"I have proposed to Cardinal Spada a list of subjects to be punished," said he, lying, not knowing that I had overheard his conversation with our master. "We are, however, in difficulties and we urgently need more hands. It would be most helpful if you, Master of the Fowls, could, drawing upon your versatility in serving this august Spada household, put on appropriate apparel — livery, to be exact — and take part in serving viands and beverages at table, as the guests of His Excellency may require. They are all now on the meadow near the fountain, and are just beginning to dine. I shall be near at hand. Go, then, I beg you."
I gave a start when the time came to don the livery: I was handed a white turban, a scimitar, a pair of oriental slippers, baggy pantaloons, a tunic and a great arabesque cummerbund to wear around my chest. The costume was, of course, three sizes too large for me.
Ah, but I had forgotten: it had been decided that the mise en scene for these dinners was to be in exotically oriental style, as, accordingly must be the liveries. The long gay plume that stood on my headdress showed beyond a doubt that this was the costume of a janissary, a member of the most powerful and terrible guards of the Grand Turk. And this was as nothing when compared to what I was to see later.
After donning this Turkish uniform, I was handed two great silver chargers for serving the first cold course: fresh figs, served on leaves and adorned with their flowers, all set in snow; and, on another dish, tunny-fish served in well garnished roundels. Others bore pies of fish roe, Genoa cakes, pistachios on sticks with slices of citron, fat capons served up in roundels, sole in tricolour garnish, royal salads and iced white cakes.
Passing under the great pergola, I took the drive which led from the great house to the fountain, and thence to the place where the tables were set. As I made my way there, I was enthralled by the perfume drifting over from the flower beds lining the parallel entrance driveway, the smell of the Indian narcissi, the belladonna lilies, the autumn crocuses which had just opened, and by the fresh exhalations from the soft, damp earth of the vineyard. The heat of the day was at last giving way to the gentle embrace of evening's shadows.
Upon reaching my destination, I was astounded by the quality and the generous opulence of the decor. Under the dome of the starlit night, on the soft grassy carpet, the illusion had been created of a veritable oriental palace with Turkish pavilions, made in truth of delicate and brilliantly coloured Armenian gauze, mounted upon light wooden frames and crowned, at the top of each pavilion, by a golden half-moon. All around, the nocturnal braziers had been lit, from which rose, in great spirals, perfumes to mellow one's thoughts and please the senses. A little way off, but concealed by an artificial hedge, stood the far more modest table for the secretaries (among whom Buvat was intently helping himself to glass upon glass of wine) attendants and other members of the retinue of the eminences and princes. Many of these personages were indeed aged or suffering from gout and thus always in need of a helper at hand.
While we waiters served at the high table, which stood upon camelhair-coloured carpets, other janissaries, perspiring yet impassive, upheld great torches which generously illuminated the table.
Thus it was in the midst of such splendour that the dinner began, opening with the very dishes which I myself, amongst others, was serving. Well-nigh stunned by such luxury and pomp, I drew near to that great theatre of pleasure and prepared to serve the guests in accordance with the orders of the Chief Steward, who had appropriately placed himself behind a torch to be able, like one conducting an orchestra, to direct the peaceful militia of the waiters. The wine had just been served to the last guest, and so I moved towards the table. I realised that I was about to serve someone important, for Don Paschatio's eyes and those of the Steward followed me, blazing with anxiety.
"… And so I asked him once again: Holiness, how do you think you can resolve the problem? The Holy Father had just finished eating and was at that very moment washing his hands. And he answered me: 'Really, Monsignor, can you not see? Like Pontius Pilate!'"
All those at table burst out laughing. I was so nervous about my delicate and unexpected task that this sudden outburst of hi larity, which I would never have expected from that assembly of high prelates and persons of noble lineage, that I was left well-nigh paralysed. He who had aroused the good humour of the company was none other than Cardinal Durazzo, recounting with malicious wit the words of one of the many pontiffs he had known during the course of his long career. Glancing at the far end of the table I no ticed that, curiously, only one face remained impassive and almost glacial; later, I was to learn the explanation for this.
"And yet he was a holy pontiff, one of the most virtuous of all time," added Durazzo when some of the guests had quietened down and were wiping away the few tears brought on by excessive laughter.
"Holy, truly holy," echoed another eminence, rapidly dabbing with a napkin at a few drops of wine that had run down his chin.
"Throughout all Europe, they want to beatify him," one added from the far end of the table.
I raised my eyes and saw that the Steward and Don Paschatio were striving desperately to attract my attention, gesticulating wildly and pointing at something under my nose. I looked: Cardinal Durazzo was looking at me fixedly and waiting. Half stunned by the general outburst of laughter a few moments before, I had forgotten to serve him.
"Well, well, my boy, rather than Pontius Pilate, do you want me to be like Our Lord in the wilderness?" said he, causing yet another storm of laughter.
Hurriedly, I served the figs to the Cardinal and his neighbours, overcome by a deplorable state of mental confusion. I knew that I had committed an unpardonable gaffe and caused Cardinal Spada to lose face and, if only for a few moments, I had become the laughing stock of the company. My cheeks were on fire and I cursed the moment when I had offered my services to Don Paschatio. I dared not even raise my eyes; I knew that I would find those of the Major-Domo fixed on me, full of anxiety, and those of the Steward, full of fiery wrath. Fortunately that evening was not yet the official feast. Cardinal Spada himself was absent and would be coming only two days later, at the start of the formal festivities.
"… But yes, he's right to think that he will soon be better. Or so we hope, at least," said someone speaking in sad tones as I continued serving.
"So we hope, ah yes," echoed Cardinal Aldrovandi, whose name in truth I did not yet know. "In Bologna, whence I arrived today, they keep asking me insistently for news of his health, every day and at all hours. They are all very worried."
I understood that they were speaking of the Pope's health and every one of them had his word to put in.
"We hope, we hope, and we pray; prayer can resolve everything," said another prelate in a sorrowful and in truth rather insincere voice, ending up by crossing himself.
"How much good he has done for Rome!"
"The Hospice of San Michele a Ripa Grande along with a hundred and forty thousand scudi every year for the poor…"
"A pity that he did not succeed in draining the Pontine Marshes.. " said the Princess Farnese.
"Your Highness will permit me to remind her that the miserable state of the Pontine Fields and the unhealthy effluvia that issue therefrom to oppress Rome are not the fruit of nature, but of the imprudent deforestation practised by past popes, above all Julius II and Leo X," retorted Monsignor Aldrovandi, striving to stifle at once the least allusion to any lack of success on the part of the reigning Pope, "and, if I am not mistaken, Pope Paul III too."