Then and Now (15 page)

His only hope now of having his way with Aurelia was to enlist the aid of Morula Caterina. It was obvious that her concern at the misadventure which had frustrated their well-laid scheme must be great, greater than his indeed, for with him it was only a matter of satisfying his desire for a pretty woman; but her very security was at stake. He could no longer rely on the monk, but in her he had a self-interested ally, and that was an ally you could count on. He had a firm belief in the ingenuity of her sex; to deceive was food and drink to it, and it was to her manifest advantage to do everything she could to bring their plan to a successful issue. He decided to arrange a meeting with her. The secluded life the two women led made it none too easy, but fortunately Piero was there to act as a go-between. He congratulated himself on his foresight in urging the boy to make love to Nina.

Next day he bought a beautiful fish at the market and sent it by Piero to Bartolomeo's house at a time when he knew the fat man would be about his business in the city. It would be very unlucky if he could not get an opportunity to see her alone and make an appointment. Piero carried out his commission with his usual competence and returned to tell his master that Monna Cat-erina after some hesitation had agreed to meet him at such and such an hour, three days from then, at the church of St. Dominic. Her choice of place was adroit. It was evident that with her feminine intuition she had realized that Fra Timoteo could be trusted no longer and it was just as well that he should not see them together.

Machiavelli went to St. Dominic's without an idea in his head, but he was untroubled, for he was confident that Monna Caterina would be able to suggest something; his only fear was that it would cost too much money. Ah, well, if the worst came to the worst he would have to borrow once again from Bartolomeo; after all, it was only just that he should pay for the service Machiavelli was prepared to render him.

There was not a soul in the church. Machiavelli told
Monna Caterina how it had happened that he had not been able to keep the appointment and how he had stood knocking at the door in the rain and how he had caught a dreadful cold.

'I know, I know,' said Monna Caterina. 'Piero told us and we were greatly distressed. Aurelia kept on saying: "The poor gentleman, it would be on my conscience if he died." '

'I had no intention of dying,' said Machiavelli. 'And if I had been at the gates of Paradise the thought of Aurelia would have brought me back.'

'It was all very unfortunate.'

'Let us not think of the past. I have recovered my health. I am full of vigour. Let us think of the future. Our scheme has miscarried, we must devise another; you are a clever woman, and I find it hard to believe that you cannot arrange some way whereby all our wishes may be satisfied.'

'Messer Niccolo, I did not want to come here today; I only came because of your Piero's entreaties.'

'He said you had shown hesitation. I could not understand.'

'No one likes to be the bearer of ill tidings.'

'What do you mean?' cried Machiavelli. 'It is imposs
ible that Bartolomeo should have conceived any sus
picion.'

'No, no, it is not that. It is Aurelia. I have argued with her, I have gone down on my bended knees. I can do nothing with her. Ah, my poor friend, girls are not what they were when I was young; then it never occurred to them that they could disobey their parents.'

'Don't beat about the bush, woman. Tell me what you mean.'

'Aurelia refuses to go on. She will not do what you desire.'

'But have you put the consequences before her? Haven't you shown her what her position will be, and yours, if Bartolomeo adopts his sister's sons and Monna Costanza becomes mistress of your house?'

'I have said everything.'

'But the reason? Even a woman must have a reason for what she does.'

'She believes that by a special interposition of Providence she has been preserved from mortal sin.'

'Sin?' shouted Machiavelli, in his agitation forgetting the decorum due to the sacred building in which they were thus conversing.

'Do not be angry with me, Messer Niccolo. It is not for a mother to persuade her daughter to act contrary to the dictates of her conscience.'

'Saving your presence, Madonna, you are talking stuff and nonsense. You are an experienced woman and she is but an ignorant girl. It is your duty to point out to her that of two evils not only reason, but heaven itself commands us to choose the lesser. Who in his senses would refuse to commit a little sin, and one to which considerable pleasure is attached, in order to gain a great good?'

'It is no use, Messere, I know my daughter, she is as stubborn as a mule; she had made up her mind and I can do nothing with her. She wishes me to tell you that in memory of the interest you have taken in her she will always treasure the elegant gloves and the silk scarf you gave her, but she will accept no more presents from you and desires you to offer none. She desired you further to make no more attempt, either direct or indirect, to see her. For my part I shall always remember your kindness with gratitude and I only wish I could make up to you for the disappointment you have suffered.'

She paused for a moment, but Machiavelli made no reply.

'I need not tell a man of your wit and worldly wisdom that women are capricious and uncertain. If he chooses the right moment even the prude will accept the embraces of a lover, but if he misses it even the wanton will refuse them. I bid you a very good day.'

Monna Caterina gave him a curtsey in which according to his perspicacity an observer might have seen derision, resentment or civility, and was gone.

Machiavelli was confounded.

Notwithstanding all his attempts during the next month it was not till he was about to leave Imola that he saw Aurelia again. Fortunately his work kept him too busy to brood over his disappointment. The rebels were reported to be at loggerheads. At last, however, all signed the agreement which Agapito had shown Machiavelli except Baglioni of Perugia, who told them they were fools and dupes to put their hands to such a document, and when he found them determined to make peace at any cost strode in a passion out of the church in which they were meeting. The Duke appointed Pagolo Orsini governor of Urbino, which by the terms of the treaty he recovered, and to reward him for persuading the captains to sign it made him a present of five thousand ducats. Vitellozzo wrote humble letters in which he sought to excuse his actions.

'The traitor stuck a knife in our backs,' said Agapito, 'and now he thinks he can undo the harm with soft words.'

But Il Valentino appeared to be well pleased. It looked as though he were prepared to let bygones be bygones and restore the repentant rebels to his confidence. His amiability seemed suspicious to Machiavelli and he wrote to the Signory that it was hard to guess and impossible to know what the Duke had in mind. He had now large forces at his disposal and it was evident to all that he would make use of them. Rumours were current that he was making preparations for his departure from Imola, but whether he intended to march south and attack the Kingdom of Naples or north to wage war on the Venetians was more than anyone could tell. Machia-velli was disturbed to hear that influential persons from Pisa had come to offer him their city. Florence had spent time, money and lives in the attempt to recapture it, for its possession was necessary to their commerce, and if it was held by the Duke their position, both from the economic and the military standpoint, would be hazardous. Lucca was close, and the Duke, speaking of it, remarked in a way that Machiavelli thought ominous that it was a rich territory and a mouthful for gluttons. If after gaining possession of Pisa he seized Lucca, Florence would be at his mercy. In an interview with Machiavelli the Duke brought up again the matter of the
condotta,
and the wretched envoy was hard put to it to explain the Signory's hesitation to grant him the command he wanted in such a way as not to offend him. The plain fact was that they were determined not to place themselves in the power of an unscrupulous man whom they had every reason to distrust. But whatever sinister plans he turned round in that handsome head of his, the Duke was evidently not ready to resort to more than veiled threats to induce the Florentines to accede to his demands, for he listened to Machiavelli calmly enough. He ended by telling him that he was about to set out for Cesena with his army and once there would do what he decided was necessary.

He started for Forlì on the tenth of December and reached Cesena on the twelfth. Machiavelli made arrangements to follow him. He sent Piero with one of the servants ahead to make sure of a dwelling, and having taken leave of certain persons who had obliged him during his sojourn at Imola, empty now that the Duke, with his court and all the hangers-on, had left, finally went to say goodbye to Bartolomeo. He found him at home and was ushered into his study. The fat man received him with his usual boisterous cordiality. He had already heard of Machiavelli's approaching departure and expressed his regret in very handsome terms. He said how greatly he had enjoyed the acquaintance of such a distinguished visitor and how much he deplored that he would no longer have the opportunity to play with him those too infrequent games of chess and to entertain him at his house with music and such poor fare as he could provide. Machiavelli on his side paid him appropriate compliments and then with some embarrassment entered upon a matter which was on his mind.

'Listen, my dear friend, I am come not only to thank you for all your kindness to me, but to ask you to do me one more kindness still.'

'You have only to mention it.'

Machiavelli gave a slightly bitter laugh.

'I owe you twenty-five ducats. I haven't the money to pay you. I must ask you to wait a little longer.'

'It is a matter of no consequence.'

'Twenty-five ducats is a considerable sum.'

'Let it wait, let it wait, and if it's inconvenient for you to pay there's no reason why you should. Look upon it as a gift rather than a loan.'

'There is no reason why you should make me such a present. I couldn't possibly accept such a favour at your hands.'

Bartolomeo leaned back in his chair and burst into a great booming laugh.

'But didn't you guess? It is not my money. Our good Duke knew that with the rise of prices and the necessary expenses of your mission your circumstances were embarrassed. Everyone knows that the Signory is niggardly. I received instructions from His Excellency's treasurer to provide you with any sum you might need. If you had asked me for two hundred ducats instead of twenty-five I should have given them to you.'

Machiavelli went pale. He was dumbfounded.

'But if I had known the money came from the Duke nothing would have induced me to take it.'

'It was because the Duke knew your scruples and admired your integrity that he chose me to be the go-between. He respected your delicacy. I am betraying his confidence, but I do not think you should remain ignorant of so generous and disinterested a gesture.'

Machiavelli stifled the obscenity that rose to his lips. He had little belief in the Duke's generosity and none in his disinterestedness. Did he think to buy his good will for twenty-five ducats? Machiavelli's thin lips tightened so that his mouth showed as no more than a bitter line.

'You are surprised?' smiled Bartolomeo.

'Nothing the Duke may do can any longer surprise me.'

'He is a very great man. I have no doubt that we who have enjoyed the privilege of being useful to him shall on that account be remembered by posterity.'

'My good Bartolomeo,' said Machiavelli, 'it is not the great deeds men do that make them remembered by posterity, but the fine language with which men of letters describe their deeds. Pericles would be no more than a name if Thucydides had not put into his mouth the speech that has made him famous.'

While saying these words he got up.

'You mustn't go without seeing the ladies. It would grieve them not to bid you farewell.'

Machiavelli followed him into the parlour. There was a certain constriction in his throat and it seemed to him that his heart was beating at an unaccustomed rate. The women had not expected a visitor and they were in their everyday clothes. They were taken aback to see him and perhaps none too well pleased. They rose to their feet and curtseyed. Bartolomeo told them that Machiavelli was leaving for Cesena.

'What shall we do without you?' cried Monna Cat-erina.

Since Machiavelli had the conviction that they would do perfectly well without him, he merely smiled a rather sour smile.

'Messer Niccolo will doubtless be glad to leave a place which offers so little to divert a stranger,' said Aurelia.

Machiavelli could not but think there was a hint of malice in her tone. She resumed her work and he noticed that she was still busy with the elaborate embroidery of the shirts, the material for which he had brought from Florence.

'I hardly know which to admire most, Monna Aurelia,' he said, 'your patience or your industry.'

'They say the devil finds work for idle hands to do,' she replied.

'And pleasant work, too, on occasion.'

'But dangerous.'

'And hence more attractive.'

'Yet discretion is the better part of valour.'

Machiavelli didn't much like having his remarks capped, and though he smiled, his retort as acidulous.

'They say that proverbs are the wisdom of the multitude, but the multitude is always in the wrong.'

Aurelia was not looking her best. The weather had been bad for some time and she had waited too long to dye her hair. The roots showed black. One might have thought that she had made-up that morning in haste, for the natural olive of her skin was not quite disguised by the cosmetics she had applied.

'By the time she's forty she'll be no more desirable than her mother,' said Machiavelli to himself.

After a decent interval he took his leave. He was glad he had seen Aurelia again. He still desired her, but his desire was not so importunate as it had been. He was not a man who because he was disappointed of the fat quails he had promised himself for his dinner was disinclined to eat the pig's trotters that were set before him; and when he saw that to pursue Aurelia further was fruitless, he had on occasion assuaged his urgent passions in the arms of sundry not too expensive young women whose acquaintance he made through the good offices of La Barberina. Now when he looked into his heart he could not but see that, so far as Aurelia was concerned, he was suffering as much from wounded vanity as from the pangs of unrequited love. He came to the conclusion that she was rather stupid; otherwise she would not have gone to bed in a pet because he had kept her waiting a mere three hours; otherwise it would never have occurred to her that in going to bed with him she was committing a sin, at least till after she had committed it. If only she knew as much about life as he did, she would know that it is not the temptations you have succumbed to that you regret, but those you have resisted.

'Well, it'll serve her right if Bartolomeo adopts his nephews,' he said to himself. 'She'll be sorry then that she was such a fool.'