"And only now are you telling me?" was Cloridia's sole response as she looked at me wide-eyed, as though she had suddenly discovered that she had married an idiot.
My prickly consort had already forgotten how long I had had inanely to await the end of her chatter. She calmed down quickly enough: learning of the tidy little sum which the Abbot had already paid us put her in a good mood at once.
"And so Abbot Melani is again in these parts, doing damage," commented Cloridia.
My wife had never had much sympathy for the Abbot. Through me, she knew of all the base deeds of which the castrato had been capable, and thus was not in the least impressed either by the diplomat's eloquence or by my experience of countless adventures by his side.
"He sends you his greetings," I lied.
"You may reciprocate," she replied with a hint of scepticism. "And so your castrato abbot has been pining for a woman these thirty years," she added, in a tone halfway between sarcasm and satisfaction. "And what a woman!"
Cloridia, being a good tattler, had already heard tell of Maria
Mancini and knew from high authority of her Roman vicissitudes as the wife of the Constable Colonna.
On the visit to the Vessel and the enigmatic apparition which I had witnessed, she made no comment. I should very much have liked her to enlighten me with her wise opinion, for she had once been so expert in the occult arts such as reading the palm, the science of numbers and guidance by the ardent rod, but my wife passed directly to the next phase: she would ask around, among her women, in order to help us with our inquiries. She would set in motion the powerful and secret network of feminine word of mouth; a thousand eyes would keep vigil — observing, following, memorising for us, shooting astute glances — unseen, behind the deceptive appearance of an expectant mother's calm contemplation or the languid eyelashes of a spouse.
We talked for a long time and as usual she was prodigal with politic advice, wise recommendations and exaggerated praise of my virtues. She knew me well and knew how much encouragement I would be needing.
I had no more doubts. Now that I had told her all and had put my trust in her, my fears had dissolved, and with them the weight which drained my senses of all strength and tumescence.
We lay together and at last we loved each other. In the shade of the great beech, like some new Titirus, I sweetly modulated my flute in honour of my woodland muse.
We had by now been overtaken by nightfall. Freeing myself from my Cloridia's embrace, I discreetly rearranged her apparel and walked slowly towards the great house and my meeting with Abbot Melani.
It was then that, my soul being touched by the grace of conjugal love, I first beheld the gardens of the villa in the gay fullness of their splendour. Cardinal Spada had spared no expense to bestow upon the festivities every imaginable perfection. Villa Spada was smaller and more modest than other noble dwellings, but its master desired that it should for the occasion be among the foremost in the display of magnificence. He had not failed to enhance that which, more than all else, makes Roman villas so very special and different from those in all the rest of the world, namely their unique situation; for, wherever their site may be, there is perforce a most delightful conjunction with the vestiges of ancient Rome.
The statues, marbles, inscriptions and all the other things which ignorant workmen had brought to light in the gardens of Villa Spada were, by order of Cardinal Fabrizio, raised from oblivion in the cellars or under the invasive maidenhair ferns and so arranged as to punctuate the modern gardens with majestic whiteness.
The beautiful concentric flower beds with shrubs along their borders, divided up by radiating drives arranged for the occasion by Tranquillo Romauli, the Master Florist, had been adorned with columns, sarcophagi and steles, while along the outer wall, fragments of capitals alternated with espaliered citrus trees; even at the main gates, above the stairway of a ruin, rose a pergola supported by trellises, as though time, waving the green banner of nature, wished to signify the overthrow and vanity of human endeavours.
But Villa Spada was but a small example: Rome's villas often enclose temples which remain almost intact, or even entire sections of aqueduct. In the Villa Colonna at Monte Cavallo there was for a long time preserved (and then, alas, thoughtlessly demolished) a fine piece of the gigantic Templum Solis. In the Villa Medici on the Pincio, the Templum Fortunae was to be found. In the Villa Giustiniani on the Lateran Hill, the boundary was marked by the aqueduct of Claudius, flanked by other enormous, anonymous ruins. Even the interior of the Mausoleum of Augustus, a glorious and solemn vestige of the greatest of emperors, was transformed into a garden when it was the property of Monsignor Soderini. On the Palatine Hill and on the Celio, villas and ruins, edifices new and old stretched in a single inextricable web. And likewise, the little Gentili Palace backed onto the ancient Aurelian Walls, of which it had even incorporated a tower; while the Orti Farnesiani (the inestimable work of Vignola, Rainaldi and Del Duca) fused harmoniously with the vestiges of the imperial palaces on the Palatine. Even Cardinal Sacchetti, when in his villa in the Pigneto he wished to offer a sepulchre to his favourite ass Grillo, used ancient Roman remains which had come into his hands there, on his own lands, where one had only to sink a spade into the ground to strike marble from the centuries of Cicero and Seneca.
In the Villa Ludovisi a pavilion had been erected for the sole purpose of housing the statues, while at Villa Borghese, Cardinal Scipione had devoted most of the space to his collection of busts and figures.
However, antiquities were not the only items employed for the embellishment of the vineyards and casino of the Villa Spada. The avenues which led to fountains and nymphaeums, as well as the little wood, had been adorned with obelisks, as at the Del Bufalo Garden at Villa Ludovisi; or then there was the obelisk in the Medici Garden, of which I had admired splendid engravings in the books of my late father-in-law. However those at the Villa Spada were ephemeral, made of papier mache in imitation of the admirable architectural designs of the Cavalier Bernini erected in the Piazza Navona or the Piazza di Spagna to celebrate the birth of princes or other worthy events, wonders destined to last only for the duration of a few nights' festivities.
Every Roman villa was a place conceived for repose and pleasure, as in the days of Horace (and so I believe it will still be in the centuries to come), and thus also a venue for games, extravagances and all manner of delightful distractions. And Villa Spada seemed to be rising to the present nuptial occasion as a veritable compendium of all these things.
I would have liked to stop and admire one by one the thousand delights and marvels which the villa offered, but the evening was advancing. Taking leave of my reflections, I hastened on my way to my appointment with Abbot Melani; and with the Connestabilessa who, according to what I had read in her letter to the Abbot, was expected after Vespers.
"Good heavens, dear boy, whatever have you been doing to yourself? I seem to be receiving a delegation of Arcadian shepherds."
I lowered my head in response to Atto's remark and took an embarrassed look at my clothing, crumpled by amorous activity and stained by the grass on which I had lain with my wife.