Then and Now (10 page)

'Fra Timoteo is our confessor,' said Bartolomeo, a fact of which Machiavelli was well aware. 'And for my own part I never do a thing without his advice. He is not only a worthy man, but a wise one. Why, only a few months ago I was about to buy a cargo of spices in the Levant and he told me that he had seen St. Paul in a vision who told him that the ship would be wrecked on the coast of Crete, so I did not buy.'

'And was the ship wrecked?' asked Machiavelli.

'No, but three caravels arrived in Lisbon laden with spices, with the result that the bottom fell out of the market and I should have lost money on the transaction, so it came to the same thing.'

'The more you tell me of this friar the more curious I am to see him.'

'You are very likely to find him in the church in the morning, and if not you can ask the brother sacristan to fetch him.'

'May I tell him that I come to him with your recommendation?' Machiavelli asked politely.

'The envoy of the Republic needs no recommendation from a poor merchant in a town which is of small account compared with the magnificent city of Florence.'

'And what do you think of this Fra Timoteo?' Machiavelli went on, addressing himself to Aurelia. 'It is important that I should have the opinion not only of a man of position and discernment like Messer Bartolomeo and of a woman of discretion and experience like Monna Caterina, but also of one who has the enthusiasm, the innocence and the sensitiveness of youth, one to whom the world and its perils are still unknown; for the preacher I would recommend to the Signory must not only call sinners to repentance, but confirm the virtuous in their integrity.'

It was a pretty speech.

'Fra Timoteo can do no wrong in my eyes. I am prepared to be guided by him in everything.'

'And I,' added Bartolomeo, 'am prepared that you should be guided by him. He will never advise anything that is not to your best advantage.'

It had all gone very well and exactly as Machiavelli wished. He went to bed satisfied with himself.

Early next morning, being market day, Machiavelli took Piero with him to the market-place and bought two brace of plump partridges. At another stall he brought a basket of the luscious figs which were the speciality of Rimini and were so much prized that they were sent all over Italy. These comestibles he told Piero to take to Messer Bartolomeo and deliver with his compliments. With Imola crowded with strangers food was scarce and high in price so that he knew his present would be welcome. Then he made his way to the Franciscan church attached to the monastery in which Fra Timoteo was a monk. It was not far from Bartolomeo's house. It was a building of some size, but of no architectural merit. It was empty but for two or three women praying, a lay brother, obviously the sacristan, who was sweeping the floor, and a friar who was pottering about the altar of a chapel. Machiavelli with a passing glance saw that he was only pretending to be busy and guessed that this must be Fra Timoteo who had been warned by Monna Caterina to expect him.

'Pardon me, father,' said he, with a polite inclination of his backbone, 'I have been told that you are so fortunate as to have a miraculous Virgin in this church and I have a great desire to light a candle before her altar so that she may assist my dear wife, now pregnant, in the pains of childbirth.

'This is she, Messere,' said the monk. 'I was about to change her veil. I can't get the brothers to keep her clean and tidy, and then they're surprised because the pious neglect to pay their devotions to her. I remember when there were dozens of votive offerings in this chapel for graces received, and now there aren't twenty. And it's our own fault; they have no sense, my brothers.'

Machiavelli chose a candle of imposing dimensions, paid for it extravagantly with a florin, and watched the monk while he fixed it on an iron candlestick and lit it. When this was done Machiavelli said:

'I have a favour to ask of you, father. I have reason to speak privately to Fra Timoteo and I should be grateful if you would tell me how I can find him.'

'I am Fra Timoteo,' said the monk.

'Impossible! It looks as though Providence had a hand in this. It is a miracle that I should come here and in the first person I see find the very person I am looking for.'

'The designs of Providence are inscrutable,' said Fra Timoteo.

The monk was a man of medium stature, of a comfortable, but not disgusting corpulence, which suggested to Machiavelli's cool mind that he was given to fasting no more than the rules of his order demanded but not to the gross vice of gluttony. He had a fine head. It reminded one of a Roman emperor's whose fine features, not yet debased by luxury and unlimited power, bore notwithstanding a suggestion of the cruel sensuality that would lead to his assassination. It was a type not unfamiliar to Machiavelli. In those full red lips, in that bold hook nose, in those fine black eyes he read ambition, cunning and covetousness, but these qualities were masked by a semblance of good nature and simple piety. Machiavelli could well understand how he had gained so great an influence over Bartolomeo and the women of his family. He felt instinctively that this was a man he could deal with; he hated monks; to him they were either fools or knaves, and this one was probably a knave, but he must step warily.

'I should tell you, father, that I have heard a great deal to your credit from my friend Messer Bartolomeo Martelli. He has the highest opinion both of your virtue and your ability.'

'Messer Bartolomeo is a faithful son of the Church. Our monastery is very poor and we owe much to his generosity. But may I know whom I have the honour of addressing, Messere?'

Machiavelli knew that the friar was well aware of this, but answered gravely.

'I should have introduced myself. Niccolo Machiavelli, citizen of Florence and Secretary to the Second Chancery.'

The monk bowed low.

'It is a great privilege to speak with the envoy of that illustrious state.'

'You fill me with confusion, father, I am but a man with all the failings of humanity; but where can we speak in private and at length?'

'Why not here, Messere? The brother sacristan is as deaf as a post and as stupid as a mule and the three or four old women you see are too busy with their prayers to listen to what we are saying and too ignorant to understand it if they did.'

They sat down on two of the praying-stools which were in the chapel and Machiavelli told Fra Timoteo how he had been commissioned by the Signory to find a preacher to deliver the Lenten sermons in the cathedral. The friar's Roman face remained impassive, but Machiavelli felt in him an alertness of attention which confirmed his assurance that he had been informed of the previous night's conversation. Machiavelli apprised him of the Signory's requirements.

'They are naturally nervous,' he said. 'They don't want to make again the mistake they made with Fra Girolamo Savonarola. It is very well that the people should be persuaded to repentance, but the prosperity of Florence depends on its commerce and the Signory cannot allow repentance to disturb the peace or interfere with trade. Excess of virtue can be as harmful to the State as excess of vice.'

'Such, I seem to remember, was the opinion of Aristotle.'

'Ah, I see that you, unlike friars in general, are a man of education. That is all to the good. The people of Florence have agile and critical minds and have no patience with a preacher, however eloquent, who is without learning.'

'It is true that many of my brethren are of a shocking ignorance,' Fra Timoteo replied complacently. 'If I understand you aright you want to know if there is anyone in Imola who is in my opinion worthy of the honour you speak of. It is a matter that needs consideration. I shall have to think. I must make discreet enquiries.'

'You will be doing me a great favour. I know from Messer Bartolomeo and his ladies that you are a man of singular perspicacity and of the highest rectitude. I am confident that you will give me a disinterested opinion.'

'Messer Bartolomeo's ladies are saints. That is the only reason why they think so favourably of me.'

'I live in the house of Monna Serafina just behind Messer Bartolomeo's. If I could persuade you to join us in our modest meal tomorrow evening we could discuss the matter further, and it would give my good Serafina infinite pleasure to have you at her table.'

Fra Timoteo accepted the invitation. Machiavelli went home, but on the way called on Bartolomeo and asked him for a loan. He explained that he was put to great expense at Imola in connection with his mission, and the funds he was expecting from the Signory had not yet arrived. He pulled a long story about the parsimoniousness of the Florence government and complained that in order to maintain the dignity of his position and to meet the cost of information he had to pay money out of his own pocket. But Bartolomeo cut him short.

'Dear Niccolo,' he said in his jovial way, 'you do not have to tell me that in this court one can get nothing without paying for it. For your own sake as well as for that of the Signory I shall be happy to lend you whatever you require. How much do you want?'

Machiavelli was surprised and pleased.

'Twenty-five ducats.'

'Is that all? Wait and I will give it you at once.'

He left the room and in a minute or two came back with the money. Machiavelli regretted that he had asked for so little.

'And when you want more don't hesitate to ask me,' said Bartolomeo, beaming. 'You must look upon me as your banker.'

'A fool and his money are soon parted,' Machiavelli said to himself as he returned to his lodging.

Brother Timoteo came to supper. Machiavelli had bidden Serafina to buy the best the city could provide and the friar needed little pressing to eat heartily. Machiavelli saw that his cup was well-filled and when, supper finished, he led him into the parlour so that they might talk undisturbed, he told one of his servants to bring a flagon of wine.

'Now let us get down to business,' he said.

Fra Timoteo told him that he had been giving the subject of their conversation careful thought, and mentioned three monks who had some reputation in the city as preachers. He described their respective merits with candour, but with an ingenuity that Machiavelli could not but admire introduced into his eulogy of each a note of disparagement that effectively overrode his recommendation. Machiavelli smiled blandly.

'You have spoken of these excellent monks with a sincerity and a disinterestedness which are what I should have expected of you, father, but you have left out the name of one whose talents and piety according to all accounts are infinitely superior to theirs.'

'And who may that be, Messere?'

'Fra Timoteo.'

The monk gave a start of well-simulated surprise.

'A good actor,' Machiavelli said to himself. 'A preacher must have histrionic gifts, and if the Signory had really given me the commission to find one I should be half inclined to propose this rascally friar.'

'You are joking, Messere.'

'What makes you think that I should joke on a subject of such importance, father? I have not been idle on my side. I have learnt that in the whole history of Imola no preacher has made such a profound impression as you did in the sermons you delivered this Lent. I am told that you have a remarkable eloquence and I can tell for myself that you have a melodious and a beautiful voice. Your presence is imposing and even in the short while that we have talked together I have discovered that you are intelligent, tactful and cultivated. I am assured that your knowledge of the fathers is only equalled by your classical erudition.'

'You cover me with confusion, Messere. The Signory want a monk of reputation, and I am but a poor friar in a poverty-stricken monastery of a provincial city. I have neither great birth to recommend me nor powerful friends. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the good opinion you so generously have of me, but I am unworthy of the honour you propose.'

'That is something that those can better judge who know you better than you know yourself.'

Machiavelli was enjoying himself hugely. He appreciated the monk's affectation of modesty and with his sharp eyes delving into his innermost heart discerned the greediness of his ambition. With such a bait to dangle he was certain he could get him to do anything he wanted.

'I think I should be less than honest if I did not tell you that I am a person of no great consequence in the state of Florence. I can only advise; the last word is with the gentlemen of the Signory.'

'I cannot think that they would lightly disregard the advice of their envoy to His Excellency the Duke of Romagna and Valentinois,' said Fra Timoteo with an ingratiating smile.

'It is true that our new Gonfalonier for life, Piero Soderini, is my friend, and I think I may say without vanity that his brother the Bishop of Volterra has some faith in my honesty and good sense.'

This remark led Machiavelli very naturally to tell the monk of the mission to Caesar Borgia when he had accompanied the Cardinal, then a bishop, to Urbino to protest against the attack Vitellozzo had made on Arezzo; and this as naturally led him to describe his own activities in the war with Pisa and his legation to France. He was careful to minimize his role in these proceedings, and yet managed to suggest to the friar that it was he who had pulled the strings. He talked lightly, amusingly, in a familiar way, of kings and cardinals, princes and generals, and thus delicately led his listener to believe that he had the ear of the great both in Italy and France. Secrets of state were no secrets to him. Only a fool could doubt that he knew much more than he told. Fra Timoteo was dazzled.

'Ah, Messere, you cannot know what it means to me to talk with a man of your intelligence and experience. It is like a glimpse of the promised land. We live in this dull little town and know nothing of the world. There is not a man in Imola of culture or distinction. Our wits, if we have any, grow rusty because there is no occasion to use them. One needs the patience of Job to support the stupidity of the people among whom one is compelled to pass one's life.

'Father, I will admit that from what I know of you and from what I have heard I think it a thousand pities that a man of your capacity should be wasted on this place. It is not for me to remind one of your calling of the Parable of the Talents.'

'I have often thought of it. I have buried my talent in the ground, and when the Master asks me to what use I have put it I shall have no answer.'

'Father, no one can do more for another than give him an opportunity; he must know for himself how to make use of it.'

'Who is going to give an unknown monk an opportunity?'

'I am your friend, Father, and such little influence as I have is at your service. And you will not be entirely unknown when I have mentioned your name to the Bishop of Volterra. It would be unbecoming for a man of your habit to put himself forward; but there is no reason why I should not speak of the matter with our good friend Bartolomeo, and I have little doubt that I can persuade him that it is an idea of his own to write to certain powerful connections of his in Florence.'

Fra Timoteo smiled.

'Our dear Bartolomeo! He is goodness itself, but it cannot be denied that he is a little simple. He does not combine the craftiness of the serpent with the innocence of the dove.'

Thus Machiavelli conducted their colloquy to the point at which he had been aiming. He refilled the empty cups. The brazier gave out a pleasant warmth.

'Bartolomeo is a very worthy creature. It has often struck me as remarkable that business men should be able to conduct commercial transaction with success and yet remain so unversed in the affairs of the world. But I do not esteem him less on that account and I would do a great deal to promote his welfare. You have a strong influence over him, father.'

'He is good enough to attach some small value to my counsels.'

'There at all events he shows a natural good sense. How sad it is that such an excellent and deserving creature should not have been granted the dearest wish of his heart!'

Fra Timoteo looked at him enquiringly.

'You must know as well as I do that he would give half his possessions to have a son.'

'It is an obsession with him; he can talk of nothing else. We have interceded for him with our miraculous Virgin, but to no purpose, and he is angry with us because our prayers have not achieved the desired result; but he is unreasonable. The poor man is sterile.'

'Father, I have a small property not far from Florence called San Casciano, and to augment the poor salary I receive from the Signory I make what money I can by selling timber from my woods and farming my land. I have cows, and it sometimes happens that you get a bull, to all appearance strong and healthy, who for some reason suffers from the same unfortunate disability as our good friend Bartolomeo. Then you kill the bull for butcher's meat and on the proceeds buy another.'

Fra Timoteo smiled.

'It is not practicable to go to such lengths with human beings.'

'Nor necessary. But the theory is sound.'

It took the friar a moment to grasp exactly what Mach-iavelli meant, and when he did he smiled again.

'Monna Aurelia is a virtuous wife, and she is well guarded, though for different reasons, by her mother and her husband. Bartolomeo is not so stupid as not to know that a young and beautiful wife must be a temptation to the dissolute youth of the city, and Monna Caterina lived in poverty long enough to make her take good care that she shall not lose a comfortable home through the indiscretion of her daughter.'

'And yet it might well be that an indiscretion would turn out to be the height of discretion. Monna Caterina's position would be more secure if she had a little grandson to dandle on her knee.'

'I don't deny it. Now that the Duke has bestowed this property on him, with the title that accompanies it, Bartolomeo is more than ever anxious to have an heir. The ladies of his family have discovered that he is thinking of adopting his two nephews. He has a widowed sister in Forlì, and she is willing enough that he should thus provide for her boys; but she will not be separated from them and makes it a condition that he should take her into his house along with them.'

'It is natural that a mother should not wish to be parted from her children.'

'Very. But the prospect distresses both Monna Cater-ina and Monna Aurelia. They see that their position would be difficult. Monna Aurelia had no dowry. Bartolo-meo is a weak and foolish man; Monna Costanza, the mother of his adopted sons, would undermine the influence of a wife whom his vanity insists on thinking a barren woman, and his sister would in no long time be mistress of the house. Monna Caterina has besought me to dissuade him from a course in which there is so much danger to her daughter and herself.'

'He has consulted you?'

'Naturally.'

'And what advice have you given him?'

'I have temporized. His sister's confessor at Forlì is a Dominican, and if she came here it is likely enough that she would take a confessor from the same order. The Dominicans are no friends of ours. We owe much to the generosity of Bartolomeo, and it would be unfortunate if Monna Costanza took advantage of his disappointment with our efforts to get him to bestow his favours in another quarter.'

'No one could see more clearly than I how difficult your situation is, dear father. The only possible solution is the one I suggest.'

'Has it escaped you that it smacks somewhat of sin, Messere?' said the friar with an indulgent smile.

'A small sin, father, from which a great good may come. You can bring happiness to a worthy man, security to two women whose piety merits your help, and last but not least you preserve for the brethren of your habit the munificence of a generous donor. It would be presumption on my part to recall the Holy Scripture to your memory, but I will venture to suggest to you that if the woman of Samaria had not committed adultery the Founder of our religion would never have had occasion to utter those precepts of tolerance and forgiveness which have been of such inestimable value to the miserable sinners that we are.'

'It is a pretty point, Messere.'

'I am human, father. I will not try to conceal from you that the beauty of Monna Aurelia has excited so violent a passion in me that I must satisfy it or die.'

'I did not imagine that your desire for Bartolomeo's welfare and the peace of mind of his two ladies was prompted only by the goodness of your heart,' said Fra Timoteo dryly.

'Your monastery is poor and you doubtless have many calls upon your charity. I would give twenty-five ducats to be assured of your good will, father.'

Machiavelli saw the glint of greed in the monk's dark eyes.

'When?'

'Now.'

He took the bag of money out of an inner pocket and flung it carelessly on the table. The coins made a pleasant clink against the wooden surface.

'You have acquired my good will by the charm of your conversation and the graciousness of your manner, Messere,' said the monk. 'But I do not see how I can be of service to you.'

'I will ask you to do nothing that can weigh on your conscience. I should like you to arrange it so that I may have a conversation with Monna Caterina in private.'

'I can see no harm in that. But it will get you no farther. Bartolomeo is a fool, but he is too good a business man to take unnecessary risks. When his affairs force him to absent himself his servant is there to protect Monna Aurelia from the importunities of unscrupulous and lascivious men.'

'I am well aware of it. Our good Bartolomeo, however, has a confidence in you which is as implicit as it is well-deserved. He has taken Monna Aurelia to the baths and he has taken her on pilgrimages to the shrines of saints who are accredited with the blessed gift of ridding women of the curse of barrenness. I suggest to you that if our good Bartolomeo, accompanied by his servant, went to Ravenna and spent a night in prayer and meditation before the sarcophagus which contains the mortal remains of San Vitale, you could guarantee that Monna Aurelia would conceive.'

'San Vitale was evidently a great saint, or a church would not have been built in his honour; but what makes you suppose that his bones have the power to cure men of sterility?'

'The name is eminently suggestive, and Bartolomeo knows no more of the miraculous powers of the saint than you or I. A drowning man will catch at a straw and Ravenna is but twenty miles from Imola. Can you believe that our friend would hesitate to make so short a journey to achieve a result he so much desires?'

'Let me ask you a question in return, Messere. Have you any reason to suppose that Monna Aurelia, a virtuous and timid wife, would respond to your advances? Have you made your desires known to her?'

'I have not exchanged more than a few words with her, but unless she is different from the rest of her sex she is well aware of them. Women are subject to two defects, curiosity and vanity.'

'Venial sins,' said the monk.

'And yet they lead these fair creatures to abandon the narrow path of virtue more often than passion.'

'There is much of which my habit has kept me in happy ignorance.'

'When your eminent merit has raised you to the position it deserves you will learn that you can gain influence over men less by fostering their virtues or encouraging their vices than by humouring their foibles.'

'Your scheme is ingenious. I have little doubt that you could persuade Monna Caterina to help you; she will stop at nothing to prevent Bartolomeo from adopting his nephews; but I know Monna Aurelia too well to believe that she would let herself be persuaded to commit a mortal sin either by her mother or by you.'