Уильям Моэм - Then and Now

“All history bears you out, Monna Caterina, and I perceive from what you say that you are a woman with whom one can speak frankly.”

She turned her head a little and looked at him earnestly.

“Messer Niccolò, I have had great misfortunes in my life. I have been tossed on stormy seas and now that I am safe in harbour I have no wish to expose myself again to the fury of the elements.”

“I can well understand it, but are you so sure that your anchor is firm and your mooring taut?”

Monna Caterina did not answer and Machiavelli was conscious of the uneasiness of her silence. He went on.

“Am I not right in thinking that if Monna Aurelia does not soon produce the heir Bartolomeo craves, he has it in mind to adopt the two sons of Monna Costanza?”

Once again Monna Caterina made no reply.

“You have too great an experience of the world, Madonna, to make it necessary for me to tell you what your position and that of your daughter would be in such a case.”

Two tears trickled down Monna Caterina’s cheeks. Machiavelli patted her hand in kindness.

“Desperate situations demand desperate remedies.”

She shrugged her shoulders despondently.

“Even though I should be able to overcome Aurelia’s fears, the opportunity would be lacking.”

“Am I displeasing to your daughter?”

“You make her laugh,” smiled Monna Caterina, “and a jest will as often gain a woman’s favours as a handsome face.”

“You are a woman after my own heart, Madonna. Should the opportunity present itself so that what we both wish could be effected without danger, may I count on your help?”

“It is not only my daughter’s fears that must be overcome, but also her scruples.”

“Such of them as you will not have been able to dispel by the exercise of your common sense we can safely leave to be dealt with by the excellent Fra Timoteo. He does not like the Dominicans.”

Monna Caterina gave a low laugh.

“You are a charming man, Messer Niccolò. If I were still desirable and you desired me, I would refuse you nothing.”

“The old cow,” Machiavelli said to himself, but he pressed her hand and aloud answered: “If I were not so passionately in love with your daughter I should not hesitate to take you at your word.”

“There is Aurelia.”

“I will leave you.”

Slipping out of the church, he went to a silversmith’s and there bought a chain, only of silver gilt, certainly, for he had not the money for a gold one, but of very pretty workmanship. Next morning he sent Piero to buy a basket of the luscious figs which Monna Caterina had told him she liked so much, and putting the chain at the bottom of the basket told Piero to take it to her. He was to say that the figs were a gift from Machiavelli and to add that underneath them she would find something that he begged her to accept as a mark of his esteem. He felt that he and Monna Caterina understood one another perfectly, but he knew that nothing confirms an understanding like a little present.

SOME DAYS later Bartolomeo suggested that they should repeat the evening of good cheer and singing which had been so enjoyable. They did so. Things went off as before, with pleasant conversation and some good music; Aurelia, never very chatty, was more silent than usual, but Machiavelli was conscious that when he was talking in his sprightly way to the others she looked at him appraisingly. He was pretty sure that she and her mother had discussed him and his desires, and these enquiring glances of hers meant that she was wondering what he would be like in the capacity of a lover. He knew that it was not his good looks that made his success with women, but his agreeable discourse, his wit and his easy manner. He put his best foot forward. He knew that women appreciated neither irony nor sarcasm, but simple jokes and funny stories. He was amply provided with both. The laughter with which his sallies were greeted excited him and he flattered himself that he had never been more amusing. He took care, however, to show that he was not only a jester, but a good–natured man, kindly and easy to get on with, one in whom you could have confidence and whom it would not be hard to love. Was it only his fancy that when from time to time he caught Aurelia’s eyes he saw in them a smiling tenderness that suggested she was not indifferent to him? He had seen that look before in women’s eyes. They were strange creatures: they had to bring sentiment in and thus tiresomely complicate a pleasure which a merciful Providence had provided to human beings in compensation for the expulsion of their first parents from the Garden of Eden. But sometimes it was convenient that they should have this foible. He gave a passing thought to Marietta who had married him by arrangement with her parents and now so doted on him that she could hardly bear him out of her sight. She was a good woman and he had a real affection for her, but she really couldn’t expect him to be tied to her apron strings.

The affairs of his mission kept Machiavelli so busy that for several days after this he was obliged to devote his whole time to them; but through Piero he sent Aurelia a flask of attar of roses which he had bought at a cost he could ill afford from a merchant who had recently come from the Levant. It was a good sign that she did not refuse it. He congratulated Piero on the tact and skill with which he had managed to convey it to her without anyone’s knowing and gave him a scudo so that he could prosecute his suit with Nina.

“How are you getting on, my boy?” he asked.

“I don’t think she dislikes me,” said Piero. “She’s frightened of that servant of theirs. He’s her lover.”

“I suspected that, but don’t be discouraged; if she wants you she’ll find ways and means to arrange things.”

Then came a rainy afternoon. Bartolomeo sent round to ask Machiavelli if he could spare the time to come to his house to play chess. Machiavelli decided that what work he had to do could be done later and went. Bartolomeo received him in his study. Though there was no fireplace a brazier warmed it not inadequately.

“I thought we could play more conveniently here than in company with a pair of chattering women,” said Bartolomeo.

Machiavelli had gone in the hope of seeing Aurelia and was somewhat put out, but he answered civilly enough.

“Women will talk and chess is a game that demands concentration.”

They played and perhaps because Machiavelli’s attention was divided, Bartolomeo to his delight beat him without difficulty. He called for wine, and when the wine had been brought and Machiavelli was setting up the pieces for another game, he leaned back in his chair and said:

“It was not only for the pleasure of playing chess with you that I asked you to be good enough to come here, dear Niccolò. I want to ask your advice.”

“It is at your service.”

“Have you ever heard of San Vitale?”

A faint sigh of satisfaction escaped Machiavelli’s lips. Fra Timoteo had not failed him.

“Strange that you should ask that! You’re speaking of the church at Ravenna? The saint’s bones are buried there. Everyone in Florence was talking about him not so very long ago.”

“In what connection?”

“There is no limit to the folly of mankind, and our good Florentines, who pride themselves on their lively intelligence, are of a credulity beyond belief.”

He saw that Bartolomeo was all agog and he thought it well to keep him on tenterhooks.

“What is it that you refer to?”

“The story is so nonsensical that I am really ashamed to tell it. Within the limits set by our Holy Church my fellow citizens have a healthy scepticism and are disinclined to believe in anything that they cannot see, smell or touch for themselves.”