Уильям Моэм - Then and Now

“I see the force of Your Excellency’s arguments. No one could have put them more clearly and more convincingly. It is rare to find a man of action and a great general such as Your Excellency has shown himself, who possesses besides so logical a mind and such a gift of expression.”

The Duke with a slight smile made a modest gesture of protest. Machiavelli, his heart in his mouth, for he knew that what he had to say was not what the Duke wanted, went on blandly.

“I will write to the Signory and tell the gentlemen what you have said.”

“What do you mean?” cried Il Valentino. “The matter is urgent and must be settled at once.”

“I have no power to make an agreement.”

The Duke sprang to his feet.

“Then what have you come here for?”

At that instant the door was opened; it was only Agapito da Amalia coming in after attending to the Duke’s order, but it had a startling effect. Machiavelli was not a nervous man, but it strangely shook him.

“I have come because Your Excellency requested my government to send an envoy to treat with him.”

“But an envoy with full powers to treat.”

Until now the Duke had treated Machiavelli with tolerable courtesy, but now, his eyes blazing, he strode up to him. Machiavelli rose and the two men faced one another.

“The Signory is fooling me. They sent you precisely because you have no power to decide anything. Their eternal shilly–shallying exasperates me beyond endurance. How long do they think they can continue to try my patience?”

The Cardinal, who had sat in silence, put in a word to calm the storm, but the Duke harshly told him to hold his tongue. He began to pace up and down the room, storming; he was bitter, brutal and sarcastic; he seemed to have lost all control over himself. Machiavelli, unmoved and far from frightened, watched him with curiosity. At last the Duke flung himself back into his chair.

“Tell your government that I am deeply affronted.”

“The last thing my government would wish is to affront Your Excellency. They instructed me to inform you that the rebels had requested their aid and they had refused.”

“Waiting as usual, I suppose, to see which way the cat would jump.”

There was more truth in this than was pleasant for Machiavelli to hear. His face remained impassive.

“They have no love for the Orsini or for Vitellozzo. They are anxious to be on friendly terms with Your Excellency, and I must press you to be more definite. It is at least necessary that I should be able to tell the Signory precisely what sort of an agreement it is that you desire.”

“The discussion is ended. You force me to come to terms with the rebels. I can reduce them to submission tomorrow by agreeing to the proposal of the Orsini to attack Florence.”

“Florence is under the protection of the King of France,” answered Machiavelli sharply. “He has promised us four hundred lancers and an ample force of infantry whenever we need them.”

“The French promise much in return for the money they continually demand, but when they have got it seldom keep their promises.”

Machiavelli knew that was true. The Florentines had suffered much from the rapacity and double–dealing of King Louis. He had more than once undertaken at a price to send troops to assist them in their difficulties and then, having received the money, had delayed and delayed, and in the end sent only half the number paid for. The Duke could not have made himself more plain. The Florentines must either accept the alliance he offered them—and everyone in Italy knew what a faithless friend he was—or else he would compose his differences with his discontented captains and together with them attack the Republic. Blackmail! The situation was alarming and Machiavelli in distress sought for something to say that would at least leave the way open for further negotiations; but the Duke prevented him from speaking.

“What are you waiting for, Secretary? You may withdraw.”

He did not trouble to acknowledge Machiavelli’s low bow. Agapito da Amalia accompanied the envoy down the stairs.

“His Excellency is a quick–tempered man and is unused to being crossed,” he said.

“That is a fact that has not escaped my observation,” replied Machiavelli acidly.

PIERO AND the courier were waiting in the guardroom and when the doors were duly unbarred and unlocked conducted Machiavelli to the Golden Lion. They had made much of the fact that the repast they had ordered was for the Florentine envoy, and he ate well and amply. The wine of the country, though not to be compared with the Tuscan wine, was strong, and he drank freely. On reflection he came to the conclusion that his conversation with the Duke was after all not unsatisfactory. Il Valentino’s anger seemed to indicate that he was nervous and his insistence on an immediate alliance with the Republic that he knew his position was perilous. Machiavelli was indifferent to the scant courtesy with which he had been treated. He knew when he started on his mission that he need not expect to be used with consideration. Having done eating and belched his full, he bade the courier show the way to the monastery where he was to lodge. In view of his importance a cell had been vacated for him, but Piero and the courier were to share a straw mattress in a corridor along with a number of transients only too glad to have a roof over their heads. But before going to bed Machiavelli wrote a letter to the Signory in which he described the events of the evening. The courier was to take it back to Florence at the crack of dawn.

“You had better write to Biagio so that he can tell your mother you have arrived here without mishap,” he said to Piero. “And ask him to send me a Plutarch.”

Machiavelli had brought his Dante with him and besides that only Livy’s Annals . Plutarch offered entertainment as well as instruction. When Piero had finished, Machiavelli without ceremony took the letter and read it. He smiled faintly when he read: “ Messer Niccolò was silent throughout the morning and thinking he was occupied with weighty matters I did not disturb him, but after he had dined he talked with so much wit, clearness and good sense that it seemed to me we had hardly left Scarperia when we were arrived at Imola. He thinks I have a good voice. I wish it had been possible for me to bring my lute. ”

“A very good letter,” said Machiavelli. “The message you have asked Biagio to deliver to your mother is very fit and proper. And now after this long day let us take a well–earned rest.”

MACHIAVELLI NEEDED little sleep and awoke soon after sunrise. He called Piero to help him dress. His riding clothes were packed in the saddlebags and he put on the sober black raiment which was his usual wear. He had no intention of remaining at the monastery, for he needed quarters where he could if necessary receive persons in secret, and he knew very well that at the monastery his visitors and his movements would be conspicuous. The courier was already on his way to Florence. With Piero accompanying him, Machiavelli set out for the Golden Lion. Imola was a bright little town and there was no sign that it had, not long since, changed masters. As they walked through the narrow, tortuous streets they passed a good many people going about their various business, and they looked contented. You received the impression that the tenor of their lives remained unaltered. Now and then pedestrians had to make way for a man on horseback or for a string of donkeys with a load of firewood. A man sauntered by with she–asses, whose milk was good for pregnant women, and announced his presence with a melodious call; an old crone popped her head out of a window and shouted; he stopped and in a minute she appeared at her door with a beaker. A peddler of pins and needles, thread and ribbands passed along raucously crying his wares. There were shops in the street in which was the Golden Lion; there was a customer in the saddler’s, a man was having his hair cut at the barber’s and a woman was trying on a pair of shoes at the shoemaker’s. There was about all an air, not of opulence, but of a comfortable prosperity. No beggars pestered.