The elevated topics forming the battlefield on which wits clashed were often drawn from the names of the cenacles concerned: the Ecclesiastical Academy, or the Academy of Divine Love, and those of Theology, the Councils, and Dogmas, all plainly engaged in discussions pertaining to the faith. On the other hand, the mathematicians and astronomers of the Academy of Natural Philosophy were concerned with science, as were the Academy of the Lynxes (so called because each thing was to be observed with the sharp eyes of the lynx). The Academicians of the New Poesy met to talk of rhymes, as did those of the famous Arcadia, a name taken from the Arcadian shepherds who populate the bucolic visions of so many excellent poets. Last but not least, the members of the Academy of Saint Cecilia, the patroness of music and singers, met to celebrate the cult of music.
Less plain, however, was the raison d'etre of academies with obscure names which sometimes dedicated their studies to the most curious matters. Such was the Academy of the Oracle, whose members met in the Roman countryside. One of its members, of robust build, would sit upon a rock, enveloping himself completely in his cloak and pretending to be an oracle. Two others stood on either side of him, to act as interpreters of his prophecies. Then another member of the congregation would approach the oracle, playing the part of a stranger, and would consult him about some future event, for instance whether such and such a marriage would or would not take place. The oracle would respond with apparently meaningless words like "pyramid!" or "button!" and the two interpreters would have to explain the meaning of the reply, illustrating the angles, the figure or the purpose of the pyramid, or the nature, form and use of the button. Two exceedingly severe censors would check the explanation with rigid discipline, marking down even the most insignificant errors of language, accent and pronunciation of the two interpreters. Mistakes were punished by a fine, to be paid in cash, which, once collected, served to acquire victuals wherewith to feed and joyously restore the entire company.
While some doubts might be permitted as to the usefulness of such congregations, it was not even possible to guess at the activities of certain others. One could readily suppose that the Academy of Husbandmen of the Vine concerned itself with matters of art and the spirit, preferably under the foliage of a vineyard. It was suspected that the Symposiacs met from time to time to raise their elbows, as we say, and the symposium was indeed nothing but a topers' reunion. Likewise, the Humorists were inclined to joke. What, however, the Academy of the Precipitate, that of the Snowy or the Academy of the Flour-faced might get up to, who the deuce can know? What was the real vocation of the Abbreviators or the Neglected? How did the Equivocals manage to agree matters among themselves? And did the meetings of the Suffocated take place only in writing?
The mystery grew thicker when one realised that academies did not arise one by one but in groups; like contagions and diseases. Thus, within the space of a few years, there had arisen the Imperfects, the Inexperts, the Impetuous, the Incautious, the Incongruous, the Incompetents, the Ineffectual, the Inflammables and the Informals.
Fashions changed and it soon became the turn of academies inspired by sadness (the Debilitated, the Delicate, the Depressed, the Despised and the Disunited), by passivity (the Melancholies, the Malingerers, the Maltreated and the Moderates), by danger (the Ambitious, the Angry, the Ardent, the Argumentative and the Audacious) or by their very benightedness (the Occult, the Occluded, the Obstinate, the Otiose).
Silence was, however, almost total when it came to certain semi-clandestine academies. Perhaps these were destined to develop under water, like that of the Fluctuators; or perhaps even secretly to accept non-human members, like the most mysterious Academy of the Amphibians.
Not unnaturally, such fervid activity did occasion some expenses; however, a prestigious seat in some patrician palazzo, money for refreshments, for the printing of the best (of the rare) works written by the academicians, together with the extravagant (and somewhat less rare) junketing and festivities, were as a rule all bestowed by some benevolent patron, to whom the academicians dedicated their poetic, scientific or doctrinal offerings. Normally, this would be a cardinal or the scion of some wealthy family of the highest standing, when it was not indeed a pontiff who, for reasons of state or out of simple affection, took an interest in the arcane activities of this or that group of studious gentlemen. When the generous patron moved on to a better life, the academy, bereft of its benefactor, would typically opt for its own dissolution; as when the death of Queen Christina of Sweden in 1689 turned dozens, indeed perhaps hundreds of artists, musicians, poets and philosophers onto the streets. They all had to abandon Christina's palace on the Via della Lungara post haste and swiftly seek some other way of earning their keep. With the demise of their Maecenas, the ingenious activities of the Sterile, the Vague or the Aggravated Ones were all too prone to peter out; but their members usually belonged to several academies and kept on founding new ones. Human Knowledge was safe.
Whether they dealt in games for the bon viveur or serious scientific discussion, one thing was clear: Rome had become a unique Universal Forum for Chatterboxes, in which at least one of the noblest of human faculties was guaranteed ad libitum, talk, talk, talk. It goes without saying that the speaker of the moment would set forth the most high-flown concepts and the most learned of meditations.
I was just thinking that I would, that evening, be attending such an event: a series of discussions for the finest and most select wits, held by academicians invited to the Villa Spada for the express purpose of enlivening the conversation, in whose presence I expected that I would, in all humility, have to struggle from beginning to end to keep myself from yawning. Matters, however, went somewhat differently.
Hardly had I donned my daytime uniform when a familiar voice caught my attention.
"We are terribly late, the guests are waiting! And it should be nice and warm, not all murky and muggy! Did you add almonds, hazelnuts and orange water? And half an ounce of carnations?"
It was Don Paschatio, who was rebuking two of the Steward's assistants for what he saw as the mediocre quality of the chocolate. The two stared at him with insolent, bovine eyes, as though he were some silly old uncle.
"Mmm…" said Don Paschatio, raising his eyes to heaven as he licked a finger coated with chocolate. "It seems to me that he has forgotten to add the two reals of aniseed. The Steward! Call the Steward!"
"To tell the truth… He has taken half a day's leave," said one of the assistants.
"Leave? With the guests still arriving?" exclaimed Don Paschatio, growing pale.
"He said he was offended by your latest reprimand."
"Offended, says he… As though a Steward had any right to take offence," he moaned disconsolately to himself. "It no longer counts for anything to be Major-Domo. O tempora, o mores!"
He turned around suddenly and saw me. His face lit up.
"Signor Master of the Fowls!" he exclaimed. "How very fortunate that you should be here, at the service of the most noble House of Spada, instead of shirking your duties like so many of your fellow servants."
Before I could even begin to answer, he had placed a heavy silver tray in my hands.
"Take this tray. Let us at least make a start!" he commanded the other two.
So it was that I found myself holding up with the tray a great jug of fine pink-onion-coloured porcelain full of hot chocolate, surrounded by twelve clinking cups, as well as little jars of vanilla to sweeten the bitter potion. As I set off, I found before my eyes the lovely undulating buttocks of a Diana, painted on the jug, who with her bow and quiverful of arrows was chasing through the woods some poor stag destined for the spit. With the cups tinkling against one another, I was already entering the great salon on the ground floor of the great house where the shade extended calm to fugitives from the heat of the day, inviting palates to enjoy the exotic refreshment.