Then and Now Page 9

  'You should make quite an impression on the little maid, Piero,' he smiled. 'What did you say her name was? Nina?'

  'Why do you wish me to go to bed with her?' asked Piero, smiling.

  'I like to think that you will not have entirely wasted your time on this trip. And besides, it may be useful to me.'

  'How?'

  'Because I wish to go to bed with her mistress.'

  'You?'

  There was so much surprise in Piero's tone that Machiavelli flushed angrily.

  'And why not, if you please?'

  Piero saw that his master was put out and hesitated.

  'You're married and – well, as old as my uncle.'

  'You speak like a fool. A woman of sense will always prefer a man in the flower of his age to an inexperienced boy.'

  'It never entered my head that she meant anything to you. Do you love her?'

  'Love? I loved my mother, I esteem my wife and I shall love my children; but I want to go to bed with Aurelia. There is much you still have to learn, my poor boy. Take the lute and let us go.'

  But though Machiavelli was quick-tempered he could not be angry long. He patted Piero's smooth cheek.

  'It is very hard to keep secrets from a maid,' he smiled. 'You would be doing me a service if you shut her mouth with kisses.'

  They had only to step across the narrow lane, and on knocking were let in by the serving man. Monna Cater-ina was handsomely gowned in black, but Aurelia wore a rich dress of Venetian brocade; its opulent colours enhanced the whiteness of her breast and the brilliant fairness of her hair. It was with a little sigh of relief that Machiavelli decided she was more beautiful even than he had imagined. She was very, very desirable and it was absurd that she should have for a husband that gross, self-satisfied man who would certainly never see forty again.

  After the usual compliments they sat down to wait for supper. The ladies had been working when Machiavelli and Piero came in.

  'You see, they've already got busy on the linen you brought me from Florence,' said Bartolomeo.

  'You are pleased with it, Monna Aurelia?' asked Machiavelli.

  'It's impossible to get material of this quality in Imola,' she said.

  She looked at him as she spoke and her great dark eyes resting on him for a moment made his heart beat.

  'I'm going to have that woman if I die for it,' he said to himself; but of course he didn't quite mean that; what he meant was that he had never met a harlot with whom he more urgently wanted to go to bed.

  'We do the rough work, Nina and I,' said Monna Cater-ina. 'We measure and cut and sew and my daughter does the embroidery. When it comes to that my fingers are all thumbs and poor Nina's no better than I am.'

  'Monna Aurelia never makes two alike,' said Bartolomeo proudly. 'Show Messer Niccolo the design for the shirt you're working on now.'

  'Oh, I should be ashamed,' she said prettily.

  'Nonsense. I'll show him myself.'

  He brought over a sheet of paper.

  'Do you see how cleverly she's introduced my initials?'

  'It is a masterpiece of elegance and ingenuity,' said Machiavelli with a very good imitation of enthusiasm, for he was in truth entirely indifferent to such things. 'I wish my Marietta had such a charming gift and the industry to make such good use of it.'

  'This woman of mine is as industrious as she is good,' Bartolomeo said fondly.

  Machiavelli could not but reflect that he was interested neither in her goodness nor her industry. He reflected further that husbands are often mistaken in the virtues they ascribe to their wives.

  Supper was served and he exerted himself to be at his best. He knew that he told a story well and his sojourn in France had provided him with a number of spicy tales about the ladies and gentlemen at the King's court. Aurelia assumed a modest confusion when his indecencies grew too obvious, but Bartolomeo guffawed and Monna Caterina, enjoying herself hugely, egged him on. He could not but think that he was proving himself a most agreeable guest. They did full justice to a copious repast, and after a decent interval during which he drew Bartolomeo out to talk about himself, his affairs and his properties, which he did with complacency, Machiavelli suggested that they should try their voices. He tuned his lute and by way of prelude played a gay little tune. Then they settled on a song they all knew. Part singing was a common accomplishment of the day, and with Bartolomeo's bass, Machiavelli's light baritone and Piero's agreeable tenor they acquitted themselves to their mutual satisfaction. Then Machiavelli sang one of Lorenzo de' Medici's songs and the other two joined in the chorus. As he sang he looked at Aurelia in the hope that she would guess he was singing only to her, and when their eyes met, and she looked down, he flattered himself that she was at least aware of his feelings. That was the first step. So the evening passed. It was a dull life the two ladies led and such a diversion was a rare treat to them. Aurelia's delight was plain in the shining of her splendid eyes. The more Machiavelli looked at them the more sure he was that here was a woman, unawakened still, who was capable of passion. He was prepared to awaken her. But before they separated he had something to say that he had been holding back for the proper moment. He did not think he was a vain man; but he could not help finding the idea ingenious. So when the occasion arose he said:

  'You were good enough to say that you would be willing to do me a service, Messer Bartolomeo, and now I am going to take you at your word.'

  'I would do a great deal for the envoy of the Republic,' answered Bartolomeo, who had drunk a great deal of wine and was, if not drunk, at least mellow. 'But for my good friend Niccolo I would do anything.'

  'Well, the matter is this: The Signory are looking for a preacher to deliver the Lenten sermons in the Cathedral next year and they asked me to enquire whether there was anyone in Imola who could be entrusted with this important duty.'

  'Fra Timoteo,' cried Monna Caterina.

  'Be quiet, mother-in-law,' said Bartolomeo. 'This is a matter of consequence for men to settle after due deliberation. It may bring glory or discredit to our city and we must be sure to recommend only one who is worthy of the honour.'

  But Monna Caterina would not be easily silenced.

  'He delivered the Lenten sermons in our own church this very year and the whole city thronged to hear him. When he described the tortures of the damned strong men burst into tears, women swooned, and one poor creature who was near her time suddenly felt the pangs of childbirth and was carried shrieking from the church.'

  'I do not deny. it. I am a hard-headed man of business and I sobbed like a child. It is true, Fra Timoteo has eloquence and a fine choice of words.'

  'Who is this Fra Timoteo?' asked Machiavelli. 'What you tell me is interesting. The Florentines dearly love to be called to repentance at the proper season; it enables them to cheat their neighbours for the rest of the year with a good conscience.'

  'Fra Timoteo is our confessor,' said Bartolomeo, a fact of which Machiavelli was well aware. 'And for my own part I never do a thing without his advice. He is not only a worthy man, but a wise one. Why, only a few months ago I was about to buy a cargo of spices in the Levant and he told me that he had seen St. Paul in a vision who told him that the ship would be wrecked on the coast of Crete, so I did not buy.'

  'And was the ship wrecked?' asked Machiavelli.

  'No, but three caravels arrived in Lisbon laden with spices, with the result that the bottom fell out of the market and I should have lost money on the transaction, so it came to the same thing.'

  'The more you tell me of this friar the more curious I am to see him.'

  'You are very likely to find him in the church in the morning, and if not you can ask the brother sacristan to fetch him.'

  'May I tell him that I come to him with your recommendation?' Machiavelli asked politely.

  'The envoy of the Republic needs no recommendation from a poor merchant in a town which is of small account compared with the magnificent city of Florence.'

  'And wh
at do you think of this Fra Timoteo?' Machiavelli went on, addressing himself to Aurelia. 'It is important that I should have the opinion not only of a man of position and discernment like Messer Bartolomeo and of a woman of discretion and experience like Monna Caterina, but also of one who has the enthusiasm, the innocence and the sensitiveness of youth, one to whom the world and its perils are still unknown; for the preacher I would recommend to the Signory must not only call sinners to repentance, but confirm the virtuous in their integrity.'

  It was a pretty speech.

  'Fra Timoteo can do no wrong in my eyes. I am prepared to be guided by him in everything.'

  'And I,' added Bartolomeo, 'am prepared that you should be guided by him. He will never advise anything that is not to your best advantage.'

  It had all gone very well and exactly as Machiavelli wished. He went to bed satisfied with himself.

  17

  Early next morning, being market day, Machiavelli took Piero with him to the market-place and bought two brace of plump partridges. At another stall he brought a basket of the luscious figs which were the speciality of Rimini and were so much prized that they were sent all over Italy. These comestibles he told Piero to take to Messer Bartolomeo and deliver with his compliments. With Imola crowded with strangers food was scarce and high in price so that he knew his present would be welcome. Then he made his way to the Franciscan church attached to the monastery in which Fra Timoteo was a monk. It was not far from Bartolomeo's house. It was a building of some size, but of no architectural merit. It was empty but for two or three women praying, a lay brother, obviously the sacristan, who was sweeping the floor, and a friar who was pottering about the altar of a chapel. Machiavelli with a passing glance saw that he was only pretending to be busy and guessed that this must be Fra Timoteo who had been warned by Monna Caterina to expect him.

  'Pardon me, father,' said he, with a polite inclination of his backbone, 'I have been told that you are so fortunate as to have a miraculous Virgin in this church and I have a great desire to light a candle before her altar so that she may assist my dear wife, now pregnant, in the pains of childbirth.

  'This is she, Messere,' said the monk. 'I was about to change her veil. I can't get the brothers to keep her clean and tidy, and then they're surprised because the pious neglect to pay their devotions to her. I remember when there were dozens of votive offerings in this chapel for graces received, and now there aren't twenty. And it's our own fault; they have no sense, my brothers.'

  Machiavelli chose a candle of imposing dimensions, paid for it extravagantly with a florin, and watched the monk while he fixed it on an iron candlestick and lit it. When this was done Machiavelli said:

  'I have a favour to ask of you, father. I have reason to speak privately to Fra Timoteo and I should be grateful if you would tell me how I can find him.'

  'I am Fra Timoteo,' said the monk.

  'Impossible! It looks as though Providence had a hand in this. It is a miracle that I should come here and in the first person I see find the very person I am looking for.'

  'The designs of Providence are inscrutable,' said Fra Timoteo.

  The monk was a man of medium stature, of a comfortable, but not disgusting corpulence, which suggested to Machiavelli's cool mind that he was given to fasting no more than the rules of his order demanded but not to the gross vice of gluttony. He had a fine head. It reminded one of a Roman emperor's whose fine features, not yet debased by luxury and unlimited power, bore notwithstanding a suggestion of the cruel sensuality that would lead to his assassination. It was a type not unfamiliar to Machiavelli. In those full red lips, in that bold hook nose, in those fine black eyes he read ambition, cunning and covetousness, but these qualities were masked by a semblance of good nature and simple piety. Machiavelli could well understand how he had gained so great an influence over Bartolomeo and the women of his family. He felt instinctively that this was a man he could deal with; he hated monks; to him they were either fools or knaves, and this one was probably a knave, but he must step warily.

  'I should tell you, father, that I have heard a great deal to your credit from my friend Messer Bartolomeo Martelli. He has the highest opinion both of your virtue and your ability.'

  'Messer Bartolomeo is a faithful son of the Church. Our monastery is very poor and we owe much to his generosity. But may I know whom I have the honour of addressing, Messere?'

  Machiavelli knew that the friar was well aware of this, but answered gravely.

  'I should have introduced myself. Niccolo Machiavelli, citizen of Florence and Secretary to the Second Chancery.'

  The monk bowed low.

  'It is a great privilege to speak with the envoy of that illustrious state.'

  'You fill me with confusion, father, I am but a man with all the failings of humanity; but where can we speak in private and at length?'

  'Why not here, Messere? The brother sacristan is as deaf as a post and as stupid as a mule and the three or four old women you see are too busy with their prayers to listen to what we are saying and too ignorant to understand it if they did.'

  They sat down on two of the praying-stools which were in the chapel and Machiavelli told Fra Timoteo how he had been commissioned by the Signory to find a preacher to deliver the Lenten sermons in the cathedral. The friar's Roman face remained impassive, but Machiavelli felt in him an alertness of attention which confirmed his assurance that he had been informed of the previous night's conversation. Machiavelli apprised him of the Signory's requirements.

  'They are naturally nervous,' he said. 'They don't want to make again the mistake they made with Fra Girolamo Savonarola. It is very well that the people should be persuaded to repentance, but the prosperity of Florence depends on its commerce and the Signory cannot allow repentance to disturb the peace or interfere with trade. Excess of virtue can be as harmful to the State as excess of vice.'

  'Such, I seem to remember, was the opinion of Aristotle.'

  'Ah, I see that you, unlike friars in general, are a man of education. That is all to the good. The people of Florence have agile and critical minds and have no patience with a preacher, however eloquent, who is without learning.'

  'It is true that many of my brethren are of a shocking ignorance,' Fra Timoteo replied complacently. 'If I understand you aright you want to know if there is anyone in Imola who is in my opinion worthy of the honour you speak of. It is a matter that needs consideration. I shall have to think. I must make discreet enquiries.'

  'You will be doing me a great favour. I know from Messer Bartolomeo and his ladies that you are a man of singular perspicacity and of the highest rectitude. I am confident that you will give me a disinterested opinion.'

  'Messer Bartolomeo's ladies are saints. That is the only reason why they think so favourably of me.'

  'I live in the house of Monna Serafina just behind Messer Bartolomeo's. If I could persuade you to join us in our modest meal tomorrow evening we could discuss the matter further, and it would give my good Serafina infinite pleasure to have you at her table.'

  Fra Timoteo accepted the invitation. Machiavelli went home, but on the way called on Bartolomeo and asked him for a loan. He explained that he was put to great expense at Imola in connection with his mission, and the funds he was expecting from the Signory had not yet arrived. He pulled a long story about the parsimoniousness of the Florence government and complained that in order to maintain the dignity of his position and to meet the cost of information he had to pay money out of his own pocket. But Bartolomeo cut him short.

  'Dear Niccolo,' he said in his jovial way, 'you do not have to tell me that in this court one can get nothing without paying for it. For your own sake as well as for that of the Signory I shall be happy to lend you whatever you require. How much do you want?'

  Machiavelli was surprised and pleased.

  'Twenty-five ducats.'

  'Is that all? Wait and I will give it you at once.'

  He left the room and in a minute or two cam
e back with the money. Machiavelli regretted that he had asked for so little.

  'And when you want more don't hesitate to ask me,' said Bartolomeo, beaming. 'You must look upon me as your banker.'

  'A fool and his money are soon parted,' Machiavelli said to himself as he returned to his lodging.

  18

  Brother Timoteo came to supper. Machiavelli had bidden Serafina to buy the best the city could provide and the friar needed little pressing to eat heartily. Machiavelli saw that his cup was well-filled and when, supper finished, he led him into the parlour so that they might talk undisturbed, he told one of his servants to bring a flagon of wine.

  'Now let us get down to business,' he said.

  Fra Timoteo told him that he had been giving the subject of their conversation careful thought, and mentioned three monks who had some reputation in the city as preachers. He described their respective merits with candour, but with an ingenuity that Machiavelli could not but admire introduced into his eulogy of each a note of disparagement that effectively overrode his recommendation. Machiavelli smiled blandly.

  'You have spoken of these excellent monks with a sincerity and a disinterestedness which are what I should have expected of you, father, but you have left out the name of one whose talents and piety according to all accounts are infinitely superior to theirs.'

  'And who may that be, Messere?'

  'Fra Timoteo.'

  The monk gave a start of well-simulated surprise.

  'A good actor,' Machiavelli said to himself. 'A preacher must have histrionic gifts, and if the Signory had really given me the commission to find one I should be half inclined to propose this rascally friar.'

  'You are joking, Messere.'

  'What makes you think that I should joke on a subject of such importance, father? I have not been idle on my side. I have learnt that in the whole history of Imola no preacher has made such a profound impression as you did in the sermons you delivered this Lent. I am told that you have a remarkable eloquence and I can tell for myself that you have a melodious and a beautiful voice. Your presence is imposing and even in the short while that we have talked together I have discovered that you are intelligent, tactful and cultivated. I am assured that your knowledge of the fathers is only equalled by your classical erudition.'