Farinello and the Electress Dowager of Saxony--Madame Slopitz--Nina--The
Midwife--Madame Soavi--Abbe Bolini--Madame Viscioletta--The
Seamstress--The Sorry Pleasure of Revenge--Severini Goes to Naples--My
Departure--Marquis Mosca
Anyone who attacks a proud person in a comic vein is almost sure of
success; the laugh is generally on his side.
I asked in my dialogue whether it was lawful for a provost-marshal to
call himself simply marshal, and whether a lieutenant-colonel had a right
to the title of colonel. I also asked whether the man who preferred
titles of honour, for which he had paid in hard cash, to his ancient and
legitimate rank, could pass for a sage.
Of course the marquis had to laugh at my dialogue, but he was called the
general ever after. He had placed the royal arms of Poland over the gate
of his palace, much to the amusement of Count Mischinski, the Polish
ambassador to Berlin, who happened to be passing through Bologna at that
time.
I told the Pole of my dispute with the mad marquis, and persuaded him to
pay Albergati a visit, leaving his card. The ambassador did so, and the
call was returned, but Albergati's cards no longer bore the title of
general.
The Dowager Electress of Saxony having come to Bologna, I hastened to pay
my respects to her. She had only come to see the famous castrato
Farinello, who had left Madrid, and now lived at Bologna in great
comfort. He placed a magnificent collation before the Electress, and sang
a song of his own composition, accompanying himself on the piano. The
Electress, who was an enthusiastic musician, embraced Farinello,
exclaiming,--
"Now I can die happy."
Farinello, who was also known as the Chevalier Borschi had reigned, as it
were, in Spain till the Parmese wife of Philip V. had laid plots which
obliged him to leave the Court after the disgrace of Enunada. The
Electress noticed a portrait of the queen, and spoke very highly of her,
mentioning some circumstances which must have taken place in the reign of
Ferdinand VI.
The famous musician burst into tears, and said that Queen Barbara was as
good as Elizabeth of Parma was wicked.
Borschi might have been seventy when I saw him at Bologna. He was very
rich and in the enjoyment of good health, and yet he was unhappy,
continually shedding tears at the thought of Spain.
Ambition is a more powerful passion than avarice. Besides, Farinello had
another reason for unhappiness.
He had a nephew who was the heir to all his wealth, whom he married to a
noble Tuscan lady, hoping to found a titled family, though in an indirect
kind of way. But this marriage was a torment to him, for in his impotent
old age he was so unfortunate as to fall in love with his niece, and to
become jealous of his nephew. Worse than all the lady grew to hate him,
and Farinello had sent his nephew abroad, while he never allowed the wife
to go out of his sight.
Lord Lincoln arrived in Bologna with an introduction for the cardinal
legate, who asked him to dinner, and did me the honour of giving me an
invitation to meet him. The cardinal was thus convinced that Lord Lincoln
and I had never met, and that the grand duke of Tuscany had committed a
great injustice in banishing me. It was on that occasion that the young
nobleman told me how they had spread the snare, though he denied that he
had been cheated; he was far too proud to acknowledge such a thing. He
died of debauchery in London three or four years after.
I also saw at Bologna the Englishman Aston with Madame Slopitz, sister of
the Charming Cailimena. Madame Slopitz was much handsomer than her
sister. She had presented Aston with two babes as beautiful as Raphael's
cherubs.
I spoke of her sister to her, and from the way in which I sang her
praises she guessed that I had loved her. She told me she would be in
Florence during the Carnival of 1773, but I did not see her again till
the year 1776, when I was at Venice.
The dreadful Nina Bergonci, who had made a madman of Count Ricla, and was
the source of all my woes at Barcelona, had come to Bologna at the
beginning of Lent, occupying a pleasant house which she had taken. She
had carte blanche with a banker, and kept up a great state, affirming
herself to be with child by the Viceroy of Catalonia, and demanding the
honours which would be given to a queen who had graciously chosen Bologna
as the place of her confinement. She had a special recommendation to the
legate, who often visited her, but in the greatest secrecy.
The time of her confinement approached, and the insane Ricla sent over a
confidential man, Don Martino, who was empowered to have the child
baptized, and to recognize it as Ricla's natural offspring.
Nina made a show of her condition, appearing at the theatre and in the
public places with an enormous belly. The greatest noble of Bologna paid
court to her, and Nina told them that they might do so, but that she
could not guarantee their safety from the jealous dagger of Ricla. She
was impudent enough to tell them what happened to me at Barcelona, not
knowing that I was at Bologna.
She was extremely surprised to hear from Count Zini, who knew me, that I
inhabited the same town as herself.
When the count met me he asked me if the Barcelona story was true. I did
not care to take him into my confidence, so I replied that I did not know
Nina, and that the story had doubtless been made up by her to see whether
he would encounter danger for her sake.
When I met the cardinal I told him the whole story, and his eminence was
astonished when I gave him some insight into Nina's character, and
informed him that she was the daughter of her sister and her grandfather.
"I could stake my life," said I, "that Nina is no more with child than
you are."
"Oh, come!" said he, laughing, "that is really too strong; why shouldn't
she have a child? It is a very simple matter, it seems to me. Possibly it
may not be Ricla's child but there can be no doubt that she is with
somebody's child. What object could she have for feigning pregnancy?"
"To make herself famous by defiling the Count de Ricla, who was a model
of justice and virtue before knowing this Messalina. If your eminence
knew the hideous character of Nina you would not wonder at anything she
did."
"Well, we shall see."
"Yes."
About a week later I heard a great noise in the street, and on putting my
head out of the window I saw a woman stripped to the waist, and mounted
on an ass, being scourged by the hangman, and hooted by a mob of all the
biricchini in Bologna. Severini came up at the same moment and informed
me that the woman was the chief midwife in Bologna, and that her
punishment had been ordered by the cardinal archbishop.
"It must be for some great crime," I observed.
"No doubt. It is the woman who was with Nina the day before yesterday."
"What! has Nina been brought to bed?"
"Yes; but of a still-born child."
"I see it all."
Next day the story was all over the town.
A poor woman had come before the archbishop, and had complained bitterly
that the midwife Teresa had seduced her, promising to give her twenty
sequins if she would give her a fine boy to whom she had given birth a
fortnight ago. She was not given the sum agreed upon, and in her despair
at hearing of the death of her child she begged for justice, declaring
herself able to prove that the dead child said to be Nina's was in
reality her own.
The archbishop ordered his chancellor to enquire into the affair with the
utmost secrecy, and then proceed to instant and summary execution.
A week after this scandal Don Martino returned to Barcelona; but Nina
remained as impudent as ever, doubled the size of the red cockades which
she made her servants wear, and swore that Spain would avenge her on the
insolent archbishop. She remained at Bologna six weeks longer, pretending
to be still suffering from the effects of her confinement. The cardinal
legate, who was ashamed of having had anything to do with such an
abandoned prostitute, did his best to have her ordered to leave.
Count Ricla, a dupe to the last, gave her a considerable yearly income on
the condition that she should never come to Barcelona again; but in a
year the count died.
Nina did not survive him for more than a year, and died miserably from
her fearful debauchery. I met her mother and sister at Venice, and she
told me the story of the last two years of her daughter's life; but it is
so sad and so disgusting a tale that I feel obliged to omit it.
As for the infamous midwife, she found powerful friends.
A pamphlet appeared in which the anonymous author declared that the
archbishop had committed a great wrong in punishing a citizen in so
shameful a manner without any of the proper formalities of justice. The
writer maintained that even if she were guilty she had been unjustly
punished, and should appeal to Rome.
The prelate, feeling the force of these animadversions, circulated a
pamphlet in which it appeared that the midwife had made three prior
appearances before the judge, and that she would have been sent to the
gallows long ago if the archbishop had not hesitated to shame three of
the noblest families in Bologna, whose names appeared in documents in the
custody of his chancellor.
Her crimes were procuring abortion and killing erring mothers,
substituting the living for the dead, and in one case a boy for a girl,
thus giving him the enjoyment of property which did not belong to him.
This pamphlet of the prelate reduced the patrons of the infamous midwife
to silence, for several young noblemen whose mothers had been attended by
her did not relish the idea of their family secrets being brought to
light.
At Bologna I saw Madame Marucci, who had been expelled from Spain for the
same reason as Madame Pelliccia. The latter had retired to Rome, while
Madame Marucci was on her way to Lucca, her native country.
Madame Soavi, a Bolognese dancer whom I had known at Parma and Paris,
came to Bologna with her daughter by M. de Marigni. The girl, whose name
was Adelaide, was very beautiful, and her natural abilities had been
fostered by a careful education.
When Madame Soavi got to Bologna she met her husband whom she had not
seen for fifteen years.
"Here is a treasure for you," said she, shewing him her daughter.
"She's certainly very pretty, but what am I to do with her? She does not
belong to me."
"Yes she does, as I have given her to you. You must know that she has six
thousand francs a year, and that I shall be her cashier till I get her
married to a good dancer. I want her to learn character dancing, and to
make her appearance on the boards. You must take her out on holidays."
"What shall I say if people ask me who she is?"
"Say she is your daughter, and that you are certain, because your wife
gave her to you."
"I can't see that."
"Ah, you have always stayed at home, and consequently your wits are
homely."
I heard this curious dialogue which made me laugh then, and makes me
laugh now as I write it. I offered to help in Adelaide's education, but
Madame Soavi laughed, and said,--
"Fox, you have deceived so many tender pullets, that I don't like to
trust you with this one, for fear of your making her too precocious."
"I did not think of that, but you are right."
Adelaide became the wonder of Bologna.
A year after I left the Comte du Barri, brother-in-law of the famous
mistress of Louis XV., visited Bologna, and became so amorous of Adelaide
that her mother sent her away, fearing he would carry her off.
Du Barri offered her a hundred thousand francs for the girl, but she
refused the offer.
I saw Adelaide five years later on the boards of a Venetian theatre. When
I went to congratulate her, she said,--
"My mother brought me into the world, and I think she will send me out of
it; this dancing is killing me."
In point of fact this delicate flower faded and died after seven years of
the severe life to which her mother had exposed her.
Madame Soavi who had not taken the precaution to settle the six thousand
francs on herself, lost all in losing Adelaide, and died miserably after
having rolled in riches. But, alas! I am not the man to reproach anyone
on the score of imprudence.
At Bologna I met the famous Afflisio, who had been discharged from the
imperial service and had turned manager. He went from bad to worse, and
five or six years later committed forgery, was sent to the galleys, and
there died.
I was also impressed by the example of a man of a good family, who had
once been rich. This was Count Filomarino. He was living in great misery,
deprived of the use of all his limbs by a succession of venereal
complaints. I often went to see him to give him a few pieces of money,
and to listen to his malevolent talk, for his tongue was the only member
that continued active. He was a scoundrel and a slanderer, and writhed
under the thought that he could not go to Naples and torment his
relations, who were in reality respectable people, but monsters according
to his shewing.
Madame Sabatini, the dancer, had returned to Bologna, having made enough
money to rest upon her laurels. She married a professor of anatomy, and
brought all her wealth to him as a dower. She had with her her sister,
who was not rich and had no talents, but was at the same time very
agreeable.
At the house I met an abbe, a fine young man of modest appearance. The
sister seemed to be deeply in love with him, while he appeared to be
grateful and nothing more.
I made some remark to the modest Adonis, and he gave me a very sensible
answer. We walked away together, and after telling each other what
brought us to Bologna we parted, agreeing to meet again.
The abbe, who was twenty-four or twenty-five years old, was not in
orders, and was the only son of a noble family of Novara, which was
unfortunately poor as well as noble.
He had a very scanty revenue, and was able to live more cheaply at
Bologna than Novara, where everything is dear. Besides, he did not care
for his relations; he had no friends, and everybody there was more or
less ignorant.
The Abbe de Bolini, as he was called, was a man of tranquil mind, living
a peaceful and quiet life above all things. He liked lettered men more
than letters, and did not trouble to gain the reputation of a wit. He
knew he was not a fool, and when he mixed with learned men he was quite
clever enough to be a good listener.
Both temperament and his purse made him temperate in all things, and he
had received a sound Christian education. He never talked about religion,
but nothing scandalized him. He seldom praised and never blamed.
He was almost entirely indifferent to women, flying from ugly women and
blue stockings, and gratifying the passion of pretty ones more out of
kindliness than love, for in his heart he considered women as more likely
to make a man miserable than happy. I was especially interested in this
last characteristic.
We had been friends for three weeks when I took the liberty of asking him
how he reconciled his theories with his attachment to Brigida Sabatini.
He supped with her every evening, and she breakfasted with him every
morning. When I went to see him, she was either there already or came in
before my call was over. She breathed forth love in every glance, while
the abbe was kind, but, in spite of his politeness, evidently bored.
Brigida looked well enough, but she was at least ten years older than the
abbe. She was very polite to me and did her best to convince me that the
abbe was happy in the possession of her heart, and that they both enjoyed
the delights of mutual love.
But when I asked him over a bottle of good wine about his affection for
Brigida, he sighed, smiled, blushed, looked down, and finally confessed
that this connection was the misfortune of his life.
"Misfortune? Does she make you sigh in vain? If so you should leave her,
and thus regain your happiness."
"How can I sigh? I am not in love with her. She is in love with me, and
tries to make me her slave."
"How do you mean?"
"She wants me to marry her, and I promised to do so, partly from
weakness, and partly from pity; and now she is in a hurry."
"I daresay; all these elderly girls are in a hurry."
"Every evening she treats me to tears, supplications, and despair. She
summons me to keep my promise, and accuses me of deceiving her, so you
may imagine that my situation is an unhappy one."
"Have you any obligations towards her?"
"None whatever. She has violated me, so to speak, for all the advances
came from her. She has only what her sister gives her from day to day,
and if she got married she would not get that."
"Have you got her with child?"
"I have taken good care not to do so, and that's what has irritated her;
she calls all my little stratagems detestable treason."
"Nevertheless, you have made up your mind to marry her sooner or later?"
"I'd as soon hang myself. If I got married to her I should be four times
as poor as I am now, and all my relations at Novara would laugh at me for
bringing home a wife of her age. Besides, she is neither rich nor well
born, and at Novara they demand the one or the other."
"Then as a man of honour and as a man of sense, you ought to break with
her, and the sooner the better."
"I know, but lacking normal strength what am I to do? If I did not go and
sup with her to-night, she would infallibly come after me to see what had
happened. I can't lock my door in her face, and I can't tell her to go
away."
"No, but neither can go on in this miserable way.
"You must make up your mind, and cut the Gordian knot, like Alexander."
"I haven't his sword."
"I will lend it you."
"What do you mean?"
"Listen to me. You must go and live in another town. She will hardly go
after you there, I suppose."
"That is a very good plan, but flight is a difficult matter."
"Difficult? Not at all. Do you promise to do what I tell you, and I will
arrange everything quite comfortably. Your mistress will not know
anything about it till she misses you at supper."
"I will do whatever you tell me, and I shall never forget your kindness;
but Brigida will go mad with grief."
"Well my first order to you is not to give her grief a single thought.
You have only to leave everything to me. Would you like to start
to-morrow?"
"To-morrow?"
"Yes. Have you any debts?"
"No."
"Do you want any money?"
"I have sufficient. But the idea of leaving tomorrow has taken my breath
away. I must have three days delay."
"Why so?"
"I expect some letters the day after to-morrow, and I must write to my
relations to tell them where I am going."
"I will take charge of your letters and send them on to you."
"Where shall I be?"
"I will tell you at the moment of your departure; trust in me. I will
send you at once where you will be comfortable. All you have to do is to
leave your trunk in the hands of your landlord, with orders not to give
it up to anyone but myself."
"Very good. I am to go without my trunk, then."
"Yes. You must dine with me every day till you go, and mind not to tell
anyone whatsoever that you intend leaving Bologna."
"I will take care not to do so."
The worthy young fellow looked quite radiant. I embraced him and thanked
him for putting so much trust in me.
I felt proud at the good work I was about to perform, and smiled at the
thought of Brigida's anger when she found that her lover had escaped. I
wrote to my good friend Dandolo that in five or six days a young abbe
would present himself before him bearing a letter from myself. I begged
Dandolo to get him a comfortable and cheap lodging, as my friend was so
unfortunate as to be indifferently provided with money, though an
excellent man. I then wrote the letter of which the abbe was to be the
bearer.
Next day Bolini told me that Brigida was far from suspecting his flight,
as owing to his gaiety at the thought of freedom he had contented her so
well during the night she had passed with him that she thought him as
much in love as she was.
"She has all my linen," he added, "but I hope to get a good part of it
back under one pretext or another, and she is welcome to the rest."
On the day appointed he called on me as we had arranged the night before,
carrying a huge carpet bag containing necessaries. I took him to Modena
in a post chaise, and there we dined; afterward I gave him a letter for
M. Dandolo, promising to send on his trunk the next day.
He was delighted to hear that Venice was his destination, as he had long
wished to go there, and I promised him that M. Dandolo should see that he
lived as comfortably and cheaply as he had done at Bologna.
I saw him off, and returned to Bologna. The trunk I dispatched after him
the following day.
As I had expected, the poor victim appeared before me all in tears the
next day. I felt it my duty to pity her; it would have been cruel to
pretend I did not know the reason for her despair. I gave her a long but
kindly sermon, endeavouring to persuade her that I had acted for the best
in preventing the abbe marrying her, as such a step would have plunged
them both into misery.
The poor woman threw herself weeping at my feet, begging me to bring her
abbe back, and swearing by all the saints that she would never mention
the word "marriage" again. By way of calming her, I said I would do my
best to win him over.
She asked where he was, and I said at Venice; but of course she did not
believe me. There are circumstances when a clever man deceives by telling
the truth, and such a lie as this must be approved by the most rigorous
moralists.
Twenty-seven months later I met Bolini at Venice. I shall describe the
meeting in its proper place.
A few days after he had gone, I made the acquaintance of the fair
Viscioletta, and fell so ardently in love with her that I had to make up
my mind to buy her with hard cash. The time when I could make women fall
in love with me was no more, and I had to make up my mind either to do
without them or to buy them.
I cannot help laughing when people ask me for advice, as I feel so
certain that my advice will not be taken. Man is an animal that has to
learn his lesson by hard experience in battling with the storms of life.
Thus the world is always in disorder and always ignorant, for those who
know are always in an infinitesimal proportion to the whole.
Madame Viscioletta, whom I went to see every day, treated me as the
Florentine widow had done, though the widow required forms and ceremonies
which I could dispense with in the presence of the fair Viscioletta, who
was nothing else than a professional courtezan, though she called herself
a virtuosa.
I had besieged her for three weeks without any success, and when I made
any attempts she repulsed me laughingly.
Monsignor Buoncompagni, the vice-legate, was her lover in secret, though
all the town knew it, but this sort of conventional secrecy is common
enough in Italy. As as ecclesiastic he could not court her openly, but
the hussy made no mystery whatever of his visits.
Being in need of money, and preferring to get rid of my carriage than of
anything else, I announced it for sale at the price of three hundred and
fifty Roman crowns. It was a comfortable and handsome carriage, and was
well worth the price. I was told that the vice-legate offered three
hundred crowns, and I felt a real pleasure in contradicting my favoured
rival's desires. I told the man that I had stated my price and meant to
adhere to it, as I was not accustomed to bargaining.
I went to see my carriage at noon one day to make sure that it was in
good condition, and met the vice-legate who knew me from meeting me at
the legate's, and must have been aware that I was poaching on his
preserves. He told me rudely that the carriage was not worth more than
three hundred crowns, and that I ought to be glad of the opportunity of
getting rid of it, as it was much too good for me.
I had the strength of mind to despise his violence, and telling him dryly
that I did not chaffer I turned my back on him and went my way.
Next day the fair Viscioletta wrote me a note to the effect that she
would be very much obliged if I would let the vice-legate have the
carriage at his own price, as she felt sure he would give it to her. I
replied that I would call on her in the afternoon, and that my answer
would depend on my welcome, I went in due course, and after a lively
discussion, she gave way, and I signified my willingness to sell the
carriage for the sum offered by the vice-legate.
The next day she had her carriage, and I had my three hundred crowns, and
I let the proud prelate understand that I had avenged myself for his
rudeness.
About this time Severini succeeded in obtaining a position as tutor in an
illustrious Neapolitan family, and as soon as he received his
journey-money he left Bologna. I also had thoughts of leaving the town.
I had kept up an interesting correspondence with M. Zaguri, who had made
up his mind to obtain my recall in concert with Dandolo, who desired
nothing better. Zaguri told me that if I wanted to obtain my pardon I
must come and live as near as possible to the Venetian borders, so that
the State Inquisitors might satisfy themselves of my good conduct. M.
Zuliani, brother to the Duchess of Fiano, gave me the same advice, and
promised to use all his interest in my behalf.
With the idea of following this counsel I decided to set up my abode at
Trieste, where M. Zaguri told me he had an intimate friend to whom he
would give me a letter of introduction. As I could not go by land without
passing through the States of Venice I resolved to go to Ancona, whence
boats sail to Trieste every day. As I should pass through Pesaro I asked
my patron to give me a letter for the Marquis Mosca, a distinguished man
of letters whom I had long wished to know. Just then he was a good deal
talked about on account of a treatise on alms which he had recently
published, and which the Roman curia had placed on the "Index."
The marquis was a devotee as well as a man of learning, and was imbued
with the doctrine of St. Augustine, which becomes Jansenism if pushed to
an extreme point.
I was sorry to leave Bologna, for I had spent eight pleasant months
there. In two days I arrived at Pesaro in perfect health and well
provided for in every way.
I left my letter with the marquis, and he came to see me the same day. He
said his house would always be open to me, and that he would leave me in
his wife's hands to be introduced to everybody and everything in the
place. He ended by asking me to dine with him the following day, adding
that if I cared to examine his library he could give me an excellent cup
of chocolate.
I went, and saw an enormous collection of comments on the Latin poets
from Ennius to the poets of the twelfth century of our era. He had had
them all printed at his own expense and at his private press, in four
tall folios, very accurately printed but without elegance. I told him my
opinion, and he agreed that I was right.
The want of elegance which had spared him an outlay of a hundred thousand
francs had deprived him of a profit of three hundred thousand.
He presented me with a copy, which he sent to my inn, with an immense
folio volume entitled "Marmora Pisaurentia," which I had no time to
examine.
I was much pleased with the marchioness, who had three daughters and two
sons, all good-looking and well bred.
The marchioness was a woman of the world, while her husband's interests
were confined to his books. This difference in disposition sometimes gave
rise to a slight element of discord, but a stranger would never have
noticed it if he had not been told.
Fifty years ago a wise man said to me: "Every family is troubled by some
small tragedy, which should be kept private with the greatest care. In
fine, people should learn to wash their dirty linen in private."
The marchioness paid me great attention during the five days I spent at
Pesaro. In the day she drove me from one country house to another, and at
night she introduced me to all the nobility of the town.
The marquis might have been fifty then. He was cold by temperament, had
no other passion but that of study, and his morals were pure. He had
founded an academy of which he was the president. Its design was a fly,
in allusion to his name Mosca, with the words 'de me ce', that is to say,
take away 'c' from 'musca' and you have 'musa'.
His only failing was that which the monks regard as his finest quality,
he was religious to excess, and this excess of religion went beyond the
bounds where 'nequit consistere rectum'.
But which is the better, to go beyond these bounds, or not to come up to
them? I cannot venture to decide the question. Horace says,--
"Nulla est mihi religio!"
and it is the beginning of an ode in which he condemns philosophy for
estranging him from religion.
Excess of every kind is bad.
I left Pesaro delighted with the good company I had met, and only sorry I
had not seen the marquis's brother who was praised by everyone.