Imprimatur (79 page)
From academic discussions, however, only one thing emerges with certainty: between the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Europe was mysteriously freed of its most ancient scourge, just as Kircher had promised to bring this about by applying his secrets.
The coincidences grew even thicker when I thought of the enigma of the "Barricades Mysterieuses", the
rondeau
which seems to be the casket enclosing the
secretum vitae,
just as Kircher's tarantella contains the antidote to the bite of the tarantula. But it was at this juncture that, may the Lord pardon me, I had the secret satisfaction of at last discovering a fatal historical error.
I needed only to leaf through any old musical dictionary to learn that the "Barricades Mysterieuses" was not the work of the scarcely known guitarist and composer Francesco Corbetta, as stated in the text of my two friends, but was written by Francois Couperin, the celebrated French composer and harpsichordist, who was born in 1668 and died in 1733. The
rondeau
is taken from the first book of his
Pieces de Clavecin,
it was, thus, written for the harpsichord, and not the guitar. Most importantly, it was first published only in 1713: thirty years after the events which are supposed to have taken place in the Locanda del Donzello. The anachronism committed by the two young writers was serious enough to deprive their work of any claim to authenticity, let alone verisimilitude.
Once I had discovered that grave and unexpected inconsistency, it seemed useless to confute the rest of that ingenious narrative. How could a text containing so serious an error possibly threaten the glorious memory of the Blessed Innocent XI?
For some time, in moments of ease at the day's end, I would skim lazily through the typescript, and my thoughts would go out more to the two writers of those pages than to the contents of the story. This disturbing tale, full of poisonous gossip concerning the Pope my countryman, seemed to me an open provocation, even a bad joke. In my soul, there prevailed that distaste and natural mistrust which, I must confess, I have always felt for journalists.
The years passed. By now, I had almost forgotten my two old friends, and with them the typescript which lay buried in an old chest. In an excess of prudence, I had, however, kept it well hidden from the prying eyes of strangers, who might have read it without being armed with the requisite counter-poisons.
I could not yet know how wise that precaution would prove to be.
***
Three years ago, when I was informed that His Holiness wished to reopen the process of canonisation of Pope Innocent XI, I could not so much as remember where that pile of faded yellow papers might be. Yet it was soon to knock again at my door.
It happened in Como, one damp November evening. Following the pressing insistence of some friends, I was present at a concert organised by an excellent musical association in my diocese. Towards the end of the first half, the nephew of an old companion from my student days played the piano. It had been a hard day and I had, until then, participated rather distractedly in the evening's proceedings. Suddenly, however, an insinuating and ineffable motif attracted me as no music ever had. It was a dance, baroque in style, but with dreaming accents and harmonies which undulated back and forth from Scarlatti to Debussy, from Franck back to Rameau. I have always been a lover of good music and am the proud possessor of a not inconsiderable record collection. If, however, I had been asked from which century those timeless notes came, I would not have known how to answer.
Only at the end of the piece did I open the programme, which I had forgotten on my knees, and read the title of the music: "Les Barricades Mysterieuses".
Once again, the apprentice-boy's account had not lied. That music had an incomparable power to enchant, to confound, unaccountably to fascinate the heart and the mind. After listening, the memory could not shake itself loose. I was not surprised that the young man should have been so perturbed by it, or that, years later, he still continued to turn that motif over in his memory. The mystery of the
secretum vitae
was wrapped within another mystery.
This was not in itself enough to enable me to say that all the rest was true, but it was too much for me to resist the temptation to continue to the bitter end.
The morning after, I acquired a costly complete recording of Couperin's many
Pieces de Clavecin.
After listening to it most attentively for days and days, the conclusion seemed evident: no music of Couperin's resembled the "Barricades Mysterieuses". I consulted dictionaries, I read monographs. The few critics who mentioned it all agreed that Couperin had composed nothing else like it. The dances from Couperin's
suites
almost all have a descriptive title: "Les Sentiments", "La Lugubre", "L’Ame-en-peine", "La Voluptueuse", and so on. There are also titles like "La Raphaele", "L’Angelique", "La Milordine" or "La Castellane": each alluded to some lady who was well-known at court and whom contemporaries would amuse themselves recognizing in the music. Only for the "Barricades Mysterieuses" did no explanation exist. A musicologist defined the piece as "truly mysterious".
It was as though it were someone else's work. But then, whose could it be? Full of bold dissonances, of languishing, distilled harmonies, the "Barricades" are too far removed from the sober style of Couperin. In an ingenious interplay of echoes, both anticipated and delayed, the four voices of the polyphony merge in the delicate clockwork of an arpeggio. This is the
style brise
, which the harpsichordists had copied from the lute players. And the lute is the closest relative of the guitar...
I began to admit the hypothesis that "Les Barricades Mysterieuses" might really have been written by Corbetta, as the apprentice-boy had said. But why then had Couperin published it under his own name? And how had it come into his hands?
According to the manuscript, the author of the
rondeau
was the obscure Italian musician Francesco Corbetta. It all seemed to be a pure invention: the idea had never entered any musicologist's mind. There was, however, an interesting precedent: even when Corbetta was still living, controversies broke out as to the authorship of some of his pieces. Corbetta himself accused one of his pupils of stealing some of his music and publishing it under his own name.
I was able to verify without the slightest difficulty that Corbetta really had been Devize's master and friend: it was therefore all the more likely that some scores must have passed from the one to the other. In those days, there was little printed music and musicians personally copied whatever was of interest to them.
When Corbetta died in 1681, Robert Devize (or de Visee, according to modern orthography) already enjoyed great fame as a virtuoso and teacher of the guitar, the lute, the theorbo and the large guitar. Louis XIV in person required him to play for him almost every evening. Devize frequented the foremost court salons. There he played in duo with other celebrated musicians, including, as it happens, the harpsichordist Francois Couperin.
So, Devize and Couperin did know one another and they played together; in all probability, they will have exchanged compliments, opinions, advice, perhaps even confidences. We know that Devize amused himself playing Couperin's music on the guitar (some of his transcriptions have come down to us). It is not improbable that Couperin will in turn have tried his friend's
suites
for guitar on the harpsichord. And it is inevitable that notebooks and scores should have passed from hand to hand. Perhaps, one evening, while Devize was distracted by the co-quettishness of some court ladies, Couperin may have taken that fine
rondeau
with the strange title from his friend's papers, thinking that he would return it the next time that they met.
Under the charm of that celestial music, and of the mystery that was taking form under my eyes, in a short time I again devoured the whole tale, minutely noting in a little exercise book all events and circumstances that would need verification. I knew that only thus could I clear my heart forever of the shadowy suspicion: was that strange story only a clever invention which, manipulating the truth, spread falsehood?
The fruit of the three years' work which followed is all in the pages which you are about to read. I would advise you that, in the event of your wishing to consult them, I have kept Photostat copies of all the documents and books cited.
One enigma above all caused me great anxiety, since it risked transforming the canonisation of the Blessed Innocent XI into a catastrophe. That was Dulcibeni's great secret, the origin of all his troubles and the real motive behind all his plotting: was Innocent XI really in cahoots with William of Orange?
Unfortunately, the apprentice mentions the question only in the final pages of his memoir, when Dulcibeni's enigma is dissolved. Nor had my two friends chosen to enrich the story with other relevant information, acting on their own initiative. Why on earth, I wondered with extreme disappointment, had two curious journalists like themselves failed to do so? Perhaps, I hopefully surmised, they had not succeeded in finding anything against the great Odescalchi.
My duty nevertheless required me to investigate and authoritatively to dispel all shadows and calumnies from the image of the Blessed Innocent. I therefore reread the revelations which the apprentice learned in the end from Pompeo Dulcibeni.
KINGDOM OF FRANCE |
According to the Jansenist, William's debt to the Pope was secured by the Prince of Orange's personal possessions. Where, then, were his possessions? I realised that I had no idea where William's personal fief was situated. Perhaps in Holland? I looked at an atlas, and when I at last located Orange, I could hardly contain my surprise.
|
The Principality of Orange was situated in the south of France, surrounded by the Legation of Avignon. The latter was in fact a state of the Church; since the Middle Ages, Avignon had been part of the Papal States. And, in its turn, the Legation of Avignon was surrounded by France! A bizarre situation: the Principality of Orange was surrounded by its Catholic enemy, encircled in turn by another enemy: Louis XIV the great adversary of Innocent XI.
So the search must be conducted in Avignon; or rather, among the documentation pertaining to Avignon. I therefore obtained a special pass to the Secret Archives of the Vatican and spent several weeks there. I already knew where I must search: in the diplomatic and administrative correspondence between Avignon and Rome. I sorted through piles of correspondence, hoping to find some mention of Orange, William, or loans of money. For days and days, I found nothing. I was about to give up when, in a package of letters completely devoid of any interest, I found three loose quarto notebooks. These dated back to the last months of 1689, a few months after the death of Innocent XI. The new Pope, Alexander VIII Ottoboni, had only just ascended to the papal throne. Alas, the three quarto notebooks seemed comprehensible only to initiates:
22 76 18 11 97 46 98 64 48 36
71 37 81 18 73 67 14 38 69
2610 48 46 31 22 14 76
39 0 71 48 76 98 13 48 76
39 37 71 44 22 41 67 14
0 22 34 13 83 78 89 5
77 44 0 64 0 39 93 14 11
48 97 84 34 48 11 76 0
2499 0 55 0 71 11 37 18 16
34 73 93 39 0 29 22 76 18
22 97 97 37 98 38 2575
5 36 14 34 0 76 13 84 18
79 69 2347 94 18 22 19 19
14 78 2316 97 48 94
36 34 37 14 18 71 71 73
18 22 97 46 39 37 46
88 48 71 19 34 37 76 16 37
18 0 98 46 18 13 13 48 39
93 0 34 94 20 97 14 77 76
36 14 38 69 2610 555
48 2336 0 55 64 0 16
37 71 73 39 0 16 44 48 16
39 14 19 14 18 81 0 34 31
22 18 16 73 34 48 79 71...
And so on, for twelve pages, with a total of twenty-four columns like that reproduced here. It was a letter in cipher, and at first I despaired of understanding anything.
