Coming to more recent popes, while it is true that Alexander VIII and Innocent XI proclaimed only two and one Holy Years respectively, Clement X had three, in quick succession (in 1670, 1672 and 1675) and even the present Holy Father, Innocent XII, could not restrain himself from celebrating four in eight years.
It is quite true that these extraordinary celebrations did not always draw great masses of pilgrims to Rome. It is also true, moreover, that the intervals, initially subject to the severe hundred-year cycle, had in the course of time become subject to steadily more and more contingent motivations, which often ran the risk of perplexing posterity, and sometimes even contemporaries.
Some extraordinary Jubilees came to be granted on a limited basis to certain nations or groups (Peru, Armenia, India, the Maronites of Lebanon, the Christians of the Aethiopic Empire) who, in the community of the faithful, especially the Italians and Europeans, did not perhaps always evoke sentiments of immediate, universal, overwhelming fraternity.
The Council of Trent, the struggle against heresy, the ransoming of prisoners in the hands of Mahometans, the peace between France and Spain, or else, fairly frequently, the enthronement of a new pope, provided other occasions (obviously called pretexts by the malign), which did not always have a character of absolute urgency and gravity.
It was striking that no fewer than nine times the proclamation of a Holy Year had been determined by the needs of the Church, or rather of its coffers, and for that very reason, Urban VIII (subsequently accused of gravely dissipating the money of the Apostolic Chamber) had proclaimed four Holy Years in 1628, 1629, 1631 and 1634.
And if many Holy Years had been granted to the faithful against the Mahometan menace, which was ever lively in the Orient, it was more difficult to understand what stringent necessity had in 1560 induced Pope Pius IV to choose as the reason for opening the Extraordinary Holy Year, the raids of a certain pirate named Dragut.
Be that as it may, in exactly four centuries, from the first Jubilee in 1300 until that opened by His Holiness Pope Innocent XII in 1700, there should, according to the original plans of Pope Boniface VIII, have been five Jubilees. The total had, however, reached thirty-nine.
So I wondered with anguish and doubt, coming to the end of my reflections, whether such a cavalier attitude did not risk weakening in the sight of the Most High, or even rendering vain, the power of the supplicants' prayers. This doubt was reinforced by the consideration that the Jubilee attracted dishonest persons and gave occasion for so many sad occurrences (theft, cheating, rapine) like that which I had just witnessed.
But such pressing questionings had at last to make way for sleep. I had reached home. I promised myself that I would later ask for the guidance of Don Tibaldutio Lucidi, the chaplain of Villa Spada.
Cloridia, as I expected, was not there. She had certainly stayed behind at the Villa Spada to watch over the confinement of the Princess of Forano. Just as welclass="underline" I'd have died rather than let her see me in that horrible stinking state. The first thing I did was to fill the bathtub and to immerse myself entirely in it, in an endeavour to rid myself of the pestilential odour of which I had become the carrier. While I rinsed my head with bucketful upon bucketful of water, I shivered more from the memory of the perils which I had faced than the icy and unpleasant ablution. By the time I had dried myself, it was already full daylight. The diurnal luminary shone splendid and implacable, awakening the senses and inviting mortals to action.
Indifferent to that radiant call, I dragged myself to my bed, worn out, and already halfway between waking and sleep I prayed to thank the Blessed Virgin for having saved my life.
My hands were still joined when I saw the note. The handwriting was somewhat tremulous, but determined. It was easy to guess the author:
All night up waiting. I expect your report.
I dedicated one last irate thought to Abbot Melani. Because of him I had almost lost my life — and for nothing. Did he want my news? He would have it in good time, no sooner.
I slept for over two hours: not enough to recover all my strength, but sufficient at least to be able to walk, think and talk.
I was almost thinking of staying at home waiting for someone to come and summon me, caring not for the wrath of Don Paschatio or that of Abbot Melani. Suddenly, like a blow from a whip on my naked back, a memory caused me to wake up with a jump: it was the great day, the wedding day of Cardinal Spada's nephew!
On my arrival at the villa, I found the air dense with euphoric frenzy. Not only workmen, porters, lackeys and scullions were moving busily along the drives, through the kitchen gardens and among the rooms of the great house. Today, there was also a gay and colourful troop of artists who would be bringing joy to the hours following the nuptial banquet: the musicians of the orchestra.
I at once requested tidings of Cloridia. I interrogated more than one servant, but was told that she was still confined to the apartments of the Princess of Forano, nor had she ever left there during the night. Well, I thought, if she was so busy, she would have had no time to worry about the author of these notes.
I then made my way to the little wood and continued to the chapel in which that afternoon the august nuptials were to be celebrated between Clemente Spada, nephew of His Eminence
Cardinal Fabrizio, and Maria Pulcheria, niece of Cardinal Bernardino Rocci.
Among the servants of Villa Spada, all were exceedingly curious to see the bride. Of her, we knew only that she was no great beauty. Surely, the preparations were worthy to provide a setting for the nuptials of Venus. The sacristy and the little wall running around the chapel had been exquisitely ornamented with arrangements of the freshest flowers in terracotta vases and wicker cornucopias, set about with garlands of fresh cut blooms and baskets garnished with lemons, apples, golden apples of the New World (or tomates, which nature has created beautiful but unpleasant to the taste), ears of corn and generously displayed fruit. Commodious armchairs in the first row and chairs of gilded intaglio wood in the successive ones had been arranged harmoniously in a semicircle, so that no guest's vision should be disturbed by the person in the row in front.
In a corner, standing against the wall and delicately covered with a damasked cloth, were the bundles of decorated sticks, bound together with coloured ribbons and culminating in crowns of flowers, which we servants, apparelled in festive dress for the occasion, were to wave with festive exultation at the end of the ceremony. The little arena with armchairs and seats was crowned with marvellous open vaulting, all built in wood and papier mache and composed of pairs of quadrangular columns surmounted by gracefully ornate capitals, among which lovely rounded arches leaned out, garlanded with flowers, heather and mad bunches of wild herbs.
In like manner, the other nuptial decorations (hangings of blood-red velvet, draperies of golden silk, curtains with the family arms of both the spouses) had been completed and skilfully arranged. Two maids were about to finish placing the soft plush cushions on the chairs; from the chapel I heard the paternal voice of Don Tibaldutio giving the little servers their final instructions. I took heart: at least for the nuptial rite all arrangements were on time.
I felt the need to kneel before the altar and recite yet another prayer of thanksgiving for having my life saved. Wthin the chapel, there was a statue of the Madonna of the Carmel, the same to which Abbot Melani had for all those years confided my little pearls as an ex voto\ this had evoked even more in me the desire to turn to that apparation of the Holy Virgin and Mother and to confide the fate of us all during the coming days to her safekeeping. I entered, sought a discreet corner, and knelt.