Then and Now

by W. Somerset Maugham

  Meanwhile good news arrived from Rome. On receipt of his son's letter telling him what had occurred at Sini-gaglia, His Holiness sent a message to Cardinal Orsini not, naturally enough, to inform him of what had happened to his friends and kinsmen, but to impart the glad tidings that the citadel had surrendered; and next day, as in duty bound, the Cardinal went to the Vatican to offer the Pope his congratulations. He was accompanied by relations and retainers. He was conducted to an antechamber and there together with the other members of his family put under arrest. It was safe then for the Duke to dispose of his captives, and Michelotto strangled Pagolo Orsini, the fool who had been taken in by the Duke's smooth words, and his nephew the Duke of Gravina. The Cardinal was imprisoned in the Castle of San Angelo where after no long time he very obligingly died. The Pope and his son might congratulate themselves on having crippled the strength of the family that had been for so long a thorn in the flesh of the Vicars of Christ. It was indeed a cause for rejoicing that in disposing of their personal enemies they had done an important service to the Church. They proved thus that it was in point of fact possible to serve God and Mammon.

  32

  When the Duke arrived at a place called Città della Piave Machiavelli was relieved to learn that his successor was on the point of leaving Florence. Città della Piave was a town of some note, with a castle and a cathedral, and he had the luck to find a decent dwelling-place. The Duke proposed to stay there briefly to rest his troops, and by the time he set forth again Machiavelli hoped that Giacomo Salviati, the new ambassador, would have come. The long journeys on horseback had tired him, the bad food upset his stomach, and he had got little sleep in the wretched lodgings which at the day's end he had been obliged to put up with.

  After two or three days it happened that one afternoon he lay on his bed to rest his way-worn limbs, but uneasily, for he was not a little troubled in mind. Though he had written almost daily to the Signory to tell them what it behoved them to know, he had hesitated to inform them of the more important parts of his conversation with the Duke at Sinigaglia. The Duke had offered him wealth and power; the opportunity was prodigious, and it might well occur to the Signory that since he occupied already as important a position as he could ever aspire to he might find the temptation irresistible. They were small men with the low suspiciousness of pettifogging attorneys. They would ask themselves what there was between them to make Il Valentino think him susceptible to such advances. It would be a black mark against him. He would be a man whom perhaps it was wise not to trust too much and it would not be difficult to find a plausible reason for his dismissal. Why, Machiavelli asked himself, should they suppose he would put the interests of Florence above his own when it was just because they did not do that that they were jeopardizing her safety? It seemed prudent to keep silence, and yet if somehow the Signory got wind of the Duke's proposals his very silence would condemn him. The situation was awkward. His reflections, however, were rudely interrupted by a booming voice asking the woman of the house whether Messer Niccolo Machiavelli lived there.

  'Messer Bartolomeo,' cried Piero, who had been sitting at the window reading one of his master's books.

  'What the devil does he want?' asked Machiavelli irritably, as he got up.

  In a moment the burly fellow burst into the room. He flung his arms round Machiavelli and kissed him on both cheeks.

  'It's been the very deuce to find you. I've been to house after house.'

  Machiavelli disengaged himself.

  '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. Niccolo, Niccolo, 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 Niccolo, 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 should never have gone to Ravenna and spent that cold night praying before the altar of San Vitale but for you. True, it was Fra Timo-teo'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 Giuli-ano 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 sucking pig. We will feast and drink to the health of my firstborn 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 g
ive 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 dare say 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 business man 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 Machia-velli'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 man'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 a helpless 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.

  But this was a strange thing that had happened. It shook him. Though his reason revolted he was aware within himself of an uneasy inclination to believe in the possibility of a supernatural intervention. His head refused to accept it, but in his bones, in his blood, in his nerves there was a doubt that he could not still. It was as though all those generations behind him that had believed took possession of his soul and forced their will upon him.

  'My grandfather suffered from his stomach too,' he said suddenly.

  Piero had no notion what he was talking about. Machiavelli sighed.

  'It may be that if men have grown soft it is because in their worthlessness they have interpreted our religion according to their sloth. They have forgotten that it enjoins upon us to love and honour our native land, and to prepare ourselves to be such that we can defend her.'

  He burst out laughing when he saw the blankness of Piero's face.

  'Never mind, my boy, pay no attention to my nonsense. I will get myself ready to announce to the Duke the arrival tomorrow of the ambassador, and in any case we'll get a good supper out of that old fool.'

  33

  They got it. Under the influence of the first decent meal he had eaten since leaving Imola and the good Chianti Bartolomeo had brought from Florence, Machiavelli expanded. He made indecent jokes, he told obscene stories, he was lightly ribald, grossly coarse and gaily lewd. He made Bartolomeo laugh so much that his sides ached. All three of them got a little drunk.

  The events at Sinigaglia had caused a stir in Italy and a multitude of imaginative Italians had related the story in their different ways. Bartolomeo was eager to hear the facts from an eye-witness, and Machiavelli, pleasantly mellow, was very willing to oblige him. He had written his account three or four times to the Signory, in part because of its importance and in part because at least one of his letters had not reached its destination. He had reflected upon the various incidents, he had had the opportunity to gather details from one or the other of those close to Il Valentino, and he had by now got to the bottom of much that at the time had puzzled him.

  He made a thrilling story of it.

  'When Vitellozzo left Città di Castello for Sinigaglia he bade farewell to his family and friends as though he knew it was for the last time. To his friends he left the charge of his house and its fortunes and he admonished his nephews to remember the virtues of their ancestors.'

  'If he knew the danger he was running why did he leave the safety of his walled town?' asked Bartolomeo.

  'How can man escape his destiny? We think to bend men to our will, we think to mould events to our purpose, we strive, we toil and sweat, but in the end we are nought but the playthings of fate. When the captains had been arrested and Pagolo Orsini was complaining of the Duke's perfidy, the only reproach that Vitellozzo made him was this: "You see how wrong you were and in what a plight my friends and I have been placed by your folly." '

  'He was a scoundrel and he deserved to die,' said Barto-lomeo. 'I sold him some horses once and he never paid me for them. When I demanded the money he told me to come to Città di Castello and get it. I preferred to pocket my loss.'

  'You were wise.'

  Machiavelli asked himself what had been the thoughts of that ruthless man, old, tired and sick, during the hours that passed between the time of his arrest and the time when tied to a chair, back to back with Oliverotto, Michelotto's cruel hands had wrung the life out of him. Michelotto was a pleasant fellow to meet, he would drink a bottle of wine with you and crack a lewd joke, play strange Spanish tunes on a guitar and by the hour sing wild, sad songs of his country. It was hard then to believe that he was the murderous brute you knew him to be. What fearful satisfaction did he get out of doing his foul work with his own hands? Machiavelli smiled as he thought that one of these days the Duke, having finished with him, would have him killed with no more compunction than when he had killed his trusted and loyal lieutenant Ramiro de Lorqua.

  'A strange man,' he muttered, 'perhaps a great one.'

  'Of whom are you speaking?' asked Bartolomeo.

  'Of the Duke of course. Of whom else could I have been speaking? He has rid himself of his enemies by the exercise of a duplicity so perfect that the onlooker can only wonder and admire. These painters with their colours and their brushes prate about the works of art they produce, but what are they in comparison with a work of art that is produced when your paints are living men and your brushes wit and cunning? The Duke is a man of acti
on and impetuous, you would never have credited him with the wary patience that was needed to bring his beautiful stratagem to a successful issue. For four months he kept them guessing at his intentions; he worked on their fears, he traded on their jealousies, he confused them by his wiles, he fooled them with false promises; with infinite skill he sowed dissension among them, so that the Bentivogli in Bologna and the Baglioni in Perugia deserted them. You know how ill it has served Baglioni: the Bentivogli's turn will come. As suited his purpose he was friendly and genial, stern and menacing; and at last they stepped into the trap he had set. It was a masterpiece of deceit which deserves to go down to posterity for the neatness of its planning and the perfection of its execution.'

  Bartolomeo, a loquacious fellow, was about to speak, but Machiavelli had not yet said his say.

  'He has rid Italy of the petty tyrants that were its scourge. What will he do now? Others before him have seemed to be chosen by God to effect the redemption of Italy, and then in the full current of action have been cast off by fortune.'

  He rose to his feet abruptly. He was tired of the party and did not want to listen to Bartolomeo's platitudes. He thanked him for his entertainment and escorted by the faithful Piero went back to his lodging.

  34

  Next day Bartolomeo, his business transacted, set off for Perugia on his way home. Later on Machiavelli, with Piero and his two servants, and a number of the Duke's gentlemen, rode out to meet the Florentine ambassador. After Giacomo Salviati, for such was his name, had changed from his riding clothes to the dignified garb of a Florentine of rank, Machiavelli accompanied him to the castle to present his credentials. Machiavelli was eager to get back to Florence, but he could not leave till he had made known to the ambassador the various persons with whom it was necessary for him to be acquainted. Little was done at the Duke's court for love, and Machiavelli had to inform his successor what services such a one could render and what payment he expected. He had to give his opinion of the trustworthiness of one and the unreliability of another. Though Giacomo Salviati had read the letters that Machiavelli had written to the Signory, there was much that he had not ventured to say, since the danger was constant that letters would be intercepted, and so he had to spend long hours recounting by word of mouth a multitude of facts that it behoved the ambassador to know.