I naturally felt it my duty to call upon my mentor, Father Georgi, to whom I gave all my good news.
He said I was on the right road, and that my fortune was in my hands.
"Recollect," added the good father, "that to lead a blameless life you must curb your passions, and that whatever misfortune may befall you it cannot be ascribed by anyone to a want of good luck, or attributed to fate; those words are devoid of sense, and all the fault will rightly fall on your own head."
"I foresee, reverend father, that my youth and my want of experience will often make it necessary for me to disturb you. I am afraid of proving myself too heavy a charge for you, but you will find me docile and obedient."
"I suppose you will often think me rather too severe; but you are not likely to confide everything to me."
"Everything, without any exception."
"Allow me to feel somewhat doubtful; you have not told me where you spent four hours yesterday."
"Because I did not think it was worth mentioning. I made the acquaintance of those persons during my journey; I believe them to be worthy and respectable, and the right sort of people for me to visit, unless you should be of a different opinion."
"God forbid! It is a very respectable house, frequented by honest people. They are delighted at having made your acquaintance; you are much liked by everybody, and they hope to retain you as a friend; I have heard all about it this morning; but you must not go there too often and as a regular guest."
"Must I cease my visits at once, and without cause?"
"No, it would be a want of politeness on your part. You may go there once or twice every week, but do not be a constant visitor. You are sighing, my son?"
"No, I assure you not. I will obey you."
"I hope it may not be only a matter of obedience, and I trust your heart will not feel it a hardship, but, if necessary, your heart must be conquered. Recollect that the heart is the greatest enemy of reason."
"Yet they can be made to agree."
"We often imagine so; but distrust the animism of your dear Horace. You know that there is no middle course with it: 'nisi paret, imperat'."
"I know it, but in the family of which we were speaking there is no danger for my heart."
"I am glad of it, because in that case it will be all the easier for you to abstain from frequent visits. Remember that I shall trust you."
"And I, reverend father; will listen to and follow your good advice. I will visit Donna Cecilia only now and then."
I was deeply vexed, though I tried not to show it. I took his hand and bent to kiss it, but he gathered me into his arms like a father and turned away so that I should not see his tears.
I dined in the cardinal's palace and found myself seated near the Abbé Gama. The table was set for twelve, and every man there wore the habit of a priest.
In Rome, everyone is a priest or wishes to be thought a priest, and as there is no law to forbid anyone to dress like an ecclesiastic, that dress is adopted by all those who wish to be respected (noblemen excepted) even if they are not in the ecclesiastical profession.
I said little during the meal. My silence, to my surprise, was taken for depth.
When we rose from table, the Abbé Gama asked me to spend the day with him.
I declined on the pretext of letters to write, and for once the pretext was honest enough, for I remained at my desk for seven hours.
I wrote to Don Lelio, to Don Antonio, to my young friend Paul, and to the worthy Bishop of Martorano.
The bishop answered that he heartily wished himself in my place.
Deeply enamored of Lucrezia and happy in my love, to give her up appeared to me a shameful action.
In order to insure the happiness of my future life, I was beginning to be the executioner of my present felicity, and the tormentor of my heart.
I revolted against such a necessity which I judged fictitious, and which I could not admit unless I stood guilty of vileness before the tribunal of my own reason.
I thought that Father Georgi, if he wished to forbid my visiting that family, ought not to have said that it was worthy of respect; my sorrow would not have been so intense.
The day and the whole of the night were spent in painful thoughts.
In the morning Abbé Gama brought me a great book of ministerial letters to copy for my amusement. I set to work for a little while, then went out for my first lesson in French.
After that I turned toward the Strada Condotta, meaning to take a long walk and clear my head. I had not gone far when I heard my name called.
There was Abbé Gama before a coffee house.
I told him in a low voice that Minerva had forbidden me the coffee rooms of Rome.
"Minerva," he answered, "desires you to form some idea of such places. Sit down by me."
I obeyed and sat beside him.
A young abbé, speaking loud enough for the whole room, related with perfect cheerfulness a story that struck straight at the justice of His Holiness.
The company laughed and called for more.
Another, when asked why he had left the service of Cardinal B., replied that his eminence did not think himself bound to pay separately for certain private services.
The laughter rose again, louder this time.
A third came up to Abbé Gama and told him that if he had any mind to spend the afternoon at the Villa Medici, he would find him there with two young Roman girls content with a quartino, a gold coin worth a quarter of a sequin.
Another abbé read aloud an incendiary sonnet against the government, and several asked to copy it. Another read a satire of his own composition, in which he tore to pieces the honour of a respectable family.
While this was going on, a priest of pleasing face entered the room. His hips were so broad that for an instant I took him for a woman in men's clothes, and I said as much to Gama.
He laughed and told me I had mistaken the famous castrato Bepino della Mamana.
He called the fellow over and, still laughing, told him what I had said.
The impudent creature looked me full in the face and answered that, if I wished, he would soon show me whether I had been right or wrong.
At dinner everyone spoke to me, and I fancied I had given proper answers to all. When the meal was over, however, Abbé Gama invited me to take coffee in his own apartment.
As soon as we were alone, he told me that all the guests I had met were worthy and honest men, and he asked whether I believed I had pleased the company.
"I flatter myself I have," I said.
"You are wrong," said the abbe, "you are flattering yourself. You have so conspicuously avoided the questions put to you that everybody in the room noticed your extreme reserve. In the future no one will ask you any questions."
"I should be sorry if it should turn out so," I answered, "but was I to expose my own concerns?"
"No, but there is a medium in all things."
"Yes," I said, "the medium of Horace, but it is often a matter of great difficulty to hit it exactly."
"A man ought to know how to obtain affection and esteem at the same time."
"That is the very wish nearest to my heart."
"Today," said he, "you have tried for the esteem much more than for the affection of your fellow-creatures. It may be a noble aspiration, but you must prepare yourself to fight jealousy and her daughter, calumny; if those two monsters do not succeed in destroying you, the victory must be yours. Now, for instance, you thoroughly refuted Salicetti to-day. Well, he is a physician, and what is more a Corsican; he must feel badly towards you."
"Could I grant that the longings of women during their pregnancy have no influence whatever on the skin of the foetus, when I know the reverse to be the case? Are you not of my opinion?"
He looked at me steadily.
"I am for neither party;" he said, "I have seen many children with some such marks, but I have no means of knowing with certainty whether those marks have their origin in some longing experienced by the mother while she was pregnant."
"But I can swear it is so." I said.
"All the better for you if your conviction is based upon such evidence," he replied. "and all the worse for Salicetti if he denies the possibility of the thing without certain authority. But let him remain in error; it is better thus than to prove him in the wrong and to make a bitter enemy of him."
In the evening I went to see Lucrezia. The family had heard of my success and received me with warm congratulations.
Lucrezia looked at me and said I seemed sad.
"I am attending the funeral of my liberty," I replied, "for I am no longer my own master."
Her husband, who never lost an occasion for mirth, told her that I was in love with her.
His mother-in-law advised him not to show so much intrepidity.
I only remained an hour with those charming persons, and then took leave of them, but the very air around me was heated by the flame within my breast.
The night found me at my desk.
I wrote an ode and sent it the next day to the advocate, certain he would show it to his wife, who loved poetry and did not yet know that I was a poet.
I abstained from seeing her again for three or four days. I was learning French, and making extracts from ministerial letters.