Then and Now Page 5

  'Long may it last,' said Machiavelli pleasantly, 'and what will happen to you if the Duke's captains overthrow him and march into your city with their troops?'

  Bartolomeo burst into a bellow of laughter and slapped his thigh.

  'They amount to nothing. They know they're powerless without the Duke and they'll come to terms with him. Believe me, it will all blow over.'

  Machiavelli could not make up his mind whether Bartolomeo believed what he said, wanted to believe what he said, or was just saying what he wanted Machiavelli to believe. He had still not made up his mind whether the man was stupid or clever. That frankness, that enthusiasm, that guileless air and those smiling, friendly eyes might conceal anything. He changed the conversation.

  'You were good enough to say that you would be pleased to be of service to me. Can you tell me where I can find a place to live with Piero and my servants?'

  'I wish you had asked me anything but that,' Bartolomeo laughed boisterously. 'What with the Duke's court and all the hangers-on, poets, painters, architects, engineers, to say nothing of the people from his other possessions who are here on business, and the merchants, the vendors of this and that, who've been attracted by the opportunities to make money, there isn't a hole or comer in the city that isn't occupied.'

  'I wish to stay here no longer than I need, but I am at the orders of the Signory. I cannot conduct my business in a monastery cell. I must find accommodation for Piero and my servants.'

  'I will ask my mother-in-law. She knows more about a matter like this than I do. I will call her.'

  He left the room, and on his return after an interval invited his guests to follow him. He led them into a much larger apartment, with handsomely-painted walls and a fireplace. The ladies were seated at work by the fire. They rose when the strangers entered and curtsied in response to their low bows. One of them was a middle-aged woman of a comely presence.

  'This is my mother-in-law, Monna Caterina Cap-pello,' said Bartolomeo. 'And this is my wife.'

  She was young enough to be his daughter. Following the fashion of the day her hair, naturally dark, was dyed very fair; and since the swarthy skin of Italian women did not go with this, her face, neck and bosom were heavily coated with a white cosmetic. The contrast of the golden hair with her handsome black eyes was very effective. Her eyebrows were plucked to a thin line. She had a small straight nose and a lovely mouth. She was dressed in a pale grey, with a full skirt, billowing sleeves, and a bodice fitting her slim figure tightly and cut low in a square to show her snowy bosom and the outline of her young full breasts. There was a virginal quality in her beauty and at the same time a ripeness that made a highly attractive combination. Machiavelli, though his face gave no indication of it, felt a queer sensation in what he was pleased to call his heart.

  'A very pretty young woman,' he said to himself. 'I should like to go to bed with her.'

  While the two ladies brought up chairs for the visitors to sit on, Bartolomeo explained to Monna Caterina Machiavelli's difficulty and then, as an afterthought, added that in Piero he had found a cousin whom he had never seen. Both women gave the boy a smile when the relationship was explained to them, and Machiavelli noticed with pleasure that Bartolomeo's wife had good teeth, small, even and white.

  'Would these gentlemen not like some refreshment?' asked Monna Caterina.

  She was dressed very like her daughter, but in a darker colour, and since it was not thought proper for a respectable elderly woman to dye her hair or to paint her cheeks she was as nature made her; but she had her daughter's fine black eyes and in youth must have been as beautiful. Machiavelli said they had already breakfasted, but his host insisted that they should at least drink a glass of wine.

  'Aurelia, go and tell Nina,' he said to his wife.

  The young woman went out. He repeated to his mother-in-law what Machiavelli had told him about his requirements.

  'It's impossible. There's not a room to be let in the whole city. But wait. Since Messere is a person of consequence and this young man your cousin, it may be that Serafina would take them. She has always refused to take lodgers; only the other day I told her it was a shame to keep that room empty when people were willing to pay anything to have a roof over their heads.'

  Bartolomeo explained that Monna Serafina was the widow of one of his factors in the Levant and the house she lived in belonged to him. Her eldest son was in his office at Smyrna, and she had two children living with her, a boy who was to be a priest and a girl of fourteen. It was on their account, so that they might not be exposed to the danger of bad company, that she had refused to have strangers in her house.

  'She could hardly refuse you, my son, if you made a point of it.'

  It was odd to hear Monna Caterina address the fat man as her son, for she could not have been more than two or three years older than he.

  'I will take you round myself,' said Bartolomeo. 'I'm sure it can be arranged.'

  Aurelia came back and was immediately followed by a maid who brought a salver on which were glasses, a bottle of wine and a dish of sweetmeats. Aurelia sat down and resumed her work.

  'Messer Niccolo has brought you the linen, dear,' Bartolomeo said, 'so you can get to work on my shirts.'

  'God knows you needed some new ones,' said Monna Caterina.

  Aurelia smiled, but did not speak.

  'Let me show you how beautifully my wife embroiders.'

  Bartolomeo went over to Aurelia and took the material on which she was busy.

  'No, Bartolomeo, these are women's things.'

  'If Messer Niccolo has never seen a woman's shift it is high time he did.'

  'I am a married man, Monna Aurelia,' said Machia-velli with a smile that made his thin face not unattractive.

  'Look at the beauty of her needlework and the elegance of her design.'

  'Is it possible that she draws it herself?'

  'Of course. She is an artist.'

  Machiavelli made a suitable compliment and the garment was returned to her. She thanked him with a smile of her bright eyes. When they had eaten of the sweetmeats and drunk a glass of wine Bartolomeo proposed that he should take them round to the widow Serafina.

  'Her house is just behind this one,' he said.

  Machiavelli and Piero accompanied him downstairs, and through a small yard in which was a well with a carved well-head and a chestnut-tree, its leaves now scattered after the first frost of autumn, to a small door that led into a narrow alley.

  'Here we are,' said Bartolomeo.

  The deserted alley suggested to Machiavelli that visitors could in all likelihood come to see him without being observed. Bartolomeo knocked, and in a minute the door was opened by a thin, tallish woman with a lined face, darkly pale, sullen eyes and grey hair. The look of suspicion she wore changed, when she saw who it was that knocked, into one of effusive welcome. She begged them to enter.

  'This is Messer Niccolo Machiavelli, First Secretary of the Second Chancery, and envoy to the Duke from the Florentine Republic, and this youth is my cousin Piero, nephew of my good friend and relative, Biagio Buonaccorsi.'

  Monna Serafina led them into a parlour and Bartolo-meo set forth the purpose of their visit. Monna Serafi-na's face went glum.

  'Oh, Messer Bartolomeo, you know I've refused everybody. You see, with two young children in the house. And people one knows nothing about.'

  'I know, I know, Serafina, but here are people I vouch for. Piero is my cousin; he will be a good friend to your Luigi.'

  The discussion proceeded. Bartolomeo, in his bluff, hearty way, managed to convey to the unwilling woman that the house was his and if he wanted to he could turn her out, and that her elder son was in his employment and depended on his good will for advancement; but it was done in such a friendly, bantering manner as to excite Machiavelli's admiration. The man, simple though he looked, was no fool. Serafina was poor and she could not afford to offend Bartolomeo. With a grim smile she said that she would be happy to do him and his fr
iends a service. It was arranged that Machiavelli should have a room and the use of the parlour, Piero would double up with her son Luigi, and she would put down mattresses for the two servants in the attic. The sum she asked for rent was high, and Bartolomeo remarked on it, but Machiavelli thought it beneath his official dignity to haggle and said that he would be glad to pay it. He knew that nothing more predisposes someone in your favour than to let him rob you a little. There was of course no glass in the windows, but there were shutters to them and oiled paper screens which could be opened entirely or in part to let in air and light. There was a fireplace in the kitchen and the parlour could be warmed by a brazier. Serafina consented to give her own room to Machiavelli and move in with her daughter to a smaller room on the ground floor.

  9

  This having been settled Bartolomeo left them, and Machiavelli and Piero went back to the Golden Lion to have dinner. They were just finishing when the two servants arrived from Scaperia with the horses and the baggage. Machiavelli told Piero to show them the way to the monastery and fetch the saddle-bags which had been left there.

  'Take the bolt of linen to Messer Bartolomeo's and bid the maid take it up to the ladies. She wasn't a bad-looking wench; it might be worth your while to get into conversation with her. Then go back to Serafina's and wait till I come.'

  He paused for a moment.

  'She's a talkative woman and certainly a gossip. Go and sit with her in the kitchen. She'll be glad of company. Let her talk to you about her children, and talk to her about your mother. Then find out all you can about Bartolomeo, his wife and his mother-in-law. Serafina's under too great an obligation to him not to bear him a grudge; you have a frank, honest face, you're only a boy, if you can gain her confidence she'll pour out her soul to you. It will be good practice for you to learn how with kind words and pretty speeches you can get someone to betray the hatred that is in his heart.'

  'But, Messer Niccolo, why are you so certain that she hates him?'

  'I'm not certain at all. It may be that she's only a foolish, garrulous woman. The fact remains that she is poor and he is rich, and that she depends on his bounty; the burden of gratitude is very hard to bear. Believe me, it is easier to forgive the offences your enemy does you than the benefits your friend confers upon you.'

  He smiled acidly and went his way. He had an appointment with the Florentine agent to meet a fellow-citizen, Giacomo Farinelli by name, who had been exiled with the Medici, and who, being a clever accountant, had been engaged by the Duke. But he was anxious to get back to Florence and have his confiscated property restored to him, and so could be counted on to make himself useful. He confirmed what Bartolomeo had told Machiavelli in the morning. The Duke's new subjects were contented with his rule. The administration was severe, but competent. The people who had groaned under the tyranny of their petty princes enjoyed a freedom from oppression they had not known for a century. By conscription, taking one man from every house in his dominions, the Duke had created an army which was much more reliable than the hirelings of which in general armies consisted. The French men-at-arms and the Gascons might at any time be recalled by their king, the Swiss were always prepared to desert if another power made it worth their while, and the Germans ravaged every district they went through and were a terror to the population. The Duke's soldiers were proud of the red and yellow uniform into which he had put them; they were well paid, well drilled and well armed; and he had succeeded in inspiring them with loyalty.

  'And what of the Captains, Vitellozzo and the Orsini?' asked Machiavelli.

  There was no news of them. No one knew what they were doing.

  'What is the feeling at the Palace?'

  'You would say that nothing was the matter,' said Farinelli. 'The Duke is secret and keeps to his apartments. The secretaries give no sign that there is cause for anxiety. I have never seen Messer Agapito in a better humour.'

  Machiavelli frowned. He was puzzled. It was evident enough that something was brewing, but though the accountant was very willing to tell all he knew, at the end Machiavelli was obliged to admit that he was no wiser than before. He returned to his lodging, where Piero was waiting for him.

  'Did you deliver the linen?' he asked.

  'Yes. Messer Bartolomeo was at the Palace. The maid told me to wait while she took it up to the ladies, and when she came down said they wanted to thank me in person for bringing it. So I went up.'

  'Then you didn't make friends with the maid as I told you to.'

  'There was no opportunity.'

  'You might have pinched her or at least told her she was pretty. There was opportunity for that.'

  'The ladies were very nice to me. They gave me fruit and cake and wine. They asked me a lot of questions about you.'

  'What did they ask?'

  'They wanted to know how long you'd been married and whom you'd married and what Monna Marietta was like.'

  'And have you talked to Serafina?'

  'You were right about her, Messere. If you hadn't come in she'd be talking still. I thought she'd never stop.'

  'Tell me.'

  When Piero had finished Machiavelli gave him a genial smile.

  'You have done very well. I knew I was right, I knew that your youth would appeal to the ageing woman and your simple innocent look make it easy for her to confide in you.'

  Piero had found out a great deal. Bartolomeo was in high favour with the Duke. He was one of the first men in the city. He was honest, kindly, generous and devout. This was his third marriage. His first had been arranged by his parents, and his wife after eight years died of cholera. After a decent interval he married again, but eleven years later his second wife also died. Both had brought him handsome dowries, and both were childless. He had remained a widower for three years and then suddenly married Aurelia. She was a native of Sini-gaglia, a port on the Adriatic, and her father was owner and master of a coasting vessel that carried merchandise to the Dalmatian cities. He was lost with his ship in a storm, and his widow was reduced to poverty so that she had to earn her living as a sempstress. She had three daughters, a son having been drowned with his father, but two of them were married. Aurelia was sixteen when accident brought her to the notice of Bartolomeo. He was struck by her virginal beauty, but neither by birth nor fortune was she a proper match for a man of his consequence; but, young though she was, there was in her a ripeness that gave promise of fecundity, and that was a matter of moment to Bartolomeo, for there was nothing in the world he wanted more than a son. During the lifetime of his two wives he had kept likely young women of humble station, but none of these irregular amours had resulted in issue. The fact that Monna Caterina had had six children (two had died in infancy) showed that the stock was fruitful, and by discreet enquiries he discovered that Aurelia's older sisters had already had three or four babies each. They had in fact given birth once a year with the regularity which was proper to a healthy young person of the female sex. But Bartolomeo was cautious. He had married two barren women and did not want to marry a third. Through an intermediary he proposed to Monna Caterina that he should install her and her daughter on a handsome allowance in one of his villas outside Imola, with a promise that he would recognize any child that might be born. He went so far as to permit the intermediary to hint at the possibility of marriage if the child were male. But Monna Caterina whether owing to religious scruples or worldly wisdom refused the offer with indignation. Her dead husband, though no more the master of a small coasting vessel, had been an honourable man, and her two daughters were respectably, if not richly, married. Sooner than see her beloved child the kept woman of a merchant she would put her in a nunnery. Bartolomeo reviewed the marriageable young women in Imola and could think of none who attracted him so much as Aurelia or who seemed more likely to give him the son he yearned for. He was a business man and a sensible one. He knew that if you wanted something enough and could not get it at your own price there was only one thing to do and that was to give the price asked for i
t. With a good grace he made an offer of marriage. It was promptly accepted.

  Bartolomeo was not only a business man, but a shrewd one. Aurelia was twenty years younger than he, and he thought it advisable that she should have someone to keep an eye on her. He invited Monna Caterina to live with him and his bride.

  Serafina sniggered.

  'The old fool trusts her. But look at her; that isn't a woman who was faithful to her husband. You can tell at once. When her husband was at sea she wasn't so virtuous as all that.'

  'She evidently doesn't like Monna Caterina,' said Machiavelli. 'I wonder why. Perhaps she wanted to marry Bartolomeo herself and have him adopt her children. Perhaps merely envy. It may be of no importance, but it is just as well to know.'

  The marriage had been happy and Bartolomeo was delighted with his young wife. He gave her fine clothes and fine jewels. She was dutiful, respectful, submissive, in fact all that a wife should be, but though they had been married three years she had not had a baby and showed no sign of having one. It was the great cross of Bartolomeo's life, and now that he had a title to transmit he wanted a son more than ever.

  'Did Monna Serafina hint that the beautiful Aurelia might be unfaithful to her old husband?' Machiavelli asked with a smile.

  'No. She seldom goes out except to mass, and then only with her mother or the maid to accompany her. According to Monna Serafina she is very pious. She would look upon it as a mortal sin to deceive her husband.'

  Machiavelli pondered.

  'When you were talking to the ladies about me did you happen to mention that Monna Marietta was pregnant?'

  The boy flushed.

  'I thought there was no harm.'

  'None at all. I'm not sorry they know.'

  Machiavelli smiled significantly, but the significance of his smile escaped Piero. It has been said that Machiavelli had not married Marietta for love. He respected her, he appreciated her good qualities, and he approved of her devotion to him. She was a thrifty housekeeper, an important matter to one of his small means, and she never wasted a penny; she would be the mother of his children, and a good mother; there was every reason why he should regard her with indulgence and affection, but it had never entered his mind that he should be faithful to her. Aurelia's beauty had taken his breath away, but it was not only her beauty that had moved him, he could not remember any woman who had so immediately and so violently excited his senses. His very stomach ached with the vehemence of his desire.