Уильям Моэм - Then and Now

“How is it you’re here?”

Bartolomeo greeted his young cousin after the same exuberant fashion and answered:

“The Duke sent for me in connection with some business at Imola. I had to pass through Florence and I came with some of your ambassador’s servants. He’ll be here tomorrow. Niccolò, Niccolò, my dear friend, you have saved my life.”

He once more seized Machiavelli in his arms and again kissed him on both cheeks. Machiavelli once more extricated himself from this embrace.

“I am delighted to see you, Bartolomeo,” he began, somewhat frigidly.

But the merchant interrupted him.

“A miracle, a miracle, and I have you to thank for it. Aurelia is pregnant.”

“What!”

“In seven months, my dear Niccolò, I shall be the father of a bouncing boy and I owe it to you.”

If things had gone differently Machiavelli might have been embarrassed by this remark, but as it was he was stupefied.

“Calm yourself, Bartolomeo, and tell me what you mean,” said he crossly. “How do you owe it to me?”

“How can I be calm when the dearest wish of my heart has been gratified? Now I can go to my grave in peace. Now I can leave my honours and my possessions to the issue of my own loins. Costanza, my sister, is beside herself with rage.”

He burst into a great bellow of laughter. Machiavelli gave Piero a puzzled look; he could make neither head nor tail of it; and he saw that Piero was as surprised as he.

“Of course I owe it to you; I would never have gone to Ravenna and spent that cold night praying before the altar of San Vitale but for you. True, it was Fra Timoteo’s idea, but I didn’t trust him; he’d sent us on pilgrimages to the shrine of one saint after the other and nothing had come of it. Fra Timoteo is a good and saintly man, but with priests you have to be on your guard; you can never be quite sure that they haven’t some ulterior motive in their advice. I don’t blame them, they are faithful sons of our Holy Church; but I should have hesitated to go if you hadn’t told me about Messer Giuliano degli Albertelli. I could trust you, you had only my welfare at heart, you are my friend. I said to myself that what had happened to one of the most notable citizens of Florence might just as well happen to one who is not the least notable citizen of Imola. Aurelia conceived on the night of my return from Ravenna.”

His excitement and his flow of speech had brought him out into a profuse sweat and he wiped his glistening forehead with his sleeve. Machiavelli stared at him with perplexity, distaste and vexation.

“Are you quite sure that Monna Aurelia is in this condition?” he said acidly. “Women are inclined to make mistakes on these matters.”

“Sure, as sure as I am of the articles of our faith. We had our suspicions before you left Imola, I wanted to tell you then, but Monna Caterina and Aurelia begged me not to. ‘Let us say nothing,’ they said, ‘until we are certain.’ Did you not notice how poorly she looked when I took you to say good–bye to her? She was angry with me afterwards; she said she couldn’t bear you to see her looking so hideous; she was afraid you’d suspect and she didn’t want anyone to know until all doubt was removed. I reasoned with her, but you know what women’s fancies are when they’re with child.”

“I suspected nothing,” said Machiavelli. “It’s true that I have only been married a few months and my experience in these things is limited.”

“I wanted you to be the first person to know, since except for you I should never have been the happy father I now shall be.”

He gave every indication of being about to clasp Machiavelli in his arms again, but Machiavelli warded him off.

“I congratulate you with all my heart, but if my ambassador is arriving tomorrow I have no time to waste; the information should be conveyed to the Duke at once.”

“I will leave you, but you must sup with me tonight, you and Piero, to celebrate the occasion in style.”

“It would be hard to do that here,” said he ill–temperedly. “There is scarcely anything to eat and the wine, if there is any, will be as bad as it has been all along the way.”

“I had thought of that,” said Bartolomeo, with a bellow of laughter, rubbing his fat hands together, “and I brought wine with me from Florence, a hare and a suckling pig. We will feast and drink to the health of my first–born son.”

Though he was by now thoroughly out of humour, Machiavelli had fared too badly since leaving Imola to be able to resist the offer of a tolerable meal and so with what amiability he could muster accepted.

“I will call for you here,” said Bartolomeo, “but before I go I want you to give me some advice. Of course you remember that I promised Fra Timoteo that I would give a picture to be placed over the altar of our miraculous Virgin and though I know I owe my good fortune to San Vitale I don’t want to put an affront on her. She undoubtedly did her best. So I have decided to have a picture painted of Our Lady seated on a rich throne with her Blessed Son in her arms and with me and Aurelia kneeling on each side with our hands clasped like this.” He put his great paws together and raised his eyes to the ceiling with an appropriate expression of devotion. “I shall have San Vitale standing on one side of the throne and Fra Timoteo has suggested that on the other, since the church is dedicated to him, I should have St. Francis. Do you like the idea?”

“Very choice,” said Machiavelli.

“You’re a Florentine and must know about such things: tell me to whom I should give the order.”

“I really don’t know. They’re a very unreliable, dissipated lot, these painters, and I’ve never had any truck with them.”

“I don’t blame you. But surely you can suggest someone.”

Machiavelli shrugged his shoulders.

“When I was in Urbino last summer they talked to me about a young fellow, a pupil of Perugino, who they say already paints better than his master and who they expect will go far.”

“What is his name?”

“I have no idea. They told me, but it meant nothing to me and it went in at one ear and out of the other. But I daresay I could find out and I don’t suppose he’d be expensive.”

“Expense is no object,” said Bartolomeo with a grandiose wave of the arm. “I’m a businessman and I know that if you want the best you must pay for it. And only the best is good enough for me. I want a big name and if I have to pay for it I’ll pay for it.”

“Oh, well, when I get back to Florence I’ll make enquiries,” Machiavelli answered impatiently.

When he had gone Machiavelli sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at Piero with a look of complete bewilderment.

“Did you ever hear the like?” he said. “The man is sterile.”

“It is evidently a miracle,” said Piero.

“Don’t talk such nonsense. We are bound to believe that miracles were performed by our Blessed Lord and by His apostles, and our Holy Church has accepted the authenticity of miracles performed by its saints, but the time of miracles is past and in any case why in the name of heaven should San Vitale go out of his way to do one for a fat stupid fool like Bartolomeo?”

But even as he spoke he remembered that Fra Timoteo had said something to him to the effect that even though San Vitale’s singular power was an invention of Machiavelli’s, Bartolomeo’s absolute belief in it might effect the miracle he expected. Was it possible? At the time he had thought it only a hypocritical excuse on the monk’s part to avoid giving him more assistance till he received more money.

Piero opened his mouth to speak.

“Hold your tongue,” said Machiavelli. “I’m thinking.”

He would never have described himself as a good Catholic. He had indeed often permitted himself to wish that the gods of Olympus still dwelt in their old abode. Christianity had shown men the truth and the way of salvation, but it asked men to suffer rather than to do. It had made the world feeble and given it over, helpless, a prey to the wicked, since the generality, in order to go to heaven, thought more of enduring injuries than of defending themselves against them. It had taught that the highest good consisted in humility, lowliness and contempt for the things of this world; the religion of the ancients taught that it consisted in greatness of spirit, courage and strength.