Уильям Моэм - Then and Now

“I have heard that when the Duke wishes to keep something secret not even those closest to him know about it,” said Machiavelli.

“He’s been occupied with his secretaries all day. Messengers have been despatched one after the other.”

“It’s evident that something has happened.”

“I know that a courier arrived from Perugia this morning.”

“A courier or someone disguised as a courier?”

Bartolomeo looked at him quickly.

“I don’t know. What do you suspect?”

“Nothing. I was only asking.”

It was but a short walk to the inn. They ordered wine and asked for chessmen. Machiavelli was a good player and it did not take him long to discover that Bartolomeo was no match for him, but he amused himself by giving him a hard game and letting himself be beaten in the end. Bartolomeo was puffed up with pride and while they drank their wine pointed out to Machiavelli exactly what mistakes he had made and what his moves should have been to counter his opponent’s strategy. Machiavelli blamed himself for his want of foresight. On their way back to their respective domiciles Bartolomeo remarked:

“My mother–in–law says she heard someone singing in your house this morning. A very pretty voice. Was that you or my young cousin Piero?”

“Piero’s voice is better than mine, but it was I who was singing. I’m flattered that Monna Caterina should not have thought too badly of my efforts. Biagio and I and one or two more used often to while away the time by singing.”

“I sing a very good bass myself.”

“Piero sings tenor. It would be an excellent combination. If you don’t object to my humble quarters it would be a great pleasure to me if you would come in when you have nothing better to do and we’ll give our good Serafina a little concert.”

Would the fish swallow the fly that was so skilfully cast? There was no sign of it.

“We will certainly do that. It will bring me back my youth. When I was a young fellow in Smyrna we Italians would sing all the time.”

“Patience,” Machiavelli muttered to himself. “Patience.”

When he got in, taking a greasy pack of cards, he began to play solitaire, but as he played he turned over in his mind what Bartolomeo had told him and what he had learnt from Serafina. He had a plan and it was a good one, but to carry it out called for ingenuity. The more he thought of Aurelia the more she enflamed his fancy, and it tickled him to death to think that he could provide Bartolomeo with the child, preferably male, that he so much wanted.

“It is not often,” he reflected, “that you can do a good action with so much pleasure to yourself.”

It was evident that he must ingratiate himself with Monna Caterina, for without her he could do nothing, but the difficulty was to get on terms with her sufficiently intimate to enable him to enlist her help. She was a woman of voluptuous appearance and it occurred to him that he might persuade Piero to go to bed with her. Piero was young. At her age she could not fail to be grateful. But he dismissed the notion; it would serve his purpose better if Piero became the maid’s lover. But they said that in her time Monna Caterina had been gay. If there was one thing of which Machiavelli was convinced it was that when a woman ceases to be desirable a procuress is born. He thought there was a natural instinct in the sex that led them to enjoy vicariously pleasures that were no longer befitting their age. And what should she care about Bartolomeo’s honour? It was to her interest that Aurelia should have offspring.

And what about this Fra Timoteo? He was their confessor; he was a friend of the house. It might be worth while to see him and find out what sort of a man he was. It might be that he could be put to good use. Machiavelli’s meditation was on a sudden disturbed by a tap on the shutter. He looked up but did not move; the tap, low and discreet, was repeated. He went to the window and slightly opened the shutter. A name was muttered.

“Farinelli.”

“Wait.”

“Are you alone?”

“I am alone.”

He went into the passage and opened the door. In the darkness he could see nothing but that someone was standing there. Farinelli, it may be remembered, was the Florentine accountant with whom Machiavelli had made contact the day after his arrival. Huddled in a cape, with a scarf to conceal his face, he slipped in and followed Machiavelli into the parlour. It was lit by a single candle. He sat at the table close to Machiavelli so that he need hardly raise his voice above a whisper.

“I have something important to tell you.”

“Speak.”

“Can I count on the generosity of the Signory if what I say is useful to them?”

“Without doubt.”

“A messenger, riding post, arrived at the Palace today. The rebels have at last signed articles of agreement. They are pledged to stand by Bentivoglio in defence of Bologna, to reinstate the dispossessed lords in their dominions and not to undertake any separate negotiations with the Duke. They have decided to collect seven hundred men–at–arms, a hundred light horse and nine thousand foot. Bentivoglio is to attack Imola, and Vitellozzo and the Orsini are to march on Urbino.”

“That is news indeed,” said Machiavelli.

He was pleasantly excited. Stirring events exhilarated him and he looked forward with the anticipation of a spectator at a play to seeing how the Duke would cope with the danger that confronted him.

“There is one more thing. Vitellozzo has given the Duke to know that if he can be given reliable assurances that no attempt will be made to deprive him of his own state of Castello he will rejoin him.”

“How do you know this?”

“It is enough that I know it.”

Machiavelli was perplexed. He knew Vitellozzo, a sullen, suspicious, moody man, subject to wild rages and to attacks of profound depression. The syphilis from which he suffered had so affected him that sometimes he was hardly sane. Who could tell what wicked plans that tortured brain was contriving? Machiavelli dismissed the accountant.

“I can count on your discretion, Messer Niccolò? My life would be short if it were discovered that I have told you what I have.”

“I know. But I am not one to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

FROM THEN on things moved quickly. On hearing of the uprising in Urbino the Duke had sent two of his captains, Spaniards both, Don Ugo da Moncada and Don Michele da Corella, to put it down. Making Pergola and Fossombrone their headquarters, they ravaged the surrounding territories, sacked the towns and killed most of the inhabitants. At Fossombrone women threw themselves and their children into the river to escape the savagery of the soldiery. The Duke, sending for Machiavelli, told him of these exploits with a great deal of good humour.

“It looks as though the season were not too healthy for rebels,” he said with a grim smile.

He had just received news from an envoy of the Pope at Perugia that on his arrival the Orsini had come to assure him of their loyalty to the Holy Father and to excuse their acts. Machiavelli remembered what Farinelli had told him about Vitellozzo.

“It is difficult to understand why they have done that,” he said.

“Use your brain, Secretary. It can only mean that they’re not yet ready and want to gain time by behaving as though an accommodation were still possible.”

A few days later Vitellozzo carried the city of Urbino by assault and the Duke again sent for Machiavelli. Machiavelli expected to find him disconcerted by the bad news, but he did not even mention it.

“I want to confer with you as usual on the matters that concern your government and our common interests,” he said. “I have received this letter from someone I sent to Siena.”