Imprimatur by Rita Monaldi, Francesco Sorti Read Free Book Online Page B

pronounced it.
    "Today, his name means nothing. But then, all accorded him the honours which were his due: for he was a great—indeed, a very great—man. He wished me to play the hero of the Orfeo, the most splendid opera ever to be performed at the French court. It was a memorable success. I was but one and twenty years old then. And, after two months of continuous performances, I had barely the time to return to Florence before Mazarin begged the Grand Duke to send me back to France, so much did the Queen miss my voice. Thus it was that, after returning with Seigneur Luigi, we found ourselves caught up in the turmoil of the Fronde and were forced to flee Paris, together with the Queen, the Cardinal and the little King."
    "So you knew the Most Christian King as a child!"
    "Very well, even. During those terrible months of exile at the Cha­teau de Saint-Germain, he never left his mother's side, and would listen to me sing in silence, rapt silence. Often, in empty moments, I would try to distract him, inventing games for him; thus His Majesty recovered his smile."
    I was for a while both galvanised and stunned by my double dis­covery. Not only had this bizarre guest a glorious past as a musician; he had been an intimate of the royal highnesses of France! And, what was more, he was one of those singular prodigies of nature who united with a man's form vocal gifts and a quality of soul that were utterly feminine. I had almost at once noticed that unusual timbre in his voice. But I had not dwelt sufficiently on other details, thinking that here might be a simple sodomite.
    I had, however, chanced upon a castrato. I knew, in truth, that in order to conquer their extraordinary vocal powers, emasculated singers had to undergo a painful and irreversible operation. 1 knew the sad tale of the pious Origen, who had voluntarily parted with his masculine attributes in order to achieve supreme spiritual virtue, and I had heard that Christian doctrine had from the very beginning condemned castration. But fortune would have it that right here in Rome the services of castrati were highly valued and sought after. Everyone knew that the Vatican Chapel was accustomed to employ castrati on a regular basis, and I had sometimes heard the older in­habitants of my quarter comment jestingly on a snatch of song from a washerwoman with the words: "You sing like Rosini," or, "You are bet­ter than Folignato." They were alluding to the castrati who, decades before, had entranced the ears of Pope Clement VIII. Even more often, one heard mention of Loreto Vittori, whose voice had, I knew, the power to bewitch all who heard it. So much so that Pope Urban VIII had appointed him a Knight of the Militia of Christ. Little did it matter that, on several occasions, the Holy See had threatened with excommunication those who practised emasculation. And even less did it matter that the feminine charms of the castrati should perturb spectators. From the chatter and jokes of my contemporaries, I had learned that one need walk only a few dozen paces from the hostelry to find the shop of a complaisant barber who was ever ready to per­form the horrendous mutilation, so long as the reward was adequate and the secret well guarded.
    "Why wonder?" said Melani, calling me back from my silent re­flections. "One should not be surprised that a Queen should pre­fer my voice to that—may God forgive me—of a mere canterina. In Paris, I was often accompanied by an Italian singer, a certain Leonora Baroni, who did try so very hard. Today, no one remembers her. Mark my words, young man: if women are not today permitted to sing in public, as Saint Paul so rightly willed it, that is certainly not a matter of chance."
    He raised his glass as though for a toast, and solemnly recited:
     
    Toi qui sais mieux que aucun le succes que jadis
    les pieces de musique eurent dedans Paris,
    que dis-tu de Pardeur dont la cour echaujfee
    frondoit en ce temps-la les grands concerts