'I brought her up very strictly, Messer Niccolo, and since the night I put her to bed, an innocent virgin, with Messer Bartolomeo, she has been a faithful and dutiful wife to him.'
'If I am rightly informed she has never had the opportunity to be anything else.'
Monna Caterina gave a low, somewhat bawdy laugh.
'Messer Niccolo, you have lived long enough to know that when a wife wishes to deceive her husband no precautions he may take can stop her.'
'All history bears you out, Monna Caterina, and I perceive from what you say that you are a woman with whom one can speak frankly.'
She turned her head a little and looked at him earnestly.
'Messer Niccolo, I have had great misfortunes in my life. I have been tossed on stormy seas and now that I am safe in harbour I have no wish to expose myself again to the fury of the elements.'
'I can well understand it, but are you so sure that your anchor is firm and your mooring taut?'
Monna Caterina did not answer and Machiavelli was conscious of the uneasiness of her silence. He went on.
'Am I not right in thinking that if Monna Aurelia does not soon produce the heir Bartolomeo craves he has it in mind to adopt the two sons of Monna Costanza?'
Once again Monna Caterina made no reply.
'You have too great an experience of the world, Madonna, to make it necessary for me to tell you what your position and that of your daughter would be in such a case.'
Two tears trickled down Monna Caterina's cheeks. Machiavelli patted her hand in kindness.
'Desperate situations demand desperate remedies.'
She shrugged her shoulders despondently.
'Even though I should be able to overcome Aurelia's fears, the opportunity would be lacking.'
'Am I displeasing to your daughter?'
'You make her laugh,' smiled Monna Caterina, 'and a jest will as often gain a woman's favours as a handsome face.'
'You are a woman after my own heart, Madonna. Should the opportunity present itself so that what we both wish could be effected without danger, may I count on your help?'
'It is not only my daughter's fears that must be overcome, but also her scruples.'
'Such of them as you will not have been able to dispel by the exercise of your common sense we can safely leave to be dealt with by the excellent Fra Timoteo. He does not like the Dominicans.'
Monna Caterina gave a low laugh.
'You are a charming man, Messer Niccolo. If I were still desirable and you desired me, I would refuse you nothing.'
'The old cow,' Machiavelli said to himself, but he pressed her hand and aloud answered: 'If I were not so passionately in love with your daughter I should not hesitate to take you at your word.'
'There is Aurelia.'
'I will leave you.'
Slipping out of the church, he went to a silversmith and there bought a chain, only of silver gilt, certainly, for he had not the money for a gold one, but of very pretty workmanship. Next morning he sent Piero to buy a basket of the luscious figs which Monna Caterina had told him she liked so much, and putting the chain at the bottom of the basket told Piero to take it to her. He was to say that the figs were a gift from Machiavelli and to add that underneath them she would find something that he begged her to accept as a mark of his esteem. He felt that he and Monna Caterina understood one another perfectly, but he knew that nothing confirms an understanding like a little present.
21
Some days later Bartolomeo suggested that they should repeat the evening of good cheer and singing which had been so enjoyable. They did so. Things went off as before, with pleasant conversation and some good music; Aurelia, never very chatty, was more silent than usual, but Machiavelli was conscious that when he was talking in his sprightly way to the others she looked at him appraisingly. He was pretty sure that she and her mother had discussed him and his desires, and these enquiring glances of hers meant that she was wondering what he would be like in the capacity of a lover. He knew that it was not his good looks that made his success with women, but his agreeable discourse, his wit and his easy manner. He put his best foot forward. He knew that women appreciated neither irony nor sarcasm, but simple jokes and funny stories. He was amply provided with both. The laughter with which his sallies were greeted excited him and he flattered himself that he had never been more amusing. He took care, however, to show that he was not only a jester, but a good-natured man, kindly and easy to get on with, one in whom you could have confidence and whom it would not be hard to love. Was it only his fancy that when from time to time he caught Aurelia's eyes he saw in them a smiling tenderness that suggested she was not indifferent to him? He had seen that look before in women's eyes. They were strange creatures: they had to bring sentiment in and thus tiresomely complicate a pleasure which a merciful Providence had provided for human beings in compensation for the expulsion of their first parents from the Garden of Eden. But sometimes it was convenient that they should have this foible. He gave a passing thought to Marietta, who had married him by arrangement with her parents and now so doted on him that she could hardly bear him out of her sight. She was a good woman and he had a real affection for her, but she couldn't expect him to be tied to her apron strings. The affairs of his mission kept Machiavelli so busy that for several days after this he was obliged to devote his whole time to them; but through Piero he sent Aure-lia a flask of attar of roses which he had bought at a cost he could ill afford from a merchant who had recently come from the Levant. It was a good sign that she did not refuse it. He congratulated Piero on the tact and skill with which he had managed to convey it to her without anyone's knowing, and gave him a scudo so that he could prosecute his suit with Nina.
'How are you getting on, my boy?' he asked.
'I don't think she dislikes me,' said Piero. 'She's frightened of that servant of theirs. He's her lover.'
'I suspected that, but don't be discouraged; if she wants you she'll find ways and means to arrange things.'
Then came a rainy afternoon. Bartolomeo sent round to ask Machiavelli if he could spare the time to come to his house and play chess. Machiavelli decided that what work he had to do could be done later, and went. Bartolomeo received him in his study. Though there was no fireplace a brazier warmed it not inadequately.
'I thought we could play more conveniently here than in company with a pair of chattering women,' said Bartolomeo.
Machiavelli had gone in the hope of seeing Aurelia and was somewhat put out, but he answered civilly enough.
'Women will talk, and chess is a game that demands concentration.'
They played, and perhaps because Machievelli's attention was divided, Bartolomeo to his delight beat him without difficulty. He called for wine, and when it had been brought and Machiavelli was setting up the pieces for another game, he leant back in his chair and said:
'It was not only for the pleasure of playing chess with you that I asked you to be good enough to come here, dear Niccolo. I want to ask your advice.'
'It is at your service.'
'Have you ever heard of San Vitale?'
A faint sigh of satisfaction escaped Machiavelli's lips. Fra Timoteo had not failed him.
'Strange that you should ask that! You're speaking of the church at Ravenna? The saint's bones are buried there. Everyone in Florence was talking about him not so very long ago.'
'In what connection?'
'There is no limit to the folly of mankind, and our good Florentines, who pride themselves on their lively intelligence, are of a credulity beyond belief.'
He saw that Bartolomeo was all agog and he thought, I will keep him on tenterhooks.
'What is it that you refer to?'
'The story is so absurd that I am really ashamed to tell it. Within the limits set by our Holy Church my fellow-citizens have a healthy scepticism, and are disinclined to believe in anything that they cannot see, smell or touch for themselves.'
'That is what makes them the good business me
n they are.'
'Maybe. But how surprising that now and then they fall prey to the most absurd superstition! To tell you the truth I can't bring myself to tell you a story that shows them in such a ridiculous light.'
'I am almost a Florentine myself and now I shall never rest till I hear it. It is always a pleasure to listen to you and on such a cheerless day it is well to laugh.'
'Well, the facts are these: Giuliano degli Albertelli, a citizen of Florence, is a man of property, a man in the flower of his age, with a fine house in the city and a beautiful wife to whom he is greatly attached. He should have been a happy man, but he had no child, and this was a bitter grief to him because he had quarrelled desperately with his brother and could not endure to think that this man and his brood of squalling brats should one day inherit all he possessed. He took his wife to the baths, he took her on pilgrimages to various holy places, he consulted doctors and the old women who pretend to have secret herbs to make women conceive, but nothing served.'
Bartolomeo, breathing heavily, listened as though his life depended on it.
'Then it happened that a monk who had been on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land told him that on his way home he had stopped at Ravenna where there was the church of San Vitale, and the saint had the miraculous power of making sterile men fertile. Though his friends sought to dissuade him, Giuliano insisted on visiting the shrine, and you can image how everyone laughed when he set out on the journey. Lampoons were written and passed from hand to hand. When he came back men had to turn away to prevent themselves from bursting into laughter before his face. Nine months to a day from the date of his return his wife was delivered of a nine-pound son. It was Giuliano who laughed then. All Florence was confounded and the pious cried out that it was a miracle.'
The sweat glistened on Bartolomeo's brow.
'If it wasn't a miracle what was it?'
'Within these four walls, dear friend, I will tell you that I think the time of miracles has passed, doubtless because owing to our sins we are no longer worthy of them, but I must confess that this occurrence has greatly shaken me. I can only repeat after you, if it wasn't a miracle, what was it? I have given you the facts and it is for you to make what you can of them.'
Bartolomeo took a long draught of wine. Machiavelli decided to offer another candle at the shrine of Fra Timo-teo's wonder-working Madonna: his invention had served him well.
'I know I can trust you, dear Niccolo,' said Bartolomeo after a pause. 'I am a judge of human nature and I am sure that you are a man of discretion. It was not for nothing that I asked you if you had ever heard of San Vitale, but I never expected you to confirm so promptly the information I have received.'
'You talk in riddles, friend.'
'You are well aware that I too have a great desire for a son to whom I can leave my fortune, my lands and houses, and who will inherit the property and the title which the Duke has granted me. I have a widowed sister who has two sons and having no child of my own I have had it in mind to adopt them. Though it is to their advantage she will not consent to be parted from them; she insists on our all living here together. But she shares with me the masterful character which has made me the man I am, and I can see little peace for me in a house inhabited by three jarring women. It would be the scene of incessant quarrels.'
'That I can believe.'
'I shouldn't have a moment's peace.'
'Your life would be a torment. They would tear you limb from limb.'
Bartolomeo gave a deep sigh.
'And it is on this question that you want my advice?' asked Machiavelli.
'No. I was discussing my difficulties with Fra Timoteo only yesterday and strangely enough he spoke to me of San Vitale. I do not for a moment believe that I am at fault in this matter, but if the saint's relics have the miraculous property reported, it might be worth while to go to Ravenna. I have some business to transact there, so that even if my main object were not achieved my journey would not be wasted.'
'In that case I don't see why you hesitate. You have everything to gain and nothing to lose.'
'Fra Timoteo is a good and saintly man, but he knows nothing of the world. It seems strange to me that if the saint has the power he is reputed to have his celebrity should not have been bruited abroad.'
For a moment Machiavelli was floored, but only for a moment.
'You forget that men are unwilling to admit that they suffer from a deficiency which they prefer to ascribe to their wives. You may be sure that the men who have availed themselves of the saint's intercession go in secret and take care never to divulge by what means their wives have been able to conceive.'
'I hadn't thought of that. But don't forget this, if it were ever known that I had gone and my pilgrimage were not blessed with a happy event I should be a laughing-stock in this city. It would be an admission of impotence.'
'But how could it be known? Has Fra Timoteo not told you what you must do? According to Giuliano you must spend the night in prayer and meditation before the relics of the saint.'
'But how is that possible?'
'For a gratuity the sacristan will let you remain when he locks up the church for the night. You will attend the first mass in the morning and then break your fast. Having done that, in your case, you will attend to your business and after that ride home to your expectant wife.'
Bartolomeo gave his friend a smile.
'Then you would not think me too great a fool if I made the experiment?'
'My dear, the ways of Providence are inscrutable. I can only tell you what happened to Giuliano degli Albertelli. Whether it was a miracle or not, who am I to say?'
'It is my last hope,' said Bartolomeo. 'I will try it. It succeeded with Messer Giuliano; there is no reason why it should not succeed with me.'
'None,' said Machiavelli.
22
During the following week Machiavelli's emotions were as various as the colours of a crazy quilt. At one moment he was hopeful, at another despondent; he passed from happy anticipation to angry disappointment; now he was in a fever of excitement, then in the depths of despair. For Bartolomeo could not make up his mind. He was at once eager and loath to go. He was like a man who is tempted to risk his money on an off chance and is torn between his fear of losing it and his greed for gain. One day he would decide to make the journey and the next decide not to. Machiavelli's digestion was always delicate and this uncertainty gravely affected it. It would be too cruel if, everything being arranged, he were so indisposed that he could not take advantage of the opportunity he had taken such pains and spent so much money to create. He had himself bled, he took a purge, he ate nothing but slops. And to make things worse he had more work to do than ever; negotiations between the Duke and his rebellious commanders were coming to a head, and Machiavelli had to write constant letters to the Signory, see agents, spend hours at the Palace to pick up news, and visit influential persons who were come to Imola on behalf of their respective states. But at the last moment fortune smiled upon him. A letter reached Bartolomeo from his factor in Ravenna to say that if he did not immediately clinch the deal which he had been for some time negotiating another offer would be accepted. This decided him.
Machiavelli's pains vanished. On the day after his conversation with Bartolomeo he had seen Fra Timoteo and the monk had agreed to give Bartolomeo the instructions which Machiavelli suggested. To ingratiate himself with Aurelia he went to one of the merchants whom the chance of easy money had attracted to Imola and bought a pair of scented gloves stitched with gold thread. They cost a great deal of money, but this was not an occasion on which he could stint. He sent them by Piero, telling the boy to ask for Monna Caterina so that the servants might think no more than that he had a message to give her from his master; and at the same time he bade him tell her that he wished to talk with her and would meet her in the church at whatever hour suited her. He was elated when Piero came back and told him that Monna Caterina had called her daughter in and she had been delighted with th
e costly present. Gloves of that kind were greatly prized, and the Marchioness of Mantua had thought such a gift not unworthy of the acceptance of the Queen of France.
'How did she look?' asked Machiavelli.
'Monna Aurelia? She looked pleased.'
'Don't be stupid, boy. Did she look beautiful?'
'She looked as she always looks.'
'Fool! When will Monna Caterina be at the church?'
'She is going to vespers this afternoon.'
Machiavelli was well pleased when he returned from his interview with her.
'What a noble animal is man,' he reflected, as he walked home. 'With audacity, cunning and money there is practically nothing he cannot do.'
At first Aurelia had been frightened and firmly refused to listen to the proposal, but little by little she had allowed herself to be convinced by Monna Caterina's arguments. They were indeed unanswerable, Machiavelli thought, and that was natural since he himself suggested them. They were strengthened by the gentle, yet firm admonitions of Fra Timoteo. Aurelia was a sensible girl and she could not but admit that it was unreasonable to jib at a small evil when a great good might come of it. The long and short of it was that if Bartolomeo were safely out of the way she was prepared to accede to Machiavelli's wishes.
Having made up his mind Bartolomeo saw no reason to delay and so, accompanied by his servant and a groom, he set out for Ravenna at noon on the following day. Machiavelli with his usual politeness went to bid him goodbye and wish success on the expedition. Nina, the maid, was sent home to spend the night with her parents, and when she had gone Machiavelli dispatched Piero to Bartolomeo's house with a basket in which were fish fresh from the river, a pair of fat capons, sweetmeats from the confectioner's, fruit, and a demi-john of the best wine the city could produce. The plan was that Machiavelli should wait till three hours after sunset, nine o'clock, by which time Serafina would be in bed and asleep, and then present himself at the little door of the yard. Monna Caterina would let him in and they would have supper. At a convenient moment she would retire to her own bed-chamber and Machiavelli would be left with the object of his affections; but she made him promise that he would leave the house well before dawn. When Piero returned, having delivered the basket, he brought a last message from Monna Caterina. She would be waiting at the door as the church clock struck the hour. To make sure it was he, he was to knock twice quickly, wait a moment, knock once, and then after another brief pause again knock twice. The door would be opened and he was to step in without a word.