"But not all profited thereby," thought I to myself, recalling the cavalier manner in which Atto would transfer his fidelity from one master to another.
With two little lasses to bring up, all that money was an extraordinary blessing for me and Cloridia. I had therefore not hesitated to accept Atto's offer to acquire from me what he had already stolen, well aware that I would never have my memoir back. "Just one thing, Signor Atto," said I at length. "I do not believe that my pen is worthy to bear witness to your deeds."
In reality, I was terrified by the thought that multitudes of gentlemen and eminent persons might one day hold writings of mine in their hand. Atto understood.
"You fear the readers. And such is your fear that you would prefer simply to continue exercising your peasant's calling, is that not so?" he asked, stopping to pick a plum.
I replied with a look which confessed all.
"Then, in your foreword, instead of addressing the 'kind read er', you must address the 'unkind reader'."
"What do you mean?"
Melani drew breath and, in didactic prose and with a presumptuous little smile on his face, he polished the plum with his lace handkerchief while instructing me as follows: "You know, many years ago, when I first gave some of my essays to be printed, I too followed the common and vulgar custom of presenting to the gentle reader my excuses for such errors as might, through my own fault, be discovered in my opus. Now, however, experience has taught me that the gentle reader, prudently perusing the works of others, will, being replete with goodness, discover the good where'er it may be, and, where he finds it not, will accept the author's goodwill. Thus was I persuaded that it was far more opportune to dedicate the foreword to my books to malign and maledicent readers, whose ears are so tender that they will be scandalised by the minutest error."
Biting the little plum, he stopped to scrutinise my distracted expression.
"To suchlike nasuti (to use the Latin expression), to suchlike slanderers and detractors, to whom every book appears superflu ous, every work imperfect, every concept erroneous and every endeavour vain, I do proclaim my desire that they should refrain from reading my works and turn away from them, for as little as the said works will please them, so much the more will they please others. Do you know what I reply when one of those birds of ill omen importunes me with his acid considerations?"
I responded with a questioning air.
"I reply: if Your Worships find my work long, they should read but half of it; if short, let them add thereto whate'er they will; if it seemeth too clear, let them console themselves, knowing that they will have less trouble understanding it; if too obscure, let them make comments in the margin; if too lowly the matter and the style, so be it, for it will suffer less in falling than it would have, had it fallen from a great height."
The Abbot closed his disquisition, sharply spitting out the plum stone almost as though it were a detractor's pen. I stood in admiration before his sagacity; from Atto Melani, thought I, one never ceased to learn.
"I have never read your works, Signor Atto, but I am sure," I flattered him, "that the worst one could say of them would be that they are too learned."
"Have no fear!" he replied easily, speaking with his mouth full. "That they are too learned, they will never admit; for that too is praise and such is the nature of these crows that they would not know how to give praise, even unintentionally. However, remember that most ancient oracle according to which the greatest misfortune that could befall a man is to be loved and praised by the wicked, and the greatest favour, that of being hated and blamed thereby. The truth is that the works of men are imperfect owing to the defects of our poor wits and they find detractors because of the infelicity of our times. So may it please the Lord our God to grant us the grace to acknowledge our faults, thus to emend them, and others, not to blame us for what was well meant; that the Divine Majesty be not offended either by our own errors or those of others. Do you understand?"
I nodded in affirmation.
Melani looked at me with an air of satisfaction and handed me a letter of exchange, payable by a moneylender in the ghetto. Slowly, I took it. It was done: I had sold myself to Atto for, so to say, a literary service, which nonetheless included in the price (as all too often happens when the pen is a means of gain) my placing myself completely at his disposal. Torn between love, disgust and interest, while the sweet and sour savour of the cherries lingered on in my mouth, I was already at his sendee.
We had meanwhile turned back towards the great house, before which we found the massed carriages of the guests who had just arrived. In the end, what was most dreaded had happened: the guests from Rome had also arrived at the festivities two days early. Knowing that there would already be banqueting from that evening onwards, no one (Atto included) had had the patience and good taste to await the official opening of the celebrations.
Atto seemed to be scrutinising attentively the coats of arms borne by the carriages, doubtless guessing at who might be sharing the magnificent hospitality of the Spada family with him throughout the week's revels.
"I have overheard someone tell a servant of your master that Don Livio Odescalchi is about to arrive, accompanied by the Marchesa Serlupi. Wait…" said he, holding me back and looking towards the carriages, far enough removed to be able to see without himself being noticed. "That is a well-known face; it seems to me… Yes, indeed, it is Monsignor D'Aste," said Atto as in the distance we saw descending from his carriage a hoary and emaciated little old man who seemed almost lost in his cardinal's vestments. "He is so small, scraggy and ill-favoured that His Holiness calls him Monsignor Stracetto — little rag!" he tittered freely, showing off his familiarity with Roman gossip.
"I see a great movement of lackeys over there," he continued. "One of the Barberini or the Colonnas will be arriving and wants to give himself airs; they always think themselves to be the centre of the world. The carriage behind seems to bear the arms of the Durazzo family, it must be Cardinal Marcello. Of course, to have come from Faenza, where he is Bishop, is quite a journey; he'll need to take a good rest if he wants to enjoy himself. Ah, here is Cardinal Bichi," he commented, peering more intently. "I did not expect him to be on such good terms with Cardinal Fabrizio."
"Apropos, Signor Atto, I myself did not know you were acquainted with Cardinal Spada," said I, deliberately interrupting his show of recognising guests from a distance.
"Oh, but he was for years Nuncio in France, did you not know? At one time we frequented one another quite assiduously in Paris. He is — how can I put it? — a most accommodating person. His first concern is not to make enemies. And he does well to act thus, for in Rome that is the best way to reach high office. I'll wager that he well remembers his time in Paris, since it was then that the cardinal's hat was conferred upon him; if I am not mistaken, 'twas in 1676. He had already been Nuncio in Savoy, so he had a certain amount of experience. He has taken part in three conclaves, that of Innocent XI in 1676, that of Alexander VIII in 1689 and that of the present Pope in 1691. The coming election will be his fourth: not bad for a cardinal who is but fifty-seven years of age, what?"
The years had passed, but not Atto's habit of recording in the greatest possible detail the careers of dozens of popes and cardinals. His Most Christian Majesty could count upon an agent who was perhaps no longer athletic but certainly enjoyed a still excellent memory.
"Do you think that he could be elected pope this time?" I asked in the secret hope that I might one day be able to become part of a pontiff's army of servants.