Behind that soothing and alluring face, those sweet and honeyed words, that kind and most affable manner, the Jesuit who responds worthily to the discipline of the order and the instructions of his superiors has a heart of iron, impenetrable to higher feelings and nobler sentiments. He firmly puts into practice Machiavelli’s precept that where the well-being of the state is in question, no consideration should be given to right or wrong, to compassion or cruelty.
And for this reason they are taught as young seminarians not to cultivate family affections, not to have friends, but to be ready to reveal to their superiors every slightest shortcoming in even their closest companion, to control every impulse of the heart and to offer absolute obedience, perinde ac cadaver. Gioberti said that whereas the Indian Phansigars, or stranglers, sacrifice the bodies of their enemies to their deity, killing them with a garrotte or a knife, the Jesuits of Italy kill the soul with their tongues, like reptiles, or with their pens.
«I have always been amused,» my father concluded, «that Gioberti took some of these ideas secondhand from The Wandering Jew, a novel by Eugène Sue, published the year before.»
My father. The black sheep of the family. My grandfather said he was mixed up with the Carbonari, but when I mentioned this to my father, he told me quietly not to listen to such ramblings. He avoided talking to me about his own ideals, perhaps out of shame, or respect for his father’s views, or reticence toward me. But it was enough for me to overhear my grandfather in conversation with his Jesuit fathers, or to catch the gossip between Mamma Teresa and the caretaker, to realize my father was among those who not only approved of the Revolution and of Napoleon, but talked about an Italy that would shake off the power of the Austrian empire, the Bourbons and the pope, to become a nation (a word never to be uttered in my grandfather’s presence).
I got my basic education from Father Pertuso, who had a face like a weasel. Father Pertuso was the first to instruct me in the history of our present times (while my grandfather taught me about the past).
Later, the first rumors began to circulate about the activities of the Carbonari—I found news about them in the journals that arrived addressed to my absent father, seizing them before my grandfather could have them destroyed. And I remember having to follow the Latin and German lessons given by Father Bergamaschi, who was such a close friend of my grandfather that a small room in the house was reserved for him, not far from my own. Father Bergamaschi…Unlike Father Pertuso, he was a fine-looking young man with curly hair, a well-proportioned face and a charming manner of speech, and, at home at least, he wore his neat cassock with dignity. I remember his white hands with tapered fingers, and nails rather longer than might have been expected for a churchman.
Often, when he saw me bent over my studies, he would sit behind me, stroking my head, and warn me of the many dangers that threatened an unwary young man, and tell me how the Carbonari were no more than a cover for that greater scourge, communism.
«The communists,» he said, «seemed to pose no danger until recently, but now, after the manifesto of that Marsch (or so he seemed to pronounce it), we must expose their conspiracies. You know nothing about Babette of Interlaken, worthy great-niece of Weishaupt, she who was called the Great Virgin of Swiss Communism.»
Who knows why Father Bergamaschi seemed more obsessed by religious conflicts between Catholics and Protestants in Switzerland than by the insurrections in Milan or Vienna that were so much discussed at that time.
«Babette was born into crime and led a life of debauchery, thieving, kidnapping and bloodshed. She did not know God, apart from being heard continually cursing him. In the skirmishes below Lucerne, when the radicals had killed various Catholics in the oldest cantons, it was Babette whom they got to tear out their victims’ hearts and eyes. Babette, her blond hair blowing in the wind, like the Whore of Babylon, concealed beneath her mantle of charms the fact that she was the herald of secret societies, the demon who orchestrated all the tricks and intrigues of those mysterious confraternities.
Babette appeared and disappeared in a flash like a hobgoblin, knew unfathomable secrets, intercepted diplomatic messages without interfering with their seals, slithered like an asp around the most private government chambers in Vienna, Berlin and St. Petersburg, forged checks and altered the details on passports. As a child she had learned the art of poisoning, and knew how to practice it as the sect demanded. She seemed possessed by Satan, such was her restless energy and the allure of her gaze.»
I was startled, I tried not to listen, but at night I dreamt of Babette of Interlaken. Half asleep, I wanted to block out the picture of that blond demon whose hair flowed down her shoulders, surely naked, that demonic, fragrant hobgoblin, her breasts heaving rapturously with godless, sinful pride. Yet I dreamt of her as a model to imitate—or rather, filled with horror at the mere thought of brushing her with my fingers. I longed to be like her, a secret and all-powerful agent who forged passports and led victims of the other sex to perdition.
I was startled, I tried not to listen, but at night I dreamt of Babette of Interlaken.
My teachers liked to eat well, and this vice must also have remained with me into adulthood. I remember mealtimes, somber rather than lively gatherings where the good fathers would discuss the excellence of a bollito misto, prepared as my grandfather had instructed.
It required at least half a kilo of shin of beef, an oxtail, a piece of rump, a small salami, a calf’s tongue and head, cotechino sausage, a boiling fowl, an onion, two carrots, two sticks of celery and a handful of parsley. All left to cook for various lengths of time, depending on the type of meat. But, as my grandfather insisted and Father Bergamaschi confirmed with emphatic nods of the head, once the boiled meat had been arranged on a serving dish, you had to sprinkle a few pinches of coarse salt and pour several spoonfuls of boiling broth over the meat to bring out the flavor.
Not many vegetables except for a few potatoes, but plenty of condiments—mostarda d’uva, mostarda alla senape di frutta, horseradish sauce, but above all (on this my grandfather was firm) bagnetto verde: a handful of parsley, a few anchovy fillets, fresh breadcrumbs, a teaspoon of capers, a clove of garlic and the yolk of a hard-boiled egg, all finely chopped, with olive oil and vinegar.
These were, I remember, the pleasures of my childhood and adolescence. What more could I want?
A sultry afternoon. I am studying. Father Bergamaschi is sitting quietly behind me. His hand clasps the back of my neck and he whispers to me—to a boy so devout, so well disposed, who wishes to avoid the enticements of the opposite sex, he could offer not only paternal friendship but the warmth and affection that a mature man can give.
From then on, I’ve never let a priest touch me again. Am I perhaps dressing up as Abbé Dalla Piccola so I can go touching others?
When I reached eighteen, my grandfather, who wanted me to be a lawyer (in Piedmont, anyone who has studied law is called a lawyer), resigned himself to letting me out of the house and sending me to university. This was my first chance to mix with boys my own age, but it was too late, and I felt uneasy around them. I failed to understand their stifled laughs and meaningful looks when they talked about women and passed around French books with repulsive engravings. I preferred to keep my own company, reading. My father received Le Constitutionnel on subscription from Paris, in which Sue’s The Wandering Jew was serialized, and of course I read each installment avidly.
It was here that I learned how the infamous Society of Jesus had managed to plot the most abominable crimes to seize an inheritance, trampling on the rights of poor, good people. As well as confirming my suspicions about the Jesuits, this experience initiated me into the delights of the feuilleton. In the attic I found a case of books that my father had evidently kept out of my grandfather’s sight, and (seeking likewise to conceal this solitary vice from my grandfather) I spent whole afternoons until my eyes were worn out on The Mysteries of Paris, The Three Musketeers, The Count of Monte Cristo…
It was now that marvelous year of 1848. Every student was delighted with the accession to the papacy of Cardinal Mastai Ferretti—Pius IX—who had granted an amnesty for political crimes two years earlier. The year had begun with the first protests in Milan against the Austrians, where citizens had stopped smoking to damage the revenues of the imperial government. (Those Milanese comrades, who stood firm when soldiers and police provoked them by blowing
