CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.
AT THE BARBER'S SHOP.
After that welcome appearance as the messenger with the olive-branch,which was an unpromised favour of fortune, Tito had other commissions tofulfil of a more premeditated character. He paused at the PalazzoVecchio, and awaited there the return of the Ten, who managed externaland war affairs, that he might duly deliver to them the results of hisprivate mission to Pisa, intended as a preliminary to an avowed embassyof which Bernardo Rucellai was to be the head, with the object ofcoming, if possible, to a pacific understanding with the EmperorMaximilian and the League.
Tito's talents for diplomatic work had been well ascertained, and as hegave with fulness and precision the results of his inquiries andinterviews, Bernardo del Nero, who was at that time one of the Ten,could not withhold his admiration. He would have withheld it if hecould; for his original dislike of Tito had returned, and becomestronger, since the sale of the library. Romola had never uttered aword to her godfather on the circumstances of the sale, and Bernardo hadunderstood her silence as a prohibition to him to enter on the subject,but he felt sure that the breach of her father's wish had been ablighting grief to her, and the old man's observant eyes discerned otherindications that her married life was not happy.
"Ah," he said, inwardly, "that doubtless is the reason she has taken tolistening to Fra Girolamo, and going amongst the Piagnoni, which I neverexpected from her. These women, if they are not happy, and have nochildren, must either take to folly or to some overstrained religionthat makes them think they've got all heaven's work on their shoulders.And as for my poor child Romola, it is as I always said--the crammingwith Latin and Greek has left her as much a woman as if she had donenothing all day but prick her fingers with the needle. And this husbandof hers, who gets employed everywhere, because he's a tool with a smoothhandle, I wish Tornabuoni and the rest may not find their fingers cut.Well, well, _solco torto, sacco dritto_--many a full sack comes from acrooked furrow; and he who will be captain of none but honest men willhave small hire to pay."
With this long-established conviction that there could be no moralsifting of political agents, the old Florentine abstained from allinterference in Tito's disfavour. Apart from what must be kept sacredand private for Romola's sake, Bernardo had nothing direct to allegeagainst the useful Greek, except that he was a Greek, and that he,Bernardo, did not like him; for the doubleness of feigning attachment tothe popular government, while at heart a Medicean, was common to Titowith more than half the Medicean party. He only feigned with more skillthan the rest: that was all. So Bernardo was simply cold to Tito, whoreturned the coldness with a scrupulous, distant respect. And it wasstill the notion in Florence that the old tie between Bernardo and Bardomade any service done to Romola's husband an acceptable homage to hergodfather.
After delivering himself of his charge at the Old Palace, Tito felt thatthe avowed official work of the day was done. He was tired and adustwith long riding; but he did not go home. There were certain things inhis scarsella and on his mind, from which he wished to free himself assoon as possible, but the opportunities must be found so skilfully thatthey must not seem to be sought. He walked from the Palazzo in asauntering fashion towards the Piazza del Duomo. The procession was atan end now, but the bells were still ringing, and the people were movingabout the streets restlessly, longing for some more definite vent totheir joy. If the Frate could have stood up in the great Piazza andpreached to them, they might have been satisfied, but now, in spite ofthe new discipline which declared Christ to be the special King of theFlorentines and required all pleasures to be of a Christian sort, therewas a secret longing in many of the youngsters who shouted "Viva Gesu!"for a little vigorous stone throwing in sign of thankfulness.
Tito, as he passed along, could not escape being recognised by some asthe welcome bearer of the olive-branch, and could only rid himself of aninconvenient ovation, chiefly in the form of eager questions, by tellingthose who pressed on him that Meo di Sasso, the true messenger fromLeghorn, must now be entering, and might certainly be met towards thePorta San Frediano. He could tell much more than Tito knew.
Freeing himself from importunities in this adroit manner, he made hisway to the Piazza del Duomo, casting his long eyes round the space withan air of the utmost carelessness, but really seeking to detect somepresence which might furnish him with one of his desired opportunities.The fact of the procession having terminated at the Duomo made itprobable that there would be more than the usual concentration ofloungers and talkers in the Piazza and round Nello's shop. It was as heexpected. There was a group leaning against the rails near the northgates of the Baptistery, so exactly what he sought, that he looked moreindifferent than ever, and seemed to recognise the tallest member of thegroup entirely by chance as he had half passed him, just turning hishead to give him a slight greeting, while he tossed the end of his_becchetto_ over his left shoulder.
Yet the tall, broad-shouldered personage greeted in that slight waylooked like one who had considerable claims. He wore arichly-embroidered tunic, with a great show of linen, after the newestFrench mode, and at his belt there hung a sword and poniard of fineworkmanship. His hat, with a red plume in it, seemed a scornful protestagainst the gravity of Florentine costume, which had been exaggerated tothe utmost under the influence of the Piagnoni. Certain undefinableindications of youth made the breadth of his face and the large diameterof his waist appear the more emphatically a stamp of coarseness, and hiseyes had that rude desecrating stare at all men and things which to arefined mind is as intolerable as a bad odour or a flaring light.
He and his companions, also young men dressed expensively and wearingarms, were exchanging jokes with that sort of ostentatious laughterwhich implies a desire to prove that the laughter is not mortifiedthough some people might suspect it. There were good reasons for such asuspicion; for this broad-shouldered man with the red feather was DolfoSpini, leader of the Compagnacci, or Evil Companions--that is to say, ofall the dissolute young men belonging to the old aristocratic party,enemies of the Mediceans, enemies of the popular government, but stillmore bitter enemies of Savonarola. Dolfo Spini, heir of the great housewith the loggia, over the bridge of the Santa Trinita, had organisedthese young men into an armed band, as sworn champions of extravagantsuppers and all the pleasant sins of the flesh, against reformingpietists who threatened to make the world chaste and temperate to sointolerable a degree that there would soon be no reason for living,except the extreme unpleasantness of the alternative. Up to this verymorning he had been loudly declaring that Florence was given up tofamine and ruin entirely through its blind adherence to the advice ofthe Frate, and that there could be no salvation for Florence but injoining the League and driving the Frate out of the city--sending him toRome, in fact, whither he ought to have gone long ago in obedience tothe summons of the Pope. It was suspected, therefore, that Messer DolfoSpini's heart was not aglow with pure joy at the unexpected succourswhich had come in apparent fulfilment of the Frate's prediction, and thelaughter, which was ringing out afresh as Tito joined the group atNello's door, did not serve to dissipate the suspicion. For leaningagainst the door-post in the centre of the group was a close-shaven,keen-eyed personage, named Niccolo Macchiavelli, who, young as he was,had penetrated all the small secrets of egoism.
"Messer Dolfo's head," he was saying, "is more of a pumpkin than Ithought. I measure men's dulness by the devices they trust in fordeceiving others. Your dullest animal of all is he who grins and sayshe doesn't mind just after he has had his shins kicked. If I were atrifle duller, now," he went on, smiling as the circle opened to admitTito, "I should pretend to be fond of this Melema, who has got asecretaryship that would exactly suit me--as if Latin ill-paid couldlove better Latin that's better paid! Melema, you are a pestiferouslyclever fellow, very much in my way, and I'm sorry to hear you've hadanother piece of good-luck to-day."
"Questionable luck, Niccolo," said Tito, touching him on the shoulder ina friendly
way; "I have got nothing by it yet but being laid hold of andbreathed upon by wool-beaters, when I am as soiled and battered withriding as a _tabellario_ (letter-carrier) from Bologna."
"Ah! you want a touch of my art, Messer Oratore," said Nello, who hadcome forward at the sound of Tito's voice; "your chin, I perceive, hasyesterday's crop upon it. Come, come--consign yourself to the priest ofall the Muses. Sandro, quick with the lather!"
"In truth, Nello, that is just what I most desire at this moment," saidTito, seating himself; "and that was why I turned my steps towards thyshop, instead of going home at once, when I had done my business at thePalazzo."
"Yes, indeed, it is not fitting that you should present yourself toMadonna Romola with a rusty chin and a tangled _zazzera_. Nothing thatis not dainty ought to approach the Florentine lily; though I see herconstantly going about like a sunbeam amongst the rags that line ourcorners--if indeed she is not more like a moonbeam now, for I thoughtyesterday, when I met her, that she looked as pale and worn as thatfainting Madonna of Fra Giovanni's. You must see to it, my bel erudito:she keeps too many fasts and vigils in your absence."
Tito gave a melancholy shrug. "It is too true, Nello. She has beendepriving herself of half her proper food _every_ day during thisfamine. But what can I do? Her mind has been set all aflame. Ahusband's influence is powerless against the Frate's."
"As every other influence is likely to be, that of the Holy Fatherincluded," said Domenico Cennini, one of the group at the door, who hadturned in with Tito. "I don't know whether you have gathered anythingat Pisa about the way the wind sits at Rome, Melema?"
"Secrets of the council-chamber, Messer Domenico!" said Tito, smilingand opening his palms in a deprecatory manner. "An envoy must be asdumb as a father confessor."
"Certainly, certainly," said Cennini. "I ask for no breach of thatrule. Well, my belief is, that if his Holiness were to drive FraGirolamo to extremity, the Frate would move heaven and earth to get aGeneral Council of the Church--ay, and would get it too; and I, for one,should not be sorry, though I'm no Piagnone."
"With leave of your greater experience, Messer Domenico," saidMacchiavelli, "I must differ from you--not in your wish to see a GeneralCouncil which might reform the Church, but in your belief that the Fratewill checkmate his Holiness. The Frate's game is an impossible one. Ifhe had contented himself with preaching against the vices of Rome, andwith prophesying that in some way, not mentioned, Italy would bescourged, depend upon it Pope Alexander would have allowed him to spendhis breath in that way as long as he could find hearers. Such spiritualblasts as those knock no walls down. But the Frate wants to besomething more than a spiritual trumpet: he wants to be a lever, andwhat is more, he _is_ a lever. He wants to spread the doctrine ofChrist by maintaining a popular government in Florence, and the Pope, asI know, on the best authority, has private views to the contrary."
"Then Florence will stand by the Frate," Cennini broke in, with somefervour. "I myself should prefer that he would let his prophesyingalone, but if our freedom to choose our own government is to beattacked--I am an obedient son of the Church, but I would vote forresisting Pope Alexander the Sixth, as our forefathers resisted PopeGregory the Eleventh."
"But pardon me, Messer Domenico," said Macchiavelli, sticking his thumbsinto his belt, and speaking with that cool enjoyment of exposition whichsurmounts every other force in discussion. "Have you correctly seizedthe Frate's position? How is it that he has become a lever, and madehimself worth attacking by an acute man like his Holiness? Because hehas got the ear of the people: because he gives them threats andpromises, which they believe come straight from God, not only abouthell, purgatory, and paradise, but about Pisa and our Great Council.But let events go against him, so as to shake the people's faith, andthe cause of his power will be the cause of his fall. He isaccumulating three sorts of hatred on his head--the hatred of averagemankind against every one who wants to lay on them a strict yoke ofvirtue; the hatred of the stronger powers in Italy who want to farmFlorence for their own purposes; and the hatred of the people, to whomhe has ventured to promise good in this world, instead of confining hispromises to the next. If a prophet is to keep his power, he must be aprophet like Mahomet, with an army at his back, that when the people'sfaith is fainting it may be frightened into life again."
"Rather sum up the three sorts of hatred in one," said Francesco Cei,impetuously, "and say he has won the hatred of all men who have senseand honesty, by inventing hypocritical lies. His proper place is amongthe false prophets in the Inferno, who walk with their heads turnedhind-foremost."
"You are too angry, my Francesco," said Macchiavelli, smiling; "youpoets are apt to cut the clouds in your wrath. I am no votary of theFrate's, and would not lay down my little finger for his veracity. Butveracity is a plant of paradise, and the seeds have never flourishedbeyond the walls. You, yourself, my Francesco, tell poetical lies only;partly compelled by the poet's fervour, partly to please your audience;but _you_ object to lies in prose. Well, the Frate differs from you asto the boundary of poetry, that's all. When he gets into the pulpit ofthe Duomo, he has the fervour within him, and without him he has theaudience to please. Ecco!"
"You are somewhat lax there, Niccolo," said Cennini, gravely. "I myselfbelieve in the Frate's integrity, though I don't believe in hisprophecies, and as long as his integrity is not disproved, we have apopular party strong enough to protect him and resist foreigninterference."
"A party that seems strong enough," said Macchiavelli, with a shrug, andan almost imperceptible glance towards Tito, who was abandoning himselfwith much enjoyment to Nello's combing and scenting. "But how manyMediceans are there among you? How many who will not be turned round bya private grudge?"
"As to the Mediceans," said Cennini, "I believe there is very littlegenuine feeling left on behalf of the Medici. Who would risk much forPiero de' Medici? A few old staunch friends, perhaps, like Bernardo delNero; but even some of those most connected with the family are heartyfriends of the popular government, and would exert themselves for theFrate. I was talking to Giannozzo Pucci only a little while ago, and Iam convinced there's nothing he would set his face against more thanagainst any attempt to alter the new order of things."
"You are right there, Messer Domenico," said Tito, with a laughingmeaning in his eyes, as he rose from the shaving-chair; "and I fancy thetender passion came in aid of hard theory there. I am persuaded therewas some jealousy at the bottom of Giannozzo's alienation from Piero de'Medici; else so amiable a creature as he would never feel the bitternesshe sometimes allows to escape him in that quarter. He was in theprocession with you, I suppose?"
"No," said Cennini; "he is at his villa--went there three days ago."
Tito was settling his cap and glancing down at his splashed hose as ifhe hardly heeded the answer. In reality he had obtained a much-desiredpiece of information. He had at that moment in his scarsella a crushedgold ring which he had engaged to deliver to Giannozzo Pucci. He hadreceived it from an envoy of Piero de' Medici, whom he had ridden out ofhis way to meet at Certaldo on the Siena road. Since Pucci was not inthe town, he would send the ring by Fra Michele, a Carthusian layBrother in the service of the Mediceans, and the receipt of that signwould bring Pucci back to hear the verbal part of Tito's mission.
"Behold him!" said Nello, flourishing his comb and pointing it at Tito,"the handsomest scholar in the world or in the wolds, [`Del mondo o dimaremma'] now he has passed through my hands! A trifle thinner in theface, though, than when he came in his first bloom to Florence--eh? and,I vow, there are some lines just faintly hinting themselves about yourmouth, Messer Oratore! Ah, mind is an enemy to beauty! I myself wasthought beautiful by the women at one time--when I was in myswaddling-bands. But now--oime! I carry my unwritten poems in cipheron my face!"
Tito, laughing with the rest as Nello looked at himself tragically inthe hand-mirror, made a sign of farewell to the company generally, andtook his departure.
"I'm of our old Piero di Cosimo's mind," said Francesco Cei. "I don'thalf like Melema. That trick of smiling gets stronger than ever--nowonder he has lines about the mouth."
"He's too successful," said Macchiavelli, playfully. "I'm sure there'ssomething wrong about him, else he wouldn't have that secretaryship."
"He's an able man," said Cennini, in a tone of judicial fairness. "Iand my brother have always found him useful with our Greek sheets, andhe gives great satisfaction to the Ten. I like to see a young man workhis way upward by merit. And the secretary Scala, who befriended himfrom the first, thinks highly of him still, I know."
"Doubtless," said a notary in the background. "He writes Scala'sofficial letters for him, or corrects them, and gets well paid for ittoo."
"I wish Messer Bartolommeo would pay _me_ to doctor his gouty Latin,"said Macchiavelli, with a shrug. "Did _he_ tell you about the pay, SerCeccone, or was it Melema himself?" he added, looking at the notary witha face ironically innocent.
"Melema? no, indeed," answered Ser Ceccone. "He is as close as a nut.He never brags. That's why he's employed everywhere. They say he'sgetting rich with doing all sorts of underhand work."
"It _is_ a little too bad," said Macchiavelli, "and so many ablenotaries out of employment!"
"Well, I must say I thought that was a nasty story a year or two agoabout the man who said he had stolen jewels," said Cei. "It got hushedup somehow; but I remember Piero di Cosimo said, at the time, hebelieved there was something in it, for he saw Melema's face when theman laid hold of him, and he never saw a visage so `painted with fear,'as our sour old Dante says."
"Come, spit no more of that venom, Francesco," said Nello, gettingindignant, "else I shall consider it a public duty to cut your hair awrythe next time I get you under my scissors. That story of the stolenjewels was a lie. Bernardo Rucellai and the Magnificent Eight knew allabout it. The man was a dangerous madman, and he was very properly keptout of mischief in prison. As for our Piero di Cosimo, his wits arerunning after the wind of Mongibello: he has such an extravagant fancythat he would take a lizard for a crocodile. No: that story has beendead and buried too long--our noses object to it."
"It is true," said Macchiavelli. "You forget the danger of theprecedent, Francesco. The next mad beggarman may accuse you of stealinghis verses, or me, God help me! of stealing his coppers. Ah!" he wenton, turning towards the door, "Dolfo Spini has carried his red featherout of the Piazza. That captain of swaggerers would like the Republicto lose Pisa just for the chance of seeing the people tear the frock offthe Frate's back. With your pardon, Francesco--I know he is a friend ofyours--there are few things I should like better than to see him playthe part of Capo d'Oca, who went out to the tournament blowing histrumpets and returned with them in a bag."