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
to fulfil of a more premeditated character. He paused at the Palazzo
Vecchio, and awaited there the return of the Ten, who managed external
and war affairs, that he might duly deliver to them the results of his
private mission to Pisa, intended as a preliminary to an avowed embassy
of which Bernardo Rucellai was to be the head, with the object of
coming, if possible, to a pacific understanding with the Emperor
Maximilian and the League.
Tito’s talents for diplomatic work had been well ascertained, and as he
gave with fulness and precision the results of his inquiries and
interviews, Bernardo del Nero, who was at that time one of the Ten,
could not withhold his admiration. He would have withheld it if he
could; for his original dislike of Tito had returned, and become
stronger, since the sale of the library. Romola had never uttered a
word to her godfather on the circumstances of the sale, and Bernardo
had understood 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
a blighting grief to her, and the old man’s observant eyes discerned
other indications that her married life was not happy.
“Ah,” he said, inwardly, “that doubtless is the reason she has taken to
listening to Fra Girolamo, and going amongst the Piagnoni, which I
never expected from her. These women, if they are not happy, and have
no children, must either take to folly or to some overstrained religion
that 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 cramming
with Latin and Greek has left her as much a woman as if she had done
nothing all day but prick her fingers with the needle. And this husband
of hers, who gets employed everywhere, because he’s a tool with a
smooth handle, I wish Tornabuoni and the rest may not find their
fingers cut. Well, well, _solco torto, sacco dritto_—many a full sack
comes from a crooked furrow; and he who will be captain of none but
honest men will have small hire to pay.”
With this long-established conviction that there could be no moral
sifting of political agents, the old Florentine abstained from all
interference in Tito’s disfavour. Apart from what must be kept sacred
and private for Romola’s sake, Bernardo had nothing direct to allege
against the useful Greek, except that he was a Greek, and that he,
Bernardo, did not like him; for the doubleness of feigning attachment
to the popular government, while at heart a Medicean, was common to
Tito with more than half the Medicean party. He only feigned with more
skill than the rest: that was all. So Bernardo was simply cold to Tito,
who returned the coldness with a scrupulous, distant respect. And it
was still the notion in Florence that the old tie between Bernardo and
Bardo made any service done to Romola’s husband an acceptable homage to
her godfather.
After delivering himself of his charge at the Old Palace, Tito felt
that the avowed official work of the day was done. He was tired and
adust with long riding; but he did not go home. There were certain
things in his scarsella and on his mind, from which he wished to free
himself as soon as possible, but the opportunities must be found so
skilfully that they must not seem to be sought. He walked from the
Palazzo in a sauntering fashion towards the Piazza del Duomo. The
procession was at an end now, but the bells were still ringing, and the
people were moving about the streets restlessly, longing for some more
definite vent to their joy. If the Frate could have stood up in the
great Piazza and preached to them, they might have been satisfied, but
now, in spite of the new discipline which declared Christ to be the
special King of the Florentines and required all pleasures to be of a
Christian sort, there was 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 as
the welcome bearer of the olive-branch, and could only rid himself of
an inconvenient ovation, chiefly in the form of eager questions, by
telling those who pressed on him that Meo di Sasso, the true messenger
from Leghorn, must now be entering, and might certainly be met towards
the Porta San Frediano. He could tell much more than Tito knew.
Freeing himself from importunities in this adroit manner, he made his
way to the Piazza del Duomo, casting his long eyes round the space with
an air of the utmost carelessness, but really seeking to detect some
presence which might furnish him with one of his desired opportunities.
The fact of the procession having terminated at the Duomo made it
probable that there would be more than the usual concentration of
loungers and talkers in the Piazza and round Nello’s shop. It was as he
expected. There was a group leaning against the rails near the north
gates of the Baptistery, so exactly what he sought, that he looked more
indifferent than ever, and seemed to recognise the tallest member of
the group entirely by chance as he had half passed him, just turning
his head 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 way
looked like one who had considerable claims. He wore a
richly-embroidered tunic, with a great show of linen, after the newest
French mode, and at his belt there hung a sword and poniard of fine
workmanship. His hat, with a red plume in it, seemed a scornful protest
against the gravity of Florentine costume, which had been exaggerated
to the utmost under the influence of the Piagnoni. Certain undefinable
indications of youth made the breadth of his face and the large
diameter of his waist appear the more emphatically a stamp of
coarseness, and his eyes had that rude desecrating stare at all men and
things which to a refined mind is as intolerable as a bad odour or a
flaring light.
He and his companions, also young men dressed expensively and wearing
arms, were exchanging jokes with that sort of ostentatious laughter
which implies a desire to prove that the laughter is not mortified
though some people might suspect it. There were good reasons for such a
suspicion; for this broad-shouldered man with the red feather was Dolfo
Spini, leader of the Compagnacci, or Evil Companions—that is to say, of
all the dissolute young men belonging to the old aristocratic party,
enemies of the Mediceans, enemies of the popular government, but still
more bitter enemies of Savonarola. Dolfo Spini, heir of the great house
with the loggia, over the bridge of the Santa Trinita, had organised
these young men into an armed band, as sworn champions of extravagant
suppers and all the pleasant sins of the flesh, against reforming
pietists who threatened to make the world chaste and temperate to so
intolerable a degree that there would soon be no reason for living,
except the extreme unpleasantness of the alternative. Up to this very
morning he had been loudly declaring that Florence was given up to
famine and ruin entirely through its blind adherence to the advice of
the Frate, and that there could be no salvation for Florence but in
joining the League and driving the Frate out of the city—sending him to
Rome, in fact, whither he ought to have gone long ago in obedience to
the summons of the Pope. It was suspected, therefore, that Messer Dolfo
Spini’s heart was not aglow with pure joy at the unexpected succours
which had come in apparent fulfilment of the Frate’s prediction, and
the laughter, which was ringing out afresh as Tito joined the group at
Nello’s door, did not serve to dissipate the suspicion. For leaning
against the door-post in the centre of the group was a close-shaven,
keen-eyed personage, named Niccolò 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 I
thought. I measure men’s dulness by the devices they trust in for
deceiving others. Your dullest animal of all is he who grins and says
he doesn’t mind just after he has had his shins kicked. If I were a
trifle duller, now,” he went on, smiling as the circle opened to admit
Tito, “I should pretend to be fond of this Melema, who has got a
secretaryship that would exactly suit me—as if Latin ill-paid could
love better Latin that’s better paid! Melema, you are a pestiferously
clever fellow, very much in my way, and I’m sorry to hear you’ve had
another piece of good-luck to-day.”
“Questionable luck, Niccolò,” said Tito, touching him on the shoulder
in a friendly way; “I have got nothing by it yet but being laid hold of
and breathed upon by wool-beaters, when I am as soiled and battered
with riding as a _tabellario_ (letter-carrier) from Bologna.”
“Ah! you want a touch of my art, Messer Oratore,” said Nello, who had
come forward at the sound of Tito’s voice; “your chin, I perceive, has
yesterday’s crop upon it. Come, come—consign yourself to the priest of
all the Muses. Sandro, quick with the lather!”
“In truth, Nello, that is just what I most desire at this moment,” said
Tito, seating himself; “and that was why I turned my steps towards thy
shop, instead of going home at once, when I had done my business at the
Palazzo.”
“Yes, indeed, it is not fitting that you should present yourself to
Madonna Romola with a rusty chin and a tangled _zazzera_. Nothing that
is not dainty ought to approach the Florentine lily; though I see her
constantly going about like a sunbeam amongst the rags that line our
corners—if indeed she is not more like a moonbeam now, for I thought
yesterday, when I met her, that she looked as pale and worn as that
fainting 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 been
depriving herself of half her proper food _every_ day during this
famine. But what can I do? Her mind has been set all aflame. A
husband’s influence is powerless against the Frate’s.”
“As every other influence is likely to be, that of the Holy Father
included,” said Domenico Cennini, one of the group at the door, who had
turned in with Tito. “I don’t know whether you have gathered anything
at Pisa about the way the wind sits at Rome, Melema?”
“Secrets of the council-chamber, Messer Domenico!” said Tito, smiling
and opening his palms in a deprecatory manner. “An envoy must be as
dumb as a father confessor.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Cennini. “I ask for no breach of that
rule. Well, my belief is, that if his Holiness were to drive Fra
Girolamo to extremity, the Frate would move heaven and earth to get a
General 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,” said
Macchiavelli, “I must differ from you—not in your wish to see a General
Council which might reform the Church, but in your belief that the
Frate will checkmate his Holiness. The Frate’s game is an impossible
one. If he had contented himself with preaching against the vices of
Rome, and with prophesying that in some way, not mentioned, Italy would
be scourged, depend upon it Pope Alexander would have allowed him to
spend his breath in that way as long as he could find hearers. Such
spiritual blasts as those knock no walls down. But the Frate wants to
be something more than a spiritual trumpet: he wants to be a lever, and
what is more, he _is_ a lever. He wants to spread the doctrine of
Christ by maintaining a popular government in Florence, and the Pope,
as I know, on the best authority, has private views to the contrary.”
“Then Florence will stand by the Frate,” Cennini broke in, with some
fervour. “I myself should prefer that he would let his prophesying
alone, but if our freedom to choose our own government is to be
attacked—I am an obedient son of the Church, but I would vote for
resisting Pope Alexander the Sixth, as our forefathers resisted Pope
Gregory the Eleventh.”
“But pardon me, Messer Domenico,” said Macchiavelli, sticking his
thumbs into his belt, and speaking with that cool enjoyment of
exposition which surmounts every other force in discussion. “Have you
correctly seized the Frate’s position? How is it that he has become a
lever, and made himself worth attacking by an acute man like his
Holiness? Because he has got the ear of the people: because he gives
them threats and promises, which they believe come straight from God,
not only about hell, purgatory, and paradise, but about Pisa and our
Great Council. But let events go against him, so as to shake the
people’s faith, and the cause of his power will be the cause of his
fall. He is accumulating three sorts of hatred on his head—the hatred
of average mankind against every one who wants to lay on them a strict
yoke of virtue; the hatred of the stronger powers in Italy who want to
farm Florence for their own purposes; and the hatred of the people, to
whom he has ventured to promise good in this world, instead of
confining his promises to the next. If a prophet is to keep his power,
he must be a prophet like Mahomet, with an army at his back, that when
the people’s faith 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 sense
and honesty, by inventing hypocritical lies. His proper place is among
the false prophets in the Inferno, who walk with their heads turned
hind-foremost.”
“You are too angry, my Francesco,” said Macchiavelli, smiling; “you
poets are apt to cut the clouds in your wrath. I am no votary of the
Frate’s, and would not lay down my little finger for his veracity. But
veracity is a plant of paradise, and the seeds have never flourished
beyond 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 as
to the boundary of poetry, that’s all. When he gets into the pulpit of
the Duomo, he has the fervour within him, and without him he has the
audience to please. Ecco!”
“You are somewhat lax there, Niccolò,” said Cennini, gravely. “I myself
believe in the Frate’s integrity, though I don’t believe in his
prophecies, and as long as his integrity is not disproved, we have a
popular party strong enough to protect him and resist foreign
interference.”
“A party that seems strong enough,” said Macchiavelli, with a shrug,
and an almost imperceptible glance towards Tito, who was abandoning
himself with much enjoyment to Nello’s combing and scenting. “But how
many Mediceans are there among you? How many who will not be turned
round by a private grudge?”
“As to the Mediceans,” said Cennini, “I believe there is very little
genuine feeling left on behalf of the Medici. Who would risk much for
Piero de’ Medici? A few old staunch friends, perhaps, like Bernardo del
Nero; but even some of those most connected with the family are hearty
friends of the popular government, and would exert themselves for the
Frate. I was talking to Giannozzo Pucci only a little while ago, and I
am convinced there’s nothing he would set his face against more than
against any attempt to alter the new order of things.”
“You are right there, Messer Domenico,” said Tito, with a laughing
meaning in his eyes, as he rose from the shaving-chair; “and I fancy
the tender passion came in aid of hard theory there. I am persuaded
there was some jealousy at the bottom of Giannozzo’s alienation from
Piero de’ Medici; else so amiable a creature as he would never feel the
bitterness he sometimes allows to escape him in that quarter. He was in
the procession 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 if
he hardly heeded the answer. In reality he had obtained a much-desired
piece of information. He had at that moment in his scarsella a crushed
gold ring which he had engaged to deliver to Giannozzo Pucci. He had
received it from an envoy of Piero de’ Medici, whom he had ridden out
of his way to meet at Certaldo on the Siena road. Since Pucci was not
in the town, he would send the ring by Fra Michele, a Carthusian lay
Brother in the service of the Mediceans, and the receipt of that sign
would 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 di
maremma’) now he has passed through my hands! A trifle thinner in the
face, though, than when he came in his first bloom to Florence—eh? and,
I vow, there are some lines just faintly hinting themselves about your
mouth, Messer Oratore! Ah, mind is an enemy to beauty! I myself was
thought beautiful by the women at one time—when I was in my
swaddling-bands. But now—oimè! I carry my unwritten poems in cipher on
my face!”
Tito, laughing with the rest as Nello looked at himself tragically in
the hand-mirror, made a sign of farewell to the company generally, and
took his departure.
“I’m of our old Piero di Cosimo’s mind,” said Francesco Cei. “I don’t
half like Melema. That trick of smiling gets stronger than ever—no
wonder he has lines about the mouth.”
“He’s too successful,” said Macchiavelli, playfully. “I’m sure there’s
something wrong about him, else he wouldn’t have that secretaryship.”
“He’s an able man,” said Cennini, in a tone of judicial fairness. “I
and my brother have always found him useful with our Greek sheets, and
he gives great satisfaction to the Ten. I like to see a young man work
his way upward by merit. And the secretary Scala, who befriended him
from the first, thinks highly of him still, I know.”
“Doubtless,” said a notary in the background. “He writes Scala’s
official letters for him, or corrects them, and gets well paid for it
too.”
“I wish Messer Bartolommeo would pay _me_ to doctor his gouty Latin,”
said Macchiavelli, with a shrug. “Did _he_ tell you about the pay, Ser
Ceccone, or was it Melema himself?” he added, looking at the notary
with a 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’s
getting rich with doing all sorts of underhand work.”
“It _is_ a little too bad,” said Macchiavelli, “and so many able
notaries out of employment!”
“Well, I must say I thought that was a nasty story a year or two ago
about the man who said he had stolen jewels,” said Cei. “It got hushed
up somehow; but I remember Piero di Cosimo said, at the time, he
believed there was something in it, for he saw Melema’s face when the
man 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, getting
indignant, “else I shall consider it a public duty to cut your hair
awry the next time I get you under my scissors. That story of the
stolen jewels was a lie. Bernardo Rucellai and the Magnificent Eight
knew all about it. The man was a dangerous madman, and he was very
properly kept out of mischief in prison. As for our Piero di Cosimo,
his wits are running after the wind of Mongibello: he has such an
extravagant fancy that he would take a lizard for a crocodile. No: that
story has been dead and buried too long—our noses object to it.”
“It is true,” said Macchiavelli. “You forget the danger of the
precedent, Francesco. The next mad beggarman may accuse you of stealing
his verses, or me, God help me! of stealing his coppers. Ah!” he went
on, turning towards the door, “Dolfo Spini has carried his red feather
out of the Piazza. That captain of swaggerers would like the Republic
to lose Pisa just for the chance of seeing the people tear the frock
off the Frate’s back. With your pardon, Francesco—I know he is a friend
of yours—there are few things I should like better than to see him play
the part of Capo d’Oca, who went out to the tournament blowing his
trumpets and returned with them in a bag.”