I began by delivering Don Lelio's letter to Father Georgi.
The good father enjoyed a rare privilege in Rome, he was respected by everyone and valued by the Pope, precisely because he did not fawn on the Jesuits.
He disliked them openly, and had the habit of tearing at their mask without putting one on himself, which made them hate him even more than they pretended to despise him.
He read the letter slowly, line after line, his brow contracting now and then in thoughtful approval.
When he had finished, he folded the letter and looked at me for a while before saying anything.
That silence was my first Roman lesson.
In Venice, a man often judges you while talking. In Rome, he judges you first and speaks afterward.
"I am willing to be your adviser," he said at last. "So if anything unfortunate happens to you in Rome, you may lay part of the blame on me. A man who behaves rightly has little to fear, provided he lets himself be guided."
He asked what plans had brought me to Rome.
I answered, "I have come to ask you what I ought to do."
"Perhaps I may," he replied, "but in that case you must come and see me often, and never conceal from me anything, you understand, not anything, of what interests you, or of what happens to you."
I assured him that I would obey.
"Don Lelio has likewise given me a letter for the Cardinal Acquaviva." I added.
He smiled.
"I congratulate you; the cardinal's influence in Rome is greater even than that of the Pope."
"Must I deliver the letter at once?"
"No; I will see him this evening, and prepare him for your visit. Call on me to-morrow morning, and I will then tell you where and when you are to deliver your letter to the cardinal. Have you any money?"
"Enough for all my wants during one year."
"That is well. Have you any acquaintances?"
"Not one."
"Do not make any without first consulting me, and, above all, avoid coffee-houses and ordinaries, but if you should happen to frequent such places, listen and never speak. Be careful to form your judgment upon those who ask any questions from you, and if common civility obliges you to give an answer, give only an evasive one, if any other is likely to commit you."
This advice struck me as severe. I had arrived in Rome with youth, curiosity, a new coat, and a tongue which had more than once served me better than money.
Father Georgi seemed to ask me to lock up the very instrument by which I hoped to shine.
"Do you speak French?" he asked.
"Not a word."
He shook his head.
"I am sorry for that; you must learn French. Have you been a student?"
"A poor one, but I have a sufficient smattering to converse with ordinary company."
"That is enough; but be very prudent, for Rome is the city in which smatterers unmask each other, and are always at war amongst themselves."
I nodded.
He looked at my dress for a few seconds then said, "I hope you will take your letter to the cardinal, dressed like a modest abbe, and not in this elegant costume which is not likely to conjure fortune. Adieu, let me see you to-morrow."
Pleased with Father Georgi's welcome and still hearing his cautions in my ears, I walked straight to Campo de' Fiori to deliver my cousin Antonio's letter to Don Gaspar Vivaldi.
He received me in a library lined from floor to ceiling with books. Two grave-looking priests were seated near the window.
Vivaldi broke the seal, read Antonio's letter, and turned to me with a warmth that dispelled at once the stiffness of ceremony.
He asked for my address, fixed me with a friendly look, and invited me to dine with him the next day.
He spoke of Father Georgi with evident respect, and when I rose to leave, he accompanied me to the staircase.
"Come to-morrow," he said. "I will then give you what Don Antonio has desired me to place in your hands."
More money which my generous cousin was bestowing on me!
It is easy enough to give away when one possesses sufficient means to do it, but it is not every man who knows how to give.
I found the proceeding of Don Antonio more delicate even than generous; I could not refuse his present; it was my duty to prove my gratitude by accepting it.
Hardly had I left Vivaldi's house when I found myself face to face with Brother Stephano.
He flung himself upon me with embraces and noisy affection. I felt no love for the man; yet I could not hate him.
In spite of his follies and vices, he had, more than once, appeared at the very moment when I had most needed help.
I looked upon him as the instrument which Providence employed in order to save me from ruin.
He told me, with a triumphant air, that he had obtained from the Pope all he had desired.
Then, lowering his voice, he warned me to avoid the constable of Seraval, who had lent me two sequins.
The man, he said, had discovered that I had deceived him and had sworn vengeance.
I did not lose my composure.
I asked Stephano to persuade the constable to deposit my written acknowledgment of the debt with a merchant we both knew. I would call there and settle the account myself.
The arrangement was made.
I paid what I owed, recovered my paper, and the matter ended without further noise.
That evening I went to dine at the ordinary, a table shared by Romans and foreigners. I kept Father Georgi's warning in mind and let my ears work more than my tongue.
The conversation astonished me.
People tore into the Pope and the Cardinal Minister in the coarsest terms, blaming them for letting eighty thousand soldiers, Germans and Spaniards alike, pour over the Papal States.
I was even more surprised when I saw everyone calmly eating meat, although it was Saturday.
Yet a newcomer in Rome meets many such shocks. They lose their sharpness quickly.
There is no Catholic city in which a man enjoys such wide liberty in matters of religion as in Rome.
The Romans remind me of the workers in the government tobacco factory, who may take as much tobacco as they like for their own use.
Here a man may think almost as he pleases.
Only the ordini santissimi are feared, like those terrible lettres de cachet of France.
The next morning, the first of October 1743, I decided it was time to be shaved. The soft down on my chin had turned into a real beard.
I felt it was fitting to surrender at least one privilege of youth.
I put on a complete Roman outfit, cut for me by the tailor of my dear cousin Don Antonio.
When Father Georgi saw me in that sober dress, he expressed both approval and satisfaction.
He offered me a cup of chocolate and told me that the cardinal had already been informed of my arrival by a letter from Don Lelio.
His eminence would receive me at noon, he said, at the Villa Negroni, where he would be taking his walk.
I mentioned that I was to dine that day with Signor Vivaldi. Father Georgi encouraged me to cultivate his friendship.
I went to the Villa Negroni at the hour appointed.
The cardinal was walking in the garden with two gentlemen at his side.
The instant he noticed me, he stopped.
With a slight motion of his hand he allowed his companions to pass on, and remained where he was to receive me.
I presented my letter. He slipped it into his pocket without unfolding it.
Then he looked at me. Not a glance, but a measured inspection that lasted a full minute.
"Have you any taste for politics?" he asked at last.
"Until now," I replied, "I had not felt in me any but frivolous tastes, but I would make bold to answer for my readiness to execute all the orders which your eminence might be pleased to lay upon me, if you should judge me worthy of entering your service."
He watched me a moment longer.
"Come to my office to-morrow morning," said the cardinal, "and ask for the Abbe Gama, to whom I will give my instructions. You must apply yourself diligently to the study of the French language; it is indispensable."
He then enquired after Don Leilo's health, and after kissing his hand I took my leave.
From there I went straight to Signor Gaspar Vivaldi's house. The company at dinner was select and agreeable.
Vivaldi was unmarried, and literature was the ruling passion of his life. He preferred Latin verse to Italian, and Horace, whom I knew by heart, was his idol.
After dinner we withdrew to his study. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling.
He opened a drawer, counted out one hundred Roman crowns, and placed them in my hand, adding Don Antonio's gift.
"You would be most welcome whenever you would call to take a cup of chocolate with me," he said.
The crowns felt heavy in my pocket.
Rome had begun.
Leaving Don Gaspar, I walked straight toward the Minerva, my head full of Lucrezia's eyes and the little scene I hoped to cause.
I asked for Donna Cecilia Monti.
Instead of the matron I had imagined, a young widow entered the room, fresh and graceful enough to pass for the elder sister of her two daughters.
She needed no introduction. The servant had already spoken my name, and she expected me.
Her daughters came in a moment later. The look they exchanged when they saw me almost made me laugh.
In their faces I read the same thought. This was not quite the dusty, travel stained abbe who had shared their coach.
Lucrezia, a little more composed than her sister, introduced me to her youngest sister, a tiny brunette of eleven and then to her brother, an abbe of fifteen, of charming appearance.
I took care to behave so as to please the mother; I was modest, respectful, and showed a deep interest in everything I saw.
The advocate arrived and stopped short in the doorway.
He stared at my shaved chin, at my neat Roman coat, then burst out with his usual volley of jests, inviting everyone to admire the miracle.
I answered him in kind, but I kept rein on my tongue to not give to my conversation the tone of levity which used to cause so much mirth in our travelling coach
At last he clapped his hands together.
"Well, reverend sir, if you have shaved away the sign of manhood from your face, you have certainly transferred it to your mind."
The compliment raised a laugh.
I could feel Lucrezia's eyes on me.
She smiled, yet there was a question in that smile.
She did not know what to think of the change in my manners.
Towards evening the drawing room began to fill. One after another five or six ladies arrived, all neatly dressed and perfectly ordinary, followed by as many little abbes with powdered hair and smooth, inquisitive faces.
They all listened attentively to the most insignificant word I uttered, and I was very careful to let them enjoy their conjectures about me.
Donna Cecilia told the advocate he was a poor painter, since his portrait of me did not resemble the original at all.
He replied that her judgment could not count, because the original was now walking about under a mask.
I drew my features into a mortified expression, which made the circle laugh.
Donna Lucrezia said that she found me exactly the same.
Her sister stated that the air of Rome gave strangers a peculiar appearance.
The remark had success.
Everyone applauded, and Angela turned crimson with satisfaction.
After four pleasant hours I rose, paid my compliments round the room, and took my leave.
The advocate followed me to the stairs.
His mother in law, he said, begged me to consider the house as my own and to be sure of a welcome whenever I chose to appear.
I thanked him from my heart, convinced that I had pleased this little Roman circle as much as it had pleased me.
The next morning, I went to present myself to the Abbe Gama.
He was a Portuguese of about forty, handsome, and with a face where good humour, sense, and wit seemed to live together in peace.
His easy manner invited confidence at once, and his Italian, though slightly coloured by his origin, had the round, flowing accent of Rome.
He informed me, in the blandest manner, that his eminence had already given orders about me to the major domo.
I was to lodge in the cardinal's palace, take my meals at the secretaries' table, and until I knew French well enough for more delicate work, I would simply make extracts from letters that he would place in my hands.
He added the name and address of the French master he had chosen for me, a Roman advocate called Dalacqua, who lived exactly opposite the palace.
After these few clear instructions, and a promise that I might always rely on his friendship, he took me to the major domo.
That official opened a huge register and made me sign at the bottom of a crowded page, then counted out sixty Roman crowns, three months of salary paid in advance.
He himself conducted me, followed by a liveried lackey, to my room on the third floor.
I found a neat bed, a decent table, two chairs, and everything in good order.
The servant handed me my key, said he would come every morning to wait on me, and left me to the major domo, who went down again with me to present me to the porter at the gate.
From there I hurried to my inn, sent my trunk to the palace, paid my bill, and returned to take possession of my new quarters.
There I was, installed under the roof of a great cardinal, with money in my pocket and a clear road before me.
A wise and steady head would have seen in that day the first step toward a brilliant fortune if I had only been able to lead a wise and prudent life, but unfortunately it was not in my nature.
'Volentem ducit, nolentem trahit.'
'Fate leads the willing and drags the unwilling.'