At noon, the kitchen smelled of boiled meat and stewed onions — the odor of a humble peace.
I had just taken my seat when Bettina's scream cut through the ceiling like a blade through parchment.
Chairs toppled.
The others rushed upstairs in confusion.
I stayed where I was. I chewed slowly, swallowed, and poured myself more broth.
After all, nothing I could do would quiet a devil or a conscience.
When I went down again that evening, Bettina's bed had been moved beside her mother's by the hearth.
She lay there pale and trembling, the blankets drawn up to her chin, her eyes closed in quiet agony.
I nodded to no one and ate in silence, unmoved by it all.
In the morning, another fit seized her; the family gathered around in tears.
I turned a page in my book and kept reading.
By dusk, the doctor and his father had returned. Cordiani found me first, cornered near the stairwell, his face drawn and guilty.
"What are you planning to do?" he stammered.
I opened my penknife and stepped forward.
He made a hasty retreat.
I had entirely abandoned the idea of relating the night's scandalous adventure to the doctor, for such a project I could only entertain in a moment of excitement and rage.
The following morning, while we studied, the doctor's mother entered, trembling with triumph.
"I know the cause of Bettina's torment," she announced. "It's witchcraft."
"Witchcraft," the doctor repeated with a frown.
"Our old servant cast the spell. I've proof of it."
He sighed. "And your proof?"
"I barred my door this morning with two broomsticks in the shape of Saint Andrew's cross. When she saw them, she turned white and went by the other door. Were she not a witch, she'd have touched them."
The doctor rubbed his temple. "Let us at least ask the accused."
The servant was fetched—flour still on her hands, confusion on her face.
"Why did you not enter my mother's room this morning?" Gozzi asked.
"Because she shut it," the woman said.
"Did you see the cross?"
"What cross?"
"She lies!" cried the old woman. "Where were you Thursday night? At your niece's, or at the Sabbath?"
"At my niece's, as I said."
"You were dancing with demons! You've bewitched my daughter!"
The servant, red with fury, spat straight into her mistress's face.
That was enough.
The broom was seized, the doctor's mother shrieked and swung.
Gozzi tried to restrain her, but she tore free, chasing the woman through the kitchen and down the stairs.
The servant howled loud enough to summon half of Padua.
At last, Gozzi caught her and calmed her with a few coins—an exchange that ended the exorcism neatly.
The scandal of the morning had hardly cooled before the doctor appeared in full vestments. His face was grave, his stole gleaming in the candlelight.
He took holy water in hand and began the exorcism, commanding the fiend to depart his sister's soul.
The rest of us stood about like statues—her mother in tears, the servant trembling, Cordiani pale as chalk.
I watched from the corner, fascinated. The novelty of this mystery attracted the whole of my attention.
All the inmates of the house appeared to me either mad or stupid, for I could not, for the life of me, imagine that diabolical spirits were dwelling in Bettina's body.
Bettina lay motionless, her chest quiet, her face as calm as a saint carved in marble.
The exorcisms did her no harm, nor any good.
Doctor Olivo arrived midway; his cloak dusted with snow. "Am I interrupting?" he asked.
"Not if you have faith," someone whispered.
He smiled faintly. "I have no faith in miracles except those in the Gospels." and withdrew without another word.
Soon after Doctor Gozzi went to his room, and finding myself alone with Bettina I bent down over her bed and whispered in her ear.
"Take courage, get well again, and rely upon my discretion."
She turned her head toward the wall and made no answer.
That evening passed without convulsions, and I flattered myself that my words had worked the miracle.
But before noon the frenzy returned, fiercer than before—her voice tumbling out strange fragments of Latin and Greek.
This, to the family, was proof beyond dispute.
Possession—final, indisputable possession.
Her mother went out and returned with a Capuchin friar—Friar Prospero da Bovolenta, the most famous exorcist in Padua and, to my eyes, the ugliest.
His beard was a thicket, his breath smelled of fasting and onions, and his eyes rolled heavenward as though he and God were on familiar terms.
And with this, the stage was set for the devil's next appearance.
The moment Bettina beheld the Capuchin friar, she burst into loud, manic laughter — a sound so bright and profane that it froze every soul in the room.
"Well, here comes the holy ignoramus," she cried, "and with him the perfume of sanctity! Stand back, for he smells like a stinkard."
The friar's eyes flashed.
Without a word, he raised his heavy crucifix and struck her leg, declaring that he was beating the devil.
"If it is the devil who has offended thee with his words," Bettina said, snatching up a chamber pot, "resent the insult with words likewise, jackass that thou art. But if I have offended thee myself, learn, stupid booby, that thou must respect me, and be off at once!"
Doctor Gozzi's face turned crimson.
The friar, however, remained unmoved, gripping his cross as if it were a sword. In a voice thick with anger, he began reading an exorcism that rattled the windows.
At its end, he thundered,
"Name thyself, spirit!"
"My name is Bettina."
"It cannot be — that is the name of a baptized girl."
"Then thou art of opinion," she replied coolly, "that a devil must rejoice in a masculine name? Learn, ignorant friar, that a devil is a spirit and does not belong to either sex. But as thou believest that one speaks through me, promise to answer me with truth, and I will yield before thy incantations."
"Very well, I agree to this," said the friar, visibly thrown off balance.
"Tell me, then," Bettina went on, "dost thou believe thy knowledge greater than mine?"
"No, but I believe myself more powerful in the name of the Holy Trinity and by my sacred character."
"If thou art more powerful than I," she mocked, "then prevent me from telling thee unpalatable truths. Thou art vain of thy beard — thou combest and dressest it ten times a day — and thou wouldst not shave half of it to get me out of this body. Cut off thy beard, and I promise to come out."
"Father of lies," he cried, trembling, "I will increase thy punishment a hundredfold."
"I dare thee to do it," she answered — and then broke into such wild laughter that even I could not refrain from joining her.
The Capuchin turned to Doctor Gozzi, pointing an accusing finger. "He is wanting in faith. Send him out."
I bowed slightly. "You have discerned rightly."
I was not yet out of the room when the friar offered his hand to Bettina for her to kiss, and I had the pleasure of seeing her spit upon it.
This strange girl, full of extraordinary talent, made rare sport of the friar, without causing any surprise to anyone, as all her answers were attributed to the devil.
I could not conceive what her purpose was in playing such a part.
At dinner, Friar Prospero joined us again, spreading through the kitchen a cloud of stale piety and garlic.
Between mouthfuls he spoke endlessly of miracles, relics, and demons that leapt from women's hearts like frogs from wells.
In short, a great deal of nonsense.
The others listened with long faces; I listened as one does to rain on the roof.
After the meal, he went to Bettina's room "to bless her."
The moment she saw him; she seized a glass of some black liquid sent by the apothecary and flung it with perfect aim.
The friar ducked—Cordiani did not.
The mixture splashed over his coat and face, and the sight of his horror restored all my faith in Providence.
Bettina had struck at random, yet the blow fell exactly where it ought.
Friar Prospero wiped his sleeve, muttering that the devil was cunning and that such outrage confirmed her possession.
He departed soon after, declaring that another exorcist must be called, since Heaven had not yet granted him sufficient grace to conquer this spirit.
Six hours later, Bettina came down to supper, pale but composed, the picture of meek recovery.
She told her mother she felt entirely well, asked her brother about his sermon, then turned to me with the light of mischief in her eye.
"Tomorrow is the ball," she said. "I shall come in the morning to dress your hair—like a girl's."
I bowed slightly. "After such a sickness, rest would suit you better."
She smiled and left the table without reply.
We stayed behind, murmuring about her recovery and avoiding each other's eyes.
That night, when I reached for my nightcap, I found it oddly stiff. Inside was a folded note, scarcely longer than a finger. It was a note from Bettina:
"You must accompany me to the ball, disguised as a girl, or I will give you a sight which will cause you to weep."
I waited until the doctor's snoring filled the room before lighting a candle and answering:
"I cannot go to the ball, because I have fully made up my mind to avoid every opportunity of being alone with you. As for the painful sight with which you threaten to entertain me, I believe you capable of keeping your word, but I entreat you to spare my heart, for I love you as if you were my sister. I have forgiven you, dear Bettina, and I wish to forget everything. I enclose a note which you must be delighted to have again in your possession. You see what risk you were running when you left it in your pocket. This restitution must convince you of my friendship."