Dom João V gave orders that the basilica not be dismantled or disturbed. The court dispersed, the Queen withdrew, and the Infantes departed, the friars in the background go on intoning their litanies while the King gravely examines every detail of the construction and the nobles in attendance try to emulate his expression, ever on their guard at such moments. The King and his retinue remained in this state of contemplation for at least half an hour. We shall make no attempt to probe the thoughts of the footmen, who knows what thoughts were passing through their heads, perhaps they were bothered by the twinges of cramp in one leg, or thinking about a pet dog, due to give birth tomorrow, the unloading at the custom-house of bales of cloth that have just arrived from Goa, a sudden urge to eat toffee, the memory of that soft little hand of the nun at the convent grille, the itchy feeling under their wig, anything and everything except the sublime inspiration that gripped His Majesty as he thought to himself, I want a basilica exactly like this one for my court, this was something we did not expect.
The following day, Dom João V summoned the architect from Mafra, a certain João Frederico Ludovice, a German name translated here into Portuguese, and the King bluntly informed him, It is my will that a church be built for my court like that of the Basilica of Saint Peter in Rome, and as he uttered these words, he looked at the architect with the utmost severity. A king must always be obeyed, and this Ludovice, who was known as Ludovisi in Italy, thus having twice renounced the name Ludwig, knows that if an artist is to pursue a successful career, he must be ever accommodating, especially if he depends on the patronage of altar and throne. However, there are limits, this King has no idea what such a demand involves, and he is a fool if he imagines that simply by willing it, one conjures up an artist like Bramante, Raphael, Sangallo, Peruzzi, Buonarroti, Fontana, Della Porta, or Maderno, if he believes that he needs only to come and command me, Ludwig, or Ludovisi, or Ludovice if intended for Portuguese ears, I want the Basilica of Saint Peter, and the basilica will appear in every detail, when the only churches I am capable of building are those on a scale suitable for places like Mafra, I may be an architect of renown, and as presumptuous as the next man, but I know my own limitations and the ways of Portugal, where I have lived for the last twenty-eight years amongst a race known for its pride and lack of perseverance, the essential thing here is to reply with tact, to phrase a refusal that will sound more flattering than any words of acceptance, which would be even more laborious, and may God defend me from such speeches, Your Majesty's command is worthy of the great King who ordered that Mafra should be built, however, life is short, Your Majesty, and the Basilica of Saint Peter in Rome, from the moment the foundation stone was blessed until its consecration, swallowed up one hundred and twenty years of labour and expense, Your Majesty, who, if I am not mistaken, has never been to Rome, may judge from the replica you have there before you that perhaps not even the next two hundred and forty years would suffice to build such a basilica, and by then Your Majesty will be dead, as well as your son, grandson, great-grandson, great-great-grandson, and great-great-great-grandson, therefore I must respectfully urge you to consider whether it is worth building a basilica that will not be completed until the year two thousand, assuming that by that time there will still be a world, nevertheless, it is for Your Majesty to decide, Whether there will still be a world, No, Your Majesty, whether a second Basilica of Saint Peter in Rome should be erected in Lisbon, although it strikes me that it would be much easier for the world to come to an end than to achieve a full-scale copy of the Basilica of Saint Peter, So you think I should forget this whim, Your Majesty will live eternally in the memory of your subjects, as well as in the glory of heaven, but the memory is a poor terrain when it comes to establishing foundations, the walls would soon start to crumble, and the heavens are one united church, where the Basilica of Saint Peter in Rome would make as much impact as a grain of sand, If that's the case, then why do we build churches and convents on earth, Because we've failed to recognise that the universe has always been both church and convent, a place of faith and obligation, a place of refuge and freedom, I don't quite grasp your meaning. Just as I don't quite understand what I am saying, but, to return to the question, if Your Majesty wishes to see the walls of the basilica raised even as much as one span before your death, you must issue the necessary orders without a moment's delay, otherwise the building will make no progress beyond the foundations, Is my life likely to be so short, Art is long, life is short.
They might well have remained there conversing for the rest of the day, but Dom João V, who as a rule tolerates no opposition once he has made up his mind, suddenly became melancholy as he visualised the funeral cortège of his descendants, of his son, grandson, great-grandson, great-great-grandson, great-great-great-grandson, each of them dying off without ever having seen the basilica completed, and it was clearly pointless even to start on the project if this was to be the outcome. João Frederico Ludovice tries to conceal his satisfaction, he has already understood that there will be no Basilica of Saint Peter in Lisbon, he has quite enough work in hand with the main chapel of the Cathedral at Évora and the buildings of São Vicente de Fora, which are on a scale suited to Portugal, because it is desirable that everything should be measured appropriately. There is a sudden lapse in the conversation, the King does not speak and the architect remains silent, and so ambitious dreams vanish into thin air, and we should never have known that Dom João V once dreamed of building a replica of the Basilica of St Peter in the Parque Eduardo VII had Ludovice not betrayed the King's secret to his son, who confided in a nun with whom he was intimate, who told her confessor, who told the Superior General of his order, who told the Patriarch, who asked if it was true of the King, who retorted that anyone who dared raise the subject again would incur his wrath, so everyone held his tongue, and the King's plan has now been revealed because the truth always comes out in the end, it is simply a question of time until the truth unexpectedly comes to the surface and announces, I've arrived, and we are forced to believe, the truth emerges naked from the depth of the well like the music of Domenico Scarlatti, who continues to reside in Lisbon.