife, Marie Louise of Orleans, he suffered a fit of desperation, kissing the corpse and wanting to take it away with him, caring nothing for the fact that it was crumbling in his hands. They had to drag him from the crypt by brute force, invoking the name of Marie Louise and screaming that he would soon be rejoining her in Heaven.

  In this, El Rey is a true Habsburg, an epigone of Joan the Mad who could not be separated from the coffin of her husband Philip the Fair; or of Charles V who, after abdicating and withdrawing to a monastery, was wont to have himself enclosed in a sarcophagus naked and swaddled in bandages, to listen to his own requiem mass. Philip II slept with his coffin by his bed, with the Crown of Spain surmounted by a skull; and, like his son, Philip IV, was wont to visit the crypt of the Escorial, sleeping every night in a different tomb.

  Queen Maria Anna, too, is desperate. For her the one solution would be to become pregnant. If the Monarchy has an heir, there will at long last be some hope amidst its dark future prospects. Only a couple of years ago, the Queen underwent the special cures of a monk of the Order of Jerusalem who was granted free access to her apartments.

  It was in fact never clear what these exercises against sterility may have involved. It has, however, come to light that the monk, in the ecstatic fervour of prayer, suddenly made a great leap into the air, whereupon the Queen, who lay under the bedclothes, took fright and in turn leapt out of bed. The ambiguous event caused such a stir at Court that the monk had to be sent away forthwith. No few persons insinuate that the Queen, in her frenetic desire to become pregnant, may have imposed upon her own body acts redolent of the most unrestrained concupiscence.

  Everything, alas, is possible. The Queen is weighed down by too much bitterness. Her soul, already sufferingfrom years of conjugal disappointment, is exasperated by the sinister and unsettling atmosphere that pervades the Court. Maria Anna needs sympathy; it is well known that she sends tormented letters to her German correspondents, in which she attempts to explain and justify the madness into which what was once the greatest and most feared Kingdom in the world has descended, becoming the object of universal pity and derision.

  But she writes in vain. Suffering poisons her thoughts and makes her unable to express them in writing. It is said that she often confides by letter in the Landgrave of Hessen. The Landgrave, however, hesitates to answer her; from what one can gather, the Queen's letters are a meaningless nonsense, the product of a disturbed mind, in which verbs and subjects wander without rime or reason, like the possessed who go howling through the dark night of Madrid.

  Here the Connestabilessa's report, which continues and expands upon the desolate picture of the wretched Catholic King, came to an end.

  I tried again to find those two last letters, which the Abbot had evidently placed elsewhere. Why, I wondered, had he done that? Was he perhaps beginning to get wind of my incursions?

  I looked briefly among Buvat's papers, but found nothing. Then I looked among his clothes. There I discovered a curious series of sheets of paper, carelessly folded and placed in the pockets of his breeches, each filled with a different letter. One sheet was full of the letter e, another of o's, yet another, the letter y, and finally, a page of l's and one of the letter R. Perplexed, I turned those pages over in my hands. They looked like the kind of exercises one does when learning to write. It was certainly no fine handwriting: the hand was heavy and uncertain. I laughed. It looked like some weird exercise undertaken by Melani's secretary in order to rid himself of the fumes of wine before returning to the Abbot's service. Such overindulgence was, indeed, not rare in those days in which not only the noble guests but those accompanying them were spoiled.

  A little later, in a coat, I found without too much difficulty the two letters that I sought. I calmed down: perhaps the Abbot had simply handed them to Buvat to remind him to prepare an archive copy of the reply to the Connestabilessa before sending it. So I sat down to read.

  Rather than clarifying my ideas, the Connestabilessa's letter left me even more confused.

  My dearest Friend,

  My fever shows no signs of abating and I am rather sorry to have to delay so long my arrival at the Villa Spada. The physician does,

  however, assure me that I should be able to resume my journey within a couple of days.

  Here, meanwhile, I continue to receive news. It seems that Charles II has employed the most heartfelt tones in begging for a mediation by the Pope. The poor Catholic King is caught in a dilemma. As I had occasion to tell you, he asked his cousin Leopold I to send his youngest son, the fifteen-year old Archduke Charles from Vienna. El Rey wants him in Madrid. He even had a naval squadron made ready in the port of Cadiz to go and fetch the Archduke. It is clear that El Rey means to make him his heir. But, as you well know, the Most Christian King now comes into the picture. As soon as he learned of this move, he instructed Ambassador Harcourt to inform El Rey that such a decision would be regarded as a formal breaking of the peace and, following up this message, he immediately had a fleet rather stronger than the Spanish one put out from the port of Toulon, ready to intercept and bombard the ship carrying the Emperor's youngest son. Leopold dared not make his son run such a risk. El Rey then proposed that the Emperor should send him to Spain's Italian territories, but Leopold is temporising. After years of fighting against the Turk, the Empire is unwilling to spill its subjects' blood in its defence, and that the King of France knows.

  The Most Christian King has indeed determined that now is the time to strike the decisive blow: as you know, in order to frighten the Spaniards even more, a month ago he made public the secret pact into which he had entered with Holland and England a couple of years ago, pursuant to which Spain is to be partitioned. Upon hearing the news, they royal couple hastened back to Madrid from El Escorial in a state of shock. The Queen flew into a rage and smashed everything in her bedchamber. Even I could not calm her. There is a state of emergency at Court: the Council of Grandees fears France and is ready to welcome a nephew of the Most Christian King if that will spare the country an invasion.

  El Rey, for his part, wrote at once to his cousin Leopold, thanking him for having had nothing to do with the pact of partition and begging him to have no part in it in the future.

  Pardon me if I have recounted here facts already known to you, but I must repeat that the situation is quite serious. If His Holiness Innocent XII is unable to bring the Most Christian King to reason, it will be the end for all of us.

  Now, will the Holy Father be in a position to attend to so grave and delicate a task? We all know that he is seriously ill and that a conclave may be imminent. I have even heard that he may not wish to have anything to do with the matter. What do you know of that? It seems that he may no longer be very much his own master and that, to every question, he replies: "And what can we do about that? " It seems that even in those moments when he is most lucid, he likes to repeat: " We are denied the dignity which is due to the Vicar of Christ and there is no care for us."

  It would be unheard offor someone to dare really to force the hand of His Holiness, taking advantage of his illness.

  Silvio, 'tis right to pay the gods their homage due, but then I can't allow their ministers should be disturbed.

  Lastly, courteous Silvio, why do you kneel to Dorinda since you're her lord? Or, if you be her slave, obey her words.

  My spirit was weighed down by conjectures. I tried to take matters in order. In the first place, the Connestabilessa again spoke of a mediation. The King of Spain, or so she said, had requested the Pope's help so that he could make Archduke Charles his heir and have him brought from Vienna to Madrid without starting a war. The Most Chr
istian King, however, was threatening to send the Archduke's ship to the bottom of the sea.

  I did however recall that, in his first letter, Abbot Melani had clearly written that the Pontiff was to have provided the King of Spain with an opinion as to whom he should choose as his heir: the Duke of Anjou, nephew of the Most Christian King of France or the Archduke Charles, younger son of the Emperor of Austria. This was a very different matter from the mediation to which the Connestabilessa referred in a letter which closed on what looked like a veiled rebuke to the Abbot, whom as usual she addressed as Silvio, for the pressures which were said to be being exercised on the Pontiff.

  Only, why ever should the Connestabilessa be angry with Atto? Was the old castrato then really so influential at the pontifical court?

  Lastly, the Connestabilessa was answering Atto's earlier letter, in which 'midst a thousand reverences, the Abbot reminded her of his eternal platonic love. And here came the new mystery. Maria too was replying from behind a pseudonym: Dorinda.

  Dorinda: now, where had I heard that name? Unlike Silvio, Dorinda was far from being a common name. And yet I seemed already to have heard it, or perhaps read it. But when?

  At that juncture my soul was beset by too many questions. My curiosity was by now well and truly whetted and I hastened to read Abbot Melani's reply.

  Here, however, I found myself having to read a honeyed and painfully interminable preamble of lamentations for the Connestabilessa's delays, which were said to endanger the Abbot's very life, and countless other such sickly-sweet protestations, as well as a description of the wedding between Maria Pulcheria Rocci and Clemente Spada, in which the Abbot did not spare the unfortunate bride with the most irreverent comments on her flatfish face.

  Then at long last I came to what I was looking for:

  Do all that you can to recover your health as soon as possible, I beg of you! Do not allow yourself to be beset by pointless worries. His Majesty King Charles II of Spain has rather wisely decided to defer to the Holy Father. The choice of the right pair of hands into which to confide his magnificent Kingdom, which unites no fewer than twenty Crowns, is surely one that calls for divine Counsel.

  Fear not: Innocent XII is a Pignatelli. His is a family of faithful subjects of the Kingdom of Naples, and thus, of Spain. He will not fail to honour the Catholic Kings request, of that you may be sure. His decision, even if it may be slow in coming, will be carefully weighed up and will certainly be dictated by love for the Spanish Crown.

  All of us here are sure that whatever His Holiness may decide will, for the King of Spain, be sacrosanct; nor will anyone in Europe dare disregard the Pope's opinion. Against the fulminations of Heaven the Po -tentates of this world can do nothing. The hand of the Almighty which extends its protection over the successors of Saint Peter in accordance with the words qui vos spernit, me spernit, will attribute a rightful triumph to the word of His Holiness.

  I could not understand a thing. It was as though Abbot Melani and the Connestabilessa were conversing together in two different languages, caring not whether they understood one another. Had the Catholic King not decided for the Archduke, as the Connestabilessa said, and was he not imploring the Pope's support? Or did he not know which heir to back and was accordingly making his decision dependent upon the Papal opinion? Melani's letter ended thus:

  And you, most clement one, do not worry about the Pontiff's health: he is surrounded by excellent persons who take good care of him and his needs, but would never dare to interfere with the pastoral role which His Holiness holds in his grasp by divine right. First among these is the Cardinal Secretary of State Fabrizio Spada, whom you too appreciate so greatly and who is anxiously awaiting your arrival at this his marvellous Villa on the Janiculum.

  My friend, from this hill one dominates Rome, all Rome and perhaps a little beyond. Tarry no more.

  Shalt we not be meeting in two days time, then?

  And, at the foot of the letter:

  So, be Dorinda. You, Silvio, what more can you expect? What can Dorinda afford you more? But you, Dorinda, goddess who dwell'st on heav'n's high summit, show Silvio now eternal pity, not eternal anger.

  Atto yielded to the Connestabilessa's invitation not to bow down before her, even symbolically; indeed, said he to himself, whatever could he lay claim to any more? His love for her was hopeless. Nevertheless, Abbot Melani, replied with gentle supplication to the rebukes which the Connestabilessa regularly reserved for him when she called him Silvio. He begged her henceforth to show pity, not fury.

  I had to admit that Abbot Melani had a rather fine poetic vein, in the matter of love.

  I again turned over the name Dorinda in my mind but was still unable to remember where I had seen or heard it before.

  Soon, moreover, I returned to graver considerations: Atto had still said nothing to me about the Spanish succession, yet his letters to the Connestabilessa spoke of nothing else (love apart). This I had realised from the day when the Abbot arrived at the villa. From that time until this, however, I had established nothing. I had not even managed to find out anything more about the Countess of Soissons, always supposing that she and the enigmatic poisoner, the Countess of S., were one and the same person.

  I shook my head disconsolately: the enigma remained intact, nor was there any sign of the fog that surrounded it dispersing. One thing was certain: the Cardinal my master was in some way involved in the matter. Both the Connestabilessa and Melani reported that the Secretary of State had been to see the Spanish Ambassador about the King of Spain's request to Innocent XII and, in view of the Pontiff's dreadful state of health, the Cardinal was dealing with the matter personally on his behalf.

  I therefore felt it to be all the more my bounden duty better to clarify my ideas about this series of mysteries. I therefore promised myself that I would, on the morrow, at last question Atto at least about the identity of the Countess of Soissons.

  Il Roscio's directions were accurate enough. The place could not have been more uninviting; yet, according to the instructions we had received, we were to go there by night, so as not to be seen. This was an essential precaution: we were, after all, trying to take the inscrutable German by surprise.

  To tell the truth, I was expecting some out-of-the-way, solitary place, perhaps in the midst of market gardens or woodland, far removed from men and merchandise. Instead, Il Roscio had sent us into the heart of the Holy City. "I have never been there," he had warned, "but I do know from the others in my company that there's where he lies low."

  We did not have far to go: from the Villa Spada, we came to Monte Cavallo, passing before the sacred and imposing walls of the Apostolic Palace. There, we turned off to the right, then into Via San Vitale. To the left, behind the high walls which lined the way on either side, stood the campanile of the Jesuits of San Vitale. Its graceful outline reminded me of the little church which, on very clear days, one could sometimes, from our little field, catch sight of in the far distance; and I prayed God to keep me in good health, not only for my own sake but for that of my Cloridia, whom I mentally implored, seeing all the dreadful risks I had run in recent days and was likely to encounter in the coming ones, to pray not only for my soul's salvation but for that of my body.

  We came at last to the Via Felice which, with its harmonious alternation of ups and downs, takes one from the steep pile that is Santa Maria Maggiore to the gentle heights of Monte Pincio.

  There, we turned to the right, leaving the Quattro Fontane behind us. A little before the church of the monks of San Paolo L'Eremita and the Premonstratensi Fathers' church of San Norberto, a few paces away from Santa Maria della Sanita de' Benfratelli, a nameless side street ran off to the right. We took it, walking between a little group of houses on the right and an isolated house to our left. Beyond these habitations, the road bent leftwards, petering out into a track amidst uncultivated fields.

  It was precisely at that point that, following Il Roscio's instructions, we left the road and turned right.
Here the terrain became steep, almost vertical, forming a sort of great elongated mound which stretched out rather like the back of a buried giant. As we skirted this mound, we noticed in its flank, below and to our right, first, a slit, then a more generous opening, and lastly, a grotto, then yet another. It was a series of artificial caverns, originally faced with well-cut stones, but by now covered in earth and overgrown with trees, bushes, creepers, fungus, lichens and all kinds of mildew.

  The caves were arranged in two parallel rows, one on a lower level, where we were. The other, consisting of larger grottoes, was higher up and set further back, so much so that before it there was a sort of corridor several yards wide. At the right-hand end of this group of caverns there was yet another group on a third level, above which rose a rustic house with a turret. Behind that, stood the convent of the nuns of San Francesco alle Therme. The name of the convent was no accident.