Уильям Моэм - Then and Now

“No, it isn’t that,” Bartolomeo replied, with a semblance of modesty. “The Duke has put me at the head of the citizens commissioned to see to the provisioning of the troops.”

“You must be making a pretty penny out of it,” said Machiavelli slyly.

Bartolomeo burst into a fat laugh.

“A bare profit, if that. The Duke isn’t a man to trifle with. At Urbino the men almost mutinied over the quality of their food and when the matter was brought to his attention and he discovered that their complaints were justified, he hanged the three commissioners.”

“I can well understand that it makes you careful.”

They rode out to the camp. It was three miles from the city. There were three companies of fifty lancers under Spanish captains and a hundred Roman lancers, gentlemen who had joined the Duke’s army for adventure and to win renown. Each lancer was mounted and he had a page on a pony and an infantryman as attendants. There were twenty–five hundred mercenaries; and the Duke’s conscripted soldiers, six thousand of them, were expected to arrive in two days. He had sent an agent to Milan to collect five hundred of the Gascon adventurers who were scattered in Lombardy and another to hire fifteen hundred Swiss. His artillery was formidable and in good condition. Machiavelli was interested in military affairs, of which he had gained some experience in the unsuccessful siege of Pisa, and he flattered himself on his knowledge. He kept his eyes open. He asked a lot of questions, both of officers and men, and sorting the answers, accepting what looked like truth and rejecting what was improbable, formed the opinion that the Duke’s force was far from negligible.

On getting back to the city he found a message from Agapito da Amalia to say that the Duke desired to see him at eight o’clock that evening. After dinner he sent Piero over to Bartolomeo’s house to tell him that he was to have an audience with the Duke that night and if Bartolomeo would meet him later at the Golden Lion they might drink a cup of wine together; it was possible that he could only get into communication with Aurelia through her husband and therefore must make friends with him. Bartolomeo was a trusting soul, who liked good cheer and good company, and such a proof of confidence as the envoy of the Republic was now offering could not fail to flatter his conceit.

Machiavelli went to his room and had a siesta, then decided that it would be worth his while to have another talk with Serafina. He had a notion that he could get more out of her than Piero had. She had spoken well of Bartolomeo to him, but that might have been from discretion; if he knew anything about human nature she must be less grateful for the benefits the fat man had conferred on her than resentful on account of those he had omitted. Machiavelli thought himself clever enough to induce her to divulge her real feelings.

When he awoke he strolled downstairs as though to go to the parlour and on his way sang, a little more loudly than was necessary, the catch of a Florentine song.

“Are you there, Monna Serafina?” he said as he passed the kitchen door. “I thought you were out.”

“You have a fine voice, Messere,” she said.

“A thousand thanks. May I come in for a minute?”

“My eldest son has a beautiful voice; Messer Bartolomeo used often to have him over and they would sing together. Messer Bartolomeo is a bass. It is strange that a man so big and strong should have a voice of so little power.”

Machiavelli pricked up his ears.

“My friend Biagio Buonaccorsi, Messer Bartolomeo’s cousin, and I are fond of singing together. What a pity I couldn’t bring my lute with me! It would have been a pleasure to me to sing some of my songs to you.”

“But my son left his lute here. He wanted to take it with him, but it’s a valuable instrument which was given to his father, my poor husband, by a gentleman to whom he had done a service and I wouldn’t let him take it.”

“Will you let me see it?”

“It hasn’t been touched for three years now. I daresay some of the strings are broken.”

But she fetched it and put it in Machiavelli’s hands. It was a lovely thing of cedar with ivory inlay. He tuned it and proceeded in a low voice to sing. He was not only very fond of music, but had a technical knowledge of it, and he had written the words and himself composed the melody of several songs. As he finished he noticed that tears were in Serafina’s eyes. He put down the instrument and looked at her kindly.

“I didn’t wish to make you cry.”

“It reminds me of my boy, so far away and exposed to so many dangers among those heathen people.”

“It’ll be good experience for him and under the protection of Messer Bartolomeo his future is assured.”

She gave him a pinched glance.

“Lazarus must be thankful for the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s table.”

Her acid remark assured him that he had not been far wrong in his conjecture.

“The Holy Scriptures assure us that in heaven the position will be reversed,” he answered.

She gave a laugh that was more like a snort.

“He would give half his wealth to have my children.”

“It is strange that none of his three wives should have produced a child.”

“You men, you always think it’s the woman’s fault. Monna Caterina has her head screwed on her shoulders all right; she knows that if Aurelia doesn’t have a baby soon it’ll go badly with both of them. No more fine dresses then. No more rings and bracelets. I’ve known Bartolomeo all his life. He doesn’t give much away for nothing. Monna Caterina is wise to worry. She’s giving Fra Timoteo money to pray that Aurelia should conceive.”

“Who, pray, is Fra Timoteo?” asked Machiavelli.

“Their confessor. Bartolomeo has promised to give a Virgin and Child when Aurelia has a son. Fra Timoteo is making a pretty penny out of them. He twists them round his little finger, and he knows as well as I do that poor Bartolomeo is sterile.”

Machiavelli had learnt more than he had hoped; a scheme beautiful and simple flashed through his mind and he thought it wise to drop the conversation. He idly plucked the strings of the lute.

“You’re right, it’s a beautiful instrument. It’s a pleasure to play on it. I don’t wonder that you were unwilling to let your son take it overseas.”

“You are very sympathetic, Messere,” she said. “If it gives you pleasure to play, I will lend it you while you’re here. I know you’ll be careful with it.”

Machiavelli had been wondering how he could induce her to make such an offer: she saved him all further trouble. There was no doubt about it, he had a way with women: it was a pity she was old, haggard and sallow; otherwise he might have permitted himself a little nonsense with her. He thanked her warmly.

“It will be a comfort to me to sing the little songs my wife is fond of. I haven’t been married to her long and she is pregnant; it was hard to leave her. But how could I help it? I am a servant of the Republic and I must put my duty before my inclination.”

When, a little later, Machiavelli left her he had persuaded Serafina that he was not only a person of distinction, but a good husband, a sincere friend, and an honest, charming and reliable man.

AT THE appointed time one of the Duke’s secretaries, accompanied by men with torches, came to fetch him, and Machiavelli, calling one of his servants to follow, started out for the Palace. The Duke received him with a show of affection that was the more surprising since two nights before he had dismissed him in a passion. He appeared to be in high spirits. He mentioned the fall of the fortress of San Leo in an offhand way and seemed to have no doubt that he would easily settle the trouble in Urbino. Then in an intimately confidential manner that would have flattered Machiavelli had he been sensible to flattery, he told him that he had sent for him to impart some news that would interest the gentlemen of the Signory. He produced a letter he had just received from the Bishop of Arles, the Pope’s legate in France, in which the Bishop told him that the King and the Cardinal, his minister, were anxious to please him and knowing that he needed men for his attack on Bologna had given orders to Monsieur de Chaumont at Milan to send him three hundred lancers under Monsieur de Lancres and on the Duke’s demand to march in person on Parma with another three hundred lancers. The Duke showed the letter to Machiavelli so that he could vouch for its authenticity.