She expressed her, wonder that this poem abounding in obscenities had not been put on the “Index” at Rome.
“What you call obscenity is mere license, and there is plenty of that at Rome.”
“That’s a joke which should bring the censures of the Church upon you. But what do you call obscenities, if Ariosto is not obscene?”
“Obscenity disgusts, and never gives pleasure.”
“Your logic is all your own, but situated as I am I cannot reargue your proposition. I am amused at Ariosto’s choosing a Spanish woman above all others to conceive that strange passion for Bradamante.”
“The heat of the Spanish climate made him conclude that the Spanish temperament was also ardent, and consequently whimsical in its tastes.”
“Poets are a kind of madmen who allow themselves to give utterance to all their fancies.”
The reading was continued, and I thought my time had come when she read the verses:
Io senza scale in su la rooca salto,
E to stendardo piantovi di botto,
E la nemica mia mi caccio sotto**
**I scaled the rock without a ladder, I planted my standard suddenly, and held my enemy beneath me.