Уильям Моэм - Then and Now

“Now that Spain is united and France, rid of the English, is strong, the time is past when small states can maintain their independence. Their independence is a sham, for it is not based on force, and they maintain it only so long as it suits the convenience of the great powers. The states of the Church are under my control; Bologna will fall into my hands; Florence is doomed. I shall then be master of all the country from the Kingdom of Naples in the south to the Milanese and Venetia in the north. I shall have my own artillery and the artillery of the Vitelli. I shall create an army as efficient as my army of Romagna. The King of France and I will divide between ourselves the possessions of Venice.”

“But should all this happen as you desire, Excellency,” said Machiavelli grimly, “all you will have achieved will be to increase the power of France and arouse the fear and envy both of France and Spain. Either of them could crush you.”

“True. But with my arms and my gold I should be so powerful an ally that the party I sided with would be certain of victory.”

“You would still remain the vassal of the victor.”

“Tell me, Secretary, you have been in France and have had dealings with the French, what is your opinion of them?”

Machiavelli shrugged a somewhat disdainful shoulder.

“They’re frivolous and unreliable. When an enemy resists the ferocity of their first attack they waver and lose courage. They can stand neither hardship nor discomfort and after a little while grow so careless that it’s easy to take advantage of their unpreparedness.”

“I know. When winter comes with cold and rain they slink out of camp one by one and then they’re at the mercy of a more sturdy foe.”

“On the other hand the country is rich and fertile. The King has broken the strength of the barons and is very powerful. He’s somewhat foolish, but well advised by men as clever as any in Italy.”

The Duke nodded.

“And now tell me what you think of the Spaniards.”

“I have had little to do with them.”

“Then I will tell you. They’re brave, hardy, resolute and poor. They have nothing to lose and everything to gain. It would be impossible to withstand them but for one circumstance: they have to bring their troops and armaments across the sea. If they were once driven out of Italy it shouldn’t be difficult to prevent them from coming back.”

Silence fell upon them. Il Valentino, his chin resting on his hand, appeared to be sunk in thought and Machiavelli watched him at his ease. His eyes were hard and brilliant. They looked into a future of tortuous diplomacy and of bloody battles. Excited as he was by the events of the day and the amazing success of his duplicity, no enterprise seemed too difficult or too dangerous for him to undertake, and who could tell what visions of greatness and glory dazzled his bold imagination? He smiled.

“With my help the French could drive the Spaniards out of Naples and Sicily: with my help the Spaniards could drive the French out of the Milanese.”

“Whichever you helped would remain the master of Italy and you, Excellency.”

“If I helped the Spaniards, yes; not if I helped the French. We drove them out of Italy before; we can drive them out again.”

“They will bide their time and return.”

“I shall be ready for them. The old fox, King Ferdinand, is not one to cry over spilt milk; if they attack me he will seize the opportunity of revenge and march his armies into France. He has married his daughter to the son of the King of England. The English will not miss the chance to declare war on their hereditary enemies. The French will have more reason to fear me than I to fear them.”

“But the Pope is old, Excellency; his death will deprive you of half your force and a great part of your reputation.”

“Do you suppose I haven’t taken that into consideration? I’ve provided for everything that may happen when my father dies. I am prepared for it and the next Pope will be of my choosing. He will be protected by my troops. No, I do not fear the Pope’s death. It will not interfere with my plans.”

Suddenly the Duke sprang out of his chair and began to pace the room.

“It is the Church that has kept this country divided. She has never been strong enough to gain dominion over all Italy, but only to prevent anyone else from doing so. Italy cannot prosper till it is united.”

“It is true that if our poor country has become the prey of the barbarians it is because it has been ruled by this multitude of lords and princes.”

Il Valentino stopped walking and, his sensual lips curling with a sardonic smile, looked into Machiavelli’s eyes.

“For the remedy we must turn to the Gospel, my good Secretary, which tells us to render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and unto God the things that are God’s.”

The Duke’s meaning was plain. Machiavelli gave a gasp of fearful amazement. He was strangely fascinated by this man who could calmly speak of taking a step which must arouse the horror of all Christendom.

“A prince should support the spiritual authority of the Church,” he went on coolly, “for this will keep his people good and happy, and I cannot think of a better way to restore to the Church the spiritual authority she has so unfortunately lost than to deprive her of the burden of temporal power.”

Machiavelli was at a loss to know how to answer a remark in which there was so brutal a cynicism, but he was saved from the necessity of doing so by a scratching at the door.

“Who is it?” cried the Duke with sudden anger at the interruption.

There was no answer, but the door was flung open and a man entered whom Machiavelli recognized as Don Michele, the Spaniard known as Michelotto. It was he, they said, who had strangled with his own hands the handsome and unfortunate boy, Alfonso of Bisceglie, whom Lucrezia loved. Michelotto was a big, hairy man of powerful build, with bushy eyebrows, hard eyes, a short blunt nose and an expression of cold ferocity.

“Ah, it’s you,” cried the Duke, his look changing.

“ Murieron. ”

Machiavelli knew little Spanish, but he could not fail to understand that one grim word. They died. The man had remained at the door and the Duke went over to him. They spoke in an undertone and in Spanish, and Machiavelli could not hear what they said. The Duke asked one or two abrupt questions and the other seemed to answer in detail.

Il Valentino gave that curious light, gay laugh of his which meant that he was pleased as well as amused. After a little Don Michele went and the Duke, a happy smile in his eyes, resumed his seat.

“Vitellozzo and Oliverotto are dead. They died less valiantly than they lived. Oliverotto cried for mercy. He put the blame for his treachery on Vitellozzo and said that he had been led astray.”

“And Pagolo Orsini and the Duke of Gravina?”

“I am taking them with me tomorrow under guard. I shall hold them until I hear from His Holiness the Pope.”

Machiavelli gave him a questioning glance and the Duke answered it.

“As soon as I had arrested the rascals I sent a messenger to the Pope to ask him to seize the person of the Cardinal Orsini. Pagolo and his nephew must await the punishment of their crimes till I am assured that this has been done.”

The Borgia’s face grew somber and it was as though a heavy cloud lurked between his eyebrows. There was a silence and Machiavelli, supposing the audience was at an end, rose to his feet. But the Duke with a sudden gesture of impatience motioned him to sit still. When he spoke it was in a low voice, but in accents that were hard, angry and resolute.

“It is not enough to destroy these petty tyrants whose subjects groan under their misrule. We are the prey of the barbarians; Lombardy is plundered, Tuscany and Naples are laid under tribute. I alone can crush these horrible and inhuman beasts. I alone can free Italy.”