'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 you
r 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.'
'That is possible. There are many things which from a distance seem strange and terrifying, but when you come closer to them appear natural, easy and reasonable. I have no reason to suppose that Monna Aurelia is more intelligent than the majority of her sex. It would be well if you explained to her that when there is in prospect a good that is certain and an evil that is uncertain, it is wrong not to do the good for fear of the evil. The certain good is that she will conceive and so create an immortal soul; the evil is that she may be found out, but with proper precautions the possibility of that is eliminated. And so far as sin is concerned – well, there is nothing in that, since it is the will that sins and not the body. It would be a sin to displease her husband, but in this she can only please him. In all things the end must be considered, and the end here is to fill a seat in Paradise and give a husband his heart's desire.'
Fra Timoteo looked at Machiavelli without replying. It seemed to the Florentine that he was preventing himself from laughing only by an effort of will. The monk looked away and his eyes fell on the bag of gold that was lying on the table.
'I am sure that the Signory was well advised when they sent you on a mission to the Duke, Messere,' he said at last. 'I may condemn your intentions, but I can only admire your subtlety.'
'I am very sensible to flattery,' Machiavelli answered.
'You must give me time to think the matter over.'
'It is always best to trust the impulse of the moment, Father. But if you will excuse me I will go into the yard, for I wish to relieve nature. Your local wine is something of a diuretic, I fancy.'
When Machiavelli returned the monk was sitting as he had left him, but the bag of gold was no longer on the table.
'Monna Caterina will bring her daughter on Friday for confession,' he said, looking at his well-kept hands. 'You will have an opportunity of talking to her while Monna Aurelia is in the confessional.'
19
A happy chance gave Machiavelli an opportunity to pursue his suit which he was quick to seize. Unless obliged to, he did not get up early, and the sun had risen some time when, on the morning after his conversation with Fra Timoteo, he rolled out of bed and got into his clothes. He went into the kitchen where Serafina gave him his frugal breakfast and then out into the yard where he drew water from the well and shudderingly washed his hands and face. Then he went up to his room to fetch such of his papers as he wanted. He raised the window to look at the weather and suddenly saw Nina, the maid, bring a chair and a footstool out on to the roof of Bartolomeo's house. The weather had been cloudy for some time, with occasional showers of rain, but that morning the sun shone brightly from an unclouded sky. He guessed what Nina's actions betokened. Presently Aurelia came on to the roof, swathed in a quilted wrapper, carrying a great straw hat in her hand. He was right. Aurelia had taken advantage of the fine day to dry her hair. She sat in the chair and the maid took the long fair hair in her hands and passed it through the hat, which had no crown but only an immense brim; then, placing the hat on Aurelia's head, she spread the hair all around the brim, so that the sun should shine on it and the dye colour it more brightly.
Machiavelli changed his plans. He left his letters to a more suitable season and taking his lute ascended the stairs to a loggia on the upper storey of Serafina's house. By the time he got there the maid had gone about her business and Aurelia was alone. The wide brim of her hat prevented her from seeing him, and indeed she was certainly too much intent on the process of getting her hair a perfect shade to have thoughts of anything else; but when he began to sing, startled, she raised the brim and looked across the narrow space that divided the two houses. Before Machiavelli could catch her eye she lowered it. As though to himself he sang a little love song. Following the fashion of the time his theme was Cupid and his darts, the cruel wounds his loved one's eyes inflicted, and the happiness that would be his if he could pass one moment without thinking of her. He had Aurelia at his mercy; from coyness she might have wished to withdraw, but the sun was essential to make the dye hold, and he felt it was not in a woman's nature to sacrifice her appearance to her modesty. If ther
e had been any doubt in her mind of his feelings towards her there could surely be none now, but such an occasion might not soon recur, so he thought it just as well to make them unmistakable. He had composed a serenade to a woman called Fenice, which began, Hail, Lady, from all women set apart, and which went on to address her as a rare example of earthly beauty, a perfect soul imbued with every loveliness; and it was easy, without interfering with the scansion, to change O only Fenice into O only Aurelia. Plucking the strings of the lute he spoke the words in a recitative which was not wanting in a certain melodiousness. Aurelia sat still, her face hidden by the wide brim of her hat and the overhanging hair, but Machiavelli had a notion that she was listening intently. That was all he wanted. But he had sung no more than two stanzas when she rang a little bell she had evidently brought to call her maid. Machiavelli paused. Nina appeared; Aurelia said something to her and rose from her chair, which the maid took to another part of the roof; Aurelia moved over and the maid sat down on the footstool. The two women began to talk and Machiavelli guessed she was going to keep her there till he withdrew. He was not dissatisfied. He went down to his room, got his papers out of the box in which he kept them locked, and was soon immersed in a letter he was writing to the Signory. So far so good.
20
He was not in the habit of attending the services of the Church, and on Friday waited till vespers were over and the small congregation coming out before entering the sacred edifice. He was just in time to see Fra Timoteo go into the confessional. In a moment Aurelia followed him. Monna Caterina was sitting by herself in one of the chapels. Machiavelli joined her. She did not seem surprised to see him, and he thought it not unlikely that the monk had spoken to her and she was expecting him. Anyhow he could see no object in beating about the bush. He told her that he had fallen passionately in love with her daughter and asked her to plead his cause with her. Monna Caterina seemed amused rather than indignant. She informed him that he was not the first who had attempted her daughter's virtue, but none had succeeded.