Уильям Моэм - Then and Now

“It’s as easy as falling off a log,” he said to himself.

Machiavelli had himself shaved and his hair trimmed and he put on his best clothes, a long black damask sleeveless tunic and a tight–fitting jacket with billowing velvet sleeves. Piero had dressed himself up also for the occasion, but his pale blue tunic reached only halfway down his thighs and he wore a purple belt round his waist; his handsome legs were encased in dark blue hose, and his jacket, with sleeves less ample than Machiavelli’s, was dark blue also; a purple cap was perched jauntily on his curly locks. Machiavelli looked at him with approval.

“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 servingman. Monna Caterina 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 Caterina. “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 Niccolò 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 Niccolò 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 so 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 hardheaded 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 neighbour for the rest of the year with a good conscience.”