When Niccolo had the time to shake these visions of divine intervention from his mind, he realized that what he was staring at was the watermark. He knew enough about making paper to know that pulp is boiled and then left to dry on a screened rack. The fineness of that screen mesh, among other things, will determine the quality of the paper. Any defects in the regularity of the screen will show up, etched in the very fiber of the paper. Long ago, papermakers began the practice of marking their products by twisting a rogue wire in the screen in the shape of an initial or a trademark. Over time, these designs, left when the water dries out of the pulp and hence called watermarks, became more elaborate. Wealthy clients often commissioned special signature marks for the batches of paper they ordered. There was already a whole history and a science of identifying the origin of a sheet of paper by its watermark. But Niccolo needed to consult no code book to decipher this one. He did not have to return to the archives and pore over dusty volumes to know what it meant. A crooked, cunning smile crossed his face as he stared down at it, and he began to laugh. It was so clear, so obvious, when the paper was backlit against the candle:
The letter had not come from Soderini at all. It had come from the Medici!
Having successfully avoided the trap set for him, and in so doing, having earned a certain grudging measure of confidence from his Medici masters, Niccolo was employed more frequently on official business. His latest mission, however, was causing him to have second thoughts about serving his city as a minor official. He sucked in a mouthful of soup and looked around him. Arranged in orderly rows up and down long tables on uncomfortable backless benches, the monks were all sucking and slurping almost in unison. The only other sound in the refectory was the drone that issued from the pulpit placed high up in the wall. Talking at meals was forbidden, and edifying readings from the Scriptures and the Church Fathers took its place. No conversation, no conviviality! They called this a meal! And the food! The broth was so thin, so colorless, so tasteless and weak that had one chicken been boiled in all the water in the Mediterranean Sea, the result would have been more hearty and flavorful. And it wasn’t even warm.
Niccolo took another mouthful and swallowed. Looking to the head of the first table—he wasn’t even seated at the first table—he saw the suave minister general of the order working his plump, shaven jaws up and down with great determination. He was chewing! He actually had something real to eat. Whatever was in his dish, it was definitely not the unappetizing, watery gruel that Niccolo had been served. There was nothing substantial enough in his sorry bowl to require the intervention of teeth before swallowing. He only hoped the second course would include more robust fare.
Niccolo had been sent to Carpi, to attend a general assembly meeting of the Friars Minor, the Franciscan order, and to conduct a number of affairs on behalf of Florentine interests, among them the recruiting of a preacher for the wool guild to preach the Lenten sermons in the cathedral the following year. He had arrived that morning and been told that his business could not be transacted until after the chapter elections were held and new officials were chosen. This, he was told, could take some time, and so he was shown to a cell that could only be described as monastic and told to make himself comfortable. Was that a joke? The cell reminded him of nothing so much as his cell in the infernal stinche. It was a little cleaner, but the furnishing were approximately the same, consisting of a rough wooden slab that he supposed was to serve as a bed. There was a window and, for comfort, a crucifix on the wall. He had passed the day hunched up in there, reading, looking forward to dinner. He knew from Pagolo that the prodigality of monastic hospitality was often boundless, but he was beginning to suspect that this house at Carpi was not one of those lavish establishments. He quickly drained the half cup of wine that had been served him and waited in vain for another. There was no pitcher on the table, and nobody was coming around with one. His spirits were sinking.
Finally, the bowls were cleared. At last, something to eat! The monks all bowed their heads in mumbled prayer. Did they pray before every course? Was there going to be another ration of watered-down wine with the meat? Such were the questions that preoccupied Niccolo. Such were his concerns. Then the praying stopped, and the monks did an unexpected thing. They rose, as one man, and began to file out of the refectory. Dinner was over!
When Niccolo returned to his cell, hungry and unrefreshed, there was a letter waiting for him, containing further instructions relating to his mission. It was from the papal governor of Modena, within whose jurisdiction Carpi fell. In the future, Niccolo was to address all correspondence to him, for as long as he was at Carpi, etc., etc. The letter made clear that the entire mission to the monks was something of a farce and that Niccolo should simply enjoy himself, if possible. It was signed, “Franciscus de Guicciardinis,” and under the name, pompously in Latin, “Gubernator—Governor.”
But a postscript was appended to the letter: “Early in my career, while I served as Florentine ambassador to the court of Spain, I used to receive instructions from the Ten over the signature of a Niccolo Machiavelli. Are you related to him? Was he perhaps your grandfather?”
Niccolo let the letter slip to the floor. Once again, he was confronted with the painful recognition of how far he had fallen. He remembered sending off dispatches to this Guicciardini, an insignificant ambassador at the time. Now Guicciardini had risen to the rank of governor, and he assumed that Niccolo was the grandson of that Niccolo Machiavelli, chancellor and secretary to the Ten of War. Formerly chancellor and now? Now he was ambassador to the Sandaled Republic of Parsimonious Friars Minor. An insignificant man on an unimportant assignment.
In the days that followed, having nothing better to do while the monks quibbled in their chapter meetings, Niccolo penned a letter to the governor, apprising him as to his actual identity and reduced circumstances. He was almost apologetic. To his surprise, he received an immediate response from this Guicciardini. It was a letter that brought tears to his eyes when he read it, for it was full of genuine affection, the utmost respect, and a tragic meditation on the course of history and fate. From that moment on, Niccolo and Francesco Guicciardini were fast friends. The friendship led first to a lively exchange of very candid letters in which Niccolo complained of the treatment he was receiving at the hands of the stingy monks, and soon, between the two of them, they worked out a way to remedy the situation.
It was midmorning and Niccolo was alone in the vast communal toilet, meditating as he later wrote to Guicciardini, on the vanity of the world. The toilet was a spacious, airy place that could accommodate up to twenty-four monks at a sitting. Two rows of low, hollow cement benches, punctuated at regular intervals by holes, had been constructed down the length of the walls. The monks, who did everything together at regular intervals, occupied the toilet en masse after breakfast, if you wanted to call a hard crust of black bread breakfast, for about twenty minutes. Niccolo had no desire to share this intimate moment with twenty-three other men, and so, at the cost of considerable violence to his own digestive system, he contrived to have the place to himself from about half past nine to ten o’clock.
The rider arrived with such a show of haste and importance that the monks were at first cowed when he clattered into the small courtyard on a giant, black, lathered steed. Leaping from his horse, the man, an armed and liveried crossbowman, demanded to see the Florentine ambassador. From a pouch, he produced a most magnificent and impressively sealed letter. One of the friars babbled that the Florentine ambassador was “occupied.” “He, ahem, doesn’t like to be disturbed at this time of day. You may leave the message with us.” The messenger balked at the suggestion like a man asked to leave his only daughter in the hands of a known child molester. “I insist on seeing him personally. Now!”
With no other recourse, the monks meekly indicated the closed door of the toilet, and in clamored the obstreperous messenger, without so much as a knock. When Niccolo emerged a few minutes later, cinching himself with one hand,
holding the letter in the other with the other, and nodding gravely, he looked up to see the entire chapter gathered around him in a circle with inquisitive looks on their faces. “I need a table. Quickly! And bring me writing materials!”
He was shown into the library and was barely seated when the second messenger arrived. This one bowed so low to the ground in front of Niccolo that it brought an audible mummer from the curious assembled monks. When he spoke, it was in a harsh and guttural German. Astonishing! The next mud-splattered messenger spoke French, the one after that, Spanish. Arriving almost on each other’s heels, their displays of haste and obsequiousness threw the entire monastery into a tumult. Perhaps they had underestimated this Florentine?
For his part, Niccolo was engaged in a flurry of letter writing, saying out loud for all to hear, “The emperor is expected at Trent . . . The Swiss are on the march again . . . The king of France wishes an urgent interview with the Florentines . . .” The monks meanwhile, gathered around this prestigious person in open-mouthed awe and hung on his every word and gesture. The messengers continued to arrive. Niccolo would write like one possessed for a few minutes, then pause. He would knit his brows and puff out his cheeks, and their astonishment would only increase. At the end of the day, the minister general approached Niccolo, who was making a great show of his exhaustion. “Perhaps you would care to dine with me this evening? In private?” A big smile lit up Niccolo’s face.
And from then on, it was fat ravioli swimming in butter and garlic, roasts and fowl and sausages and generous drafts of inky red wine that exploded with taste on the tongue. Niccolo was given a more commodious room—one only recently vacated, he was assured, by a most important member of the order. As the chapter meetings dragged on, he was able to pass his days reading, lost in the depths of a massive, exquisitely soft feather bed.
Finally, the mission came to an end, or rather, Niccolo was unable to prolong it any further for fear the monks were beginning to discern that he was making fun of them. Indeed, his letters to Guicciardini were full of scandalous observations, which, if they had come to the attention of the good friars, would have been the cause of much consternation, not to say a severe beating for the Florentine ambassador. Since the exchange of these letters had been such a source of delight to Niccolo, he was determined to stop over in Modena on his way back to Florence for the express purpose of making the personal acquaintance of Messer Francesco Guicciardini. It was just as well, because a few miles outside of Modena, he was subjected to a severe attack of the stone and would have been unable to continue in any case, because of the pain.
Francesco Guicciardini was a thick and placid man. His head was large and his face, fleshy. It disappeared into his neck without coming to any point that could properly be called a chin. He wore a look of bland and regal insouciance that some men acquire after years of cruel experience and bitter observation. Francesco Guicciardini was born with that look on his face.
When he moved, which he did as little as possible, he moved ponderously and deliberately. He had a pair of delicate and lazy white hands, which rested on his ample stomach in an affectionate, complacent, paternal way when he talked. He could make the most clever and astute and ready observation or deliver the most stinging barb with a detachment that was uncanny. He was also capable of absorbing the news of the death of his wife, the fall of the Roman empire, or the end of the world and the second coming of Christ with an equal and magnanimous indifference.
Sitting across the table from Niccolo at breakfast, he puttered with his boiled egg in its little silver eggcup. He cracked the shell cautiously and explored the interior with a dainty, silver spoon. He was wearing a deep-purple morning coat with massive, bushy, white fur trim that hung down to his waist, both in front and back. He looked like a successful hunter with a large fur-bearing animal slung over each shoulder.
In the days since Niccolo had recovered from the sporadic shooting pains in his side, he and Guicciardini had done little else but debate the stormy course of recent Italian history. On the vicissitudes, on the deplorable condition of the present, and on the causes for all the disasters that had befallen Italy, they were in complete agreement. When it came to solutions to the problem, however, they differed markedly. In a spirit of collegiality and intellectual equality, they had taken to addressing each other by their last names.
Still toying with his egg, Guicciardini was saying, “Your problem, Machiavelli, is that the story of your life isn’t the story of your life at all. It’s the story of the ups and downs of your damned republic.”
“To a certain extent,” admitted Niccolo. “But lately I’ve been learning how to get along.”
“Lately?” sniffed Guicciardini. “How old are you now Machiavelli?”
“Fifty-two this month.”
“Fifty-two and you’re finally learning how to get on in the world? A remarkable achievement for one as bright as yourself.”
“I’ve always tried to put the good of the republic before my own personal ambitions.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Machiavelli, don’t you see? Anyway, your dreary republic seems to have been put out of business for a while. You won’t have that choice to make any time in the near future.”
“Perhaps not,” said Niccolo noncommitally.
“Oh, you still have that cricket in your head, don’t you? Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! It never stops, does it? The resurgent republic! The example of the ancient Romans! By the way, I think you make far too much of your ancient Romans.”
Niccolo shook his head, “Guicciardini, you’ll never understand about passion and commitment and valor and virtue.”
“I should hope not! It would put me at a distinct disadvantage in the world if I did. There’s certainly not much valor or virtue in His Holiness, is there? And I can’t for the life of me think of more than a handful of valiant men in Florence in this day and age. No, Machiavelli, I’m afraid the age of valor has long since passed. I’m afraid valor is quite dead.”
“Or maybe just sleeping?” said Niccolo mischievously.
“You’ll never give it up, will you? Machiavelli, learn to live with it. Look at you! Fifty-two years old and you’re still dreaming the romantic dreams of a boy of fifteen! You’re really quite a marvelous study in obstinacy and stubbornness. Even the clothes you wear. You still insist on wearing that old lucco, your solemn citizen’s gown, your toga, your badge of membership in the new Roman republic!”
Niccolo stiffened, “The lucco is a respected and dignified garment, apart from any associations you may choose to attribute to it.”
“You should get something nice to wear like this.” Guicciardini lovingly stroked the magnificent wooly beasts who adorned his shoulders.
“I couldn’t afford it,” said Niccolo diffidently.
“Whose fault is that?”
“You were born rich, Guicciardini.”
“And I intend to remain so. But what about you? You certainly had more than enough chance in your years of service to put a little something aside for a rainy day?”
“I was honest.”
“Honesty has nothing to do with it. I’m not talking about outright plundering the treasury or even accepting bribes, necessarily. Let me give you an example—the way you bungled the Soderini abdication.”
“Bungled!”
“Bungled. What did you advise Soderini to do when the first signs of trouble started to show themselves?”
“I told him to throw his enemies in prison and stand and fight.”
“Which he didn’t do until it was too late. Piero was never very assertive. Now, I would have counseled a more conciliatory approach. I would have made deals with the Bigi, because there were deals to be made in those days. Soderini could have gone gracefully, early on, without a struggle, his wealth intact. You could have gone with him into exile and lived happily ever after.”
“I could never live far from Florence.”
“Not that! Maudlin sentimentality.”
; Niccolo huffed, “I love the city, Guicciardini, and I’m not ashamed of it. And I was faithful to Soderini—to the last.”
“So was I, faithful to Soderini, but up to a point. I saw what was coming, and I made my arrangements. When the republic flourished, I worked for the republic. When the republic, unfortunately or otherwise, fell, I made my peace with the Medici. Now, I work for them.”
“And so, finally, do I,” said Niccolo.
“But I have a much better job,” said Guicciardini, laughing. “And besides, Machiavelli, you can’t fool me. You don’t really work for them, do you? You’re working for your imaginary republic, your fantasy vision of Florence. Because the real Florence happens to be in their hands, you’ve called a temporary truce. Isn’t that right?”
“Whatever you say, Guicciardini. Whatever you say.” And Niccolo thought of that moment in which he had been so perilously close to dropping everything, dropping the facade and rushing off to conspire with Soderini in Rome.
“Let me give you some advice before you do something stupid. Forget about your dreams of a republic. If it happens, if it comes about, then by all means, offer your services. In the meantime, watch out for your own particular interests. I can assure you nobody else will. Be discreet. When you’ve provided for your own security, which you are on the way to doing, finally, then you can do what I’m doing.”
“Which is?”
“Sit back and watch.”
“Is that all?”
“You might want to take some notes, so that you can write about it later.”
“Francesco Guicciardini, you’re a man without a soul,” said Niccolo, regarding him with amused disbelief.
“Thank you,” said the portly aristocrat, dabbing at the bits of egg yolk on his slack upper lip. “I’ll take that as a compliment to my dispassionate and analytical side. Now this history, you’re writing. Let’s talk about that. You know, I once began a history of Florence?”
“And you didn’t finish?”
Machiavelli: The Novel Page 73
