Sonata de primavera: memorias del marqués de Bradomín

The narrator, a self‑styled marquis, opens his memoirs with a lyrical sonnet and a candid confession of his own contradictions—ugly, Catholic, sentimental. He sets off from Rome on a creaking post‑coach, crossing a moonlit countryside of vineyards, ancient aqueducts, and olive groves that rise like gentle hills. The journey is painted in sensory detail: the clatter of mule‑bells, the scent of cypress shadows, the distant rush of a waking stream. By dawn he finds himself before the mist‑clad walls of Liguria, a city that feels both noble and haunted.

Entering through the Porta Lorencina, the marquis is led to the venerable College of Clementine, where scholars in solemn robes chant morning masses and the air hums with the rustle of cloistered life. He encounters grieving custodians who speak of a dying rector and a recent tragedy that has shaken the community. Through these encounters, the memoir hints at the delicate balance between power, piety, and personal ambition that will shape the marquis’s reflections.