"Yes, although it is still far from clear to me what I am supposed to…"
"He mentioned his intention to me, saying that you do not write at all badly. You are fortunate. Melani pays handsomely," he continued, slipping a pair of fish slices into the focaccia.
"Ah yes," I concurred, glad that the conversation was at last turning towards Atto, "and, by the way, what kind of work were you telling me that Abbot Melani commissions you to carry out?" Buvat seemed not to have heard. He paused, as though reflecting, taking his time and spraying the stuffed focaccia with lemon, whereupon he asked me: "Why not show me what you have written? Perhaps I could help you to find a printer…"
"Mmm, it would not be worth the trouble, Signor Buvat. It is but a diary, and it is written in the vulgar tongue…" said I, fumbling for pretexts with my nose buried in my lumps of cheese with herbs, yet deploring the weakness of my excuse.
"And what does that signify?" retorted Buvat, brandishing his bread in protest. "We are no longer in the sixteenth century! Besides, were you or were you not born free? Therefore, you can work in your own way. And just as you would not be compelled to justify yourself to anyone for having written in German or in Hebrew, so you need not justify yourself for having written in the vernacular."
He broke off to take a bite of his meal, while with his other hand he gestured to me to pass him the wine.
"And is the majesty of the vulgar tongue not such that it may offer a worthy place to every subject, e'en to matters most exquisite?" he declaimed with his mouth full. "The Reverend Monsignor Panigirola expressed therein the deepest mysteries of theology, as did before him those two most singular minds, Monsignor Cornelio Muso and Signor Fiamma. The most excellent Signor Alessandro Piccolomini found a place in it for almost all philosophy; Mattiolo adapted thereto almost all simple medicine and Valve, all anatomy. Can you not find room in it for the mere bagatelle of a journal? Where the Queen, namely Theology, may commodiously dwell, there too may enter the Maiden Philosophy, and with yet greater ease the Housewife Medicine; how then could there be no place for a mere serving wench like a diary?"
"But my vernacular is not even Tuscan but the Roman tongue," I countered, chewing the while.
"Ah, so you have not written in Tuscan!' Thus would the master Aristarchus pass sentence. Yet, I tell you that you wrote not in Tuscan as you wrote not in German, for you are a Roman and whosoever would take pleasure in things Tuscan, let him then read Boccaccio and Bembo. That will soon tire him of his Tuscan tastes." Such was the abrupt riposte of my companion, striking up bizarre poses and speaking with the hoarsest of voices before concluding with a great gulp of Muscatel.
A fine, sharp intellect, this Buvat, thought I, as I tore off a good piece of lettuce. Despite the sweet freshness of the salad, I felt a slight twinge of envy burning my stomach: if only I too possessed his same quick wit. What was more, being French, he was not even expressing himself in his mother tongue. Ah, the lucky man!
"I must say, nevertheless," he was at pains to make clear, as he went for the onions with a will, "that you Italians are beset by the most evil custom: as a people, you are veritable dealers in envy. But what kind of barbarous practice is this? What manner of inhuman trade is it to be the mortal enemy of another's praise! No sooner does a good mind make his way forward among you with growing renown and reputation, than he becomes a prey to great locusts which infest him and tear him to pieces, and spread invective and calumny in his path until his worth often falls back into the dust."
He was surely right, I reflected, with the ease in reaching agreement of one who has just allayed the pangs of hunger, yet I was by no means persuaded that such a vice was exclusively Italian. Had he not himself complained of the vexations which he had been compelled to suffer at the hands of his own envious chief librarian who would let him die of hunger rather than part with a penny? And had he not only moments earlier confessed to me that in Paris they would not let him publish so much as a single line, while in Italy he had found a literary refuge? I did not, however, point this out to him. A weakness common to all peoples, apart from the Italians, is national pride. And I had no interest in wounding that of Jean Buvat; on the contrary.
Our collation was now drawing to a close. I had succeeded in drawing nothing from Jean Buvat about Abbot Melani, indeed, the conversation had been diverted perilously close to my memoir; not that the Abbot did not deserve that I should denounce his theft to his scribe, only that this would surely have unleashed a whole series of questions about Atto from Buvat, nor did it seem in the least judicious to betray the misdeeds of his patron.
I therefore changed the subject, pointing out to Buvat — who, as I spoke, continued tirelessly poking around with his hand in the basket of provisions — that we had just eaten all the food we had brought with us and it remained for us only to pick some good fruit from the boughs of the plum tree whose shade we were enjoying. It was, for obvious reasons, Buvat who took upon himself the task of harvesting the fruit, whilst I looked to polishing the ripe plums with the jute and arranging them in our empty basket. The conversation having died away of its own accord, we swallowed a good basketful in religious silence, interrupted only by the parabolic curves described by the plum stones, laid bare by the labours of our jaws.
Perhaps it was the rhythmical patter of plum stones on the fresh grass under the trees, or perhaps the gentle rustling of the fronds caressed by the zephyrs of early summer, or yet the wild strawberries which — our bodies by now stretched out on the damp maternal bosom of the earth — we picked directly with our lips, or mayhap all these things together; anyway, I know not how it came to pass, but we fell asleep. And, almost in unison, hearing Buvat's snores and telling myself that I must shake him, for he had to go into town to recover his shoes, otherwise he would not return in time before evening, I heard another loud noise grow yet louder, drowning his snoring, and this noise was far nearer and more familiar: I too had dozed off and was blissfully snoring.
Evening the First
7th J ULY, 1700
The sun was setting when sounds awoke us. The park of the Villa Spada was now becoming animated by the strolling and conversations of the guests who wandered about admiring the scenic constructions which would, two days hence, provide a worthy setting for the Rocci-Spada wedding, and the echo of voices reached even into our little thicket.
"Eminence, permit me to kiss your hands."
"My dearest Monsignor, what a pleasure to encounter you!" came the reply.
"And what pleasure is mine, Eminence!" said a third voice.
"You too, here?" resumed the second speaker. "My dearest, most esteemed Marchese, I am almost speechless for joy. But wait, you have not given me time to salute the Marchesa!"
"Eminence, I too would kiss your hands," echoed a feminine voice.
As I would later be able to tell without a moment's hesitation (having seen them time and time again during those festive days), those who were thus exchanging compliments were the Cardinal Durazzo, Bishop of Faenza, whence he had just arrived, Monsignor Grimaldi, President of the Victualling Board, and the Marchese and Marchesa Serlupi.
"How went your journey, Eminence?"
"Eh, eh, 'twas somewhat fatiguing, what with the heat. I leave you to imagine. But as God willed it, we did arrive. I came only out of the love I bear the Secretary of State, let that be clear. I am no longer of an age for such entertainments. Too hot for an old man like me."