Chapter 35 Chapter Thirty-Five

The place is called Castigliani Aletino.There was a small hotel here, which was in no way inferior to any other inn he had stayed at since he left home.After a drive outside and letting his imagination run wild, his appetite returned, and the first thing he did when he got into the hotel was to make dinner reservations.Then he washed his feet, which he did every four or five days as a neat man.After drying his feet, he wrote a note to the ruling group, and sent a courier to send it away immediately.The hotel was full, but the owner of the hotel told Machiavelli that the big bed he and his wife slept in was big enough that he could squeeze them in if Machiavelli didn't mind.Machiavelli glanced at the innkeeper and replied that he should be able to sleep comfortably if only the inn spread a few sheepskins on the kitchen floor.Then, he began to eat the plate full of spaghetti in front of him.

"What is love compared with art?" he repeated. "Love is temporary, but art is eternal. Love is but an instrument of nature, tempting us to bring some new life into this evil world, and these new lives will face hunger from birth to death. Thirst, disease, sadness, jealousy, hatred and malice. The spaghetti was well cooked, exceeding my expectations, and the sauce for the noodles was also rich and rich. There are also chicken livers and gizzards. God made man Not only a tragic mistake, but an absurd disaster. So what is God's ultimate purpose in creating man? I think it should be art. Lucretius, Horace, Catullus, Dante and Peter Trak. If their lives hadn't been so much suffering, they probably would never have written because there is no doubt that if I slept with Aurelia, I would never even bother to write a screenplay .So it turned out to be a good thing, if you can see it that way. I lost a trinket and got back a jewel big enough to set in a crown."

A good meal and these thought sessions restored Machiavelli to his usual geniality.He played cards with a wandering priest, lost a small amount of money, but maintained his proper demeanor.Then he lay down on the sheepskin, and slept till dawn. The sun was just rising when he hit the road again.It looked like it was going to be a sunny day.He was in high spirits.It was such a joy to think that we would be home in a few hours.He hoped that Marietta would be so happy to see him that she would forget to blame him for leaving her alone, that Piaggio would come to see him after dinner, dear old Piaggio, and that he would see Pierrot tomorrow. Soderini and the other gentlemen of the guild.When it's over he'll go meet his friends.How good it is to be back in Florence!To go to office every day, to walk the streets he'd known since he was a child, and he could remember the name of just about anyone he could meet on the street, though he probably wouldn't stop to talk to them.

"Welcome home, my lord," one would say. "I said, Niccolo, where did you pop out from?" another would ask. "I guess you came back with a big slam?" a third person would ask. "When will the happy event come?" a friend of his mother's would ask. go home.Florence.go home. And Mrs. Carolina, she has nothing to do now, because the cardinal who kept her was too rich, and died unexpectedly.She is an exceptional woman, very talkative and a joy to talk to.Sometimes you can get something from her for nothing by pleasing her that other people would pay a fortune to get.

What a beautiful Tuscan countryside!In one month the apricot tree will be in bloom. Once again he began to think about the script brewing in his mind.Conceiving a script made him feel happy and young, and it also made him feel a little drunk like drinking on an empty stomach.He repeated the cynical words he was about to have Father Timoteo say in the script.Suddenly he reined in the horse.The servants rushed to see if he needed anything.Contrary to everyone's expectations, they saw that he was laughing silently, and his body was shaking violently.Seeing the expressions on the faces of the crowd, he laughed even harder, and without a word he thrust his spurs into the side of the horse, and the horse galloped on as fast as it could, till the poor creature The horse, which had never experienced such intense exercise, slowly recovered and returned to its usual steady and easy pace.He finally came up with a brilliant idea, and he racked his brains for this idea these days.Now that it had suddenly appeared, he couldn't even explain how, why, and where the inspiration came from.It was just the idea he was looking for, dirty, extravagant, and comedic.It was nothing short of a miracle.Everyone knows that credulous women often buy mandrakes to help them conceive. This is a common superstition, and there are many pornographic stories about this superstition.Now, he was going to persuade Bartholomew—in the script Bartholomew appears as Lord Nicaea—that his wife should be able to conceive by drinking a mandrake soup, but let her conceive The first man will die after intercourse.How can he be convinced of this approach?very simple.He, Callimaco, would dress himself up as a doctor who had studied medicine in Paris, and write such a prescription.Obviously, Mr. Nicaea would not want to lose his life to give birth to a son, so he had to find a strange man to replace him the first night.This stranger, under another guise, will again be Callimaco himself, that is to say Machiavelli himself.

Now that he has the plot now, some of the scenes in his mind are inevitably strung together one after the other.They fell into place like the parts of a riddle.It's as if the play was written by itself, and Machiavelli was just a scribe.If he had been thrilled at the thought of making a comedy out of his unsuccessful love adventures, now, when it was clearly presented to him, it was like a house with a balcony and a His excitement was multiplied at this time, as was the garden of fountains, shady walks, and delightful gazebos.When they stopped to eat, he was so absorbed in his characters that he didn't even notice what he ate.When they were on the road again, he didn't notice how far they had traveled.They are already approaching Florence.The countryside in this area was as familiar and familiar to Machiavelli as the street of his birth in Florence, but at the moment he didn't care at all.The sun had already passed the meridian, was setting in the western sky, and was about to sink below the horizon, and he didn't notice it at all.He was immersed in his imaginary world, which made him feel that the real world was also illusory.He felt that he was more than himself, that he was Callimaco, young, handsome, rich, fearless, happy; his passion for Lucrezia was as violent as a storm, compared with Machiavelli Love for Aurelia is as pale as a piece of paper.The latter is just a shadow, while the former is real.Machiavelli, if he was aware of it, was enjoying the highest pleasure a man can experience, that which comes from engaging in creative activity.

"Look, my lord," cried his servant Antonio, catching up with him, "Florence." Machiavelli looked up. In the distance, the winter sky took on a gray hue as the days shortened.He saw the dome, the proud dome that Bramante had built.He stopped.Florence indeed, a city he loved more than his own life.When he mentioned Florence to Duke Valentino, what he said was by no means empty and false, Florence, the city of flowers, where there is an independent bell tower, the Baptistery of St. John, and many churches and palaces , her garden, her crooked streets, the old bridge he crosses every day to work, where his home, his brother Toto, his wife Marietta, his friends, are A city where he knew every stone.A city with a great history, where he and his ancestors were born.Florence, the city of Dante and Boccaccio, a city that has fought for centuries to defend its freedom, a city loved, a city of flowers.

Tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.He gritted his teeth to control the sobs that overwhelmed him.Florence is now powerless, ruled by a people who lack courage and are corrupt.Her citizens, who once would not hesitate to stand up to those who threatened their freedom, now care only about buying and selling.She was still free because of the patronage of the King of France, for which she paid a disproportionate tribute, and her only defenses were mercenaries without allegiance. Under such circumstances, how would she resist the attack of that crazy, daring person?That crazy and arrogant man didn't take Florence so seriously that he didn't even want to hide his evil intentions against Florence.Florence was doomed to doom.She might not have fallen to Cesare Borgia's force, but if not to his.She will also be lost to the force of others, maybe not that year or the next year, but the group of people who are now middle-aged will see Florence fall in their lifetime.

"Fuck art," he said. "What is art compared with freedom! People who lose their freedom lose everything." "We must hurry, my lord, if we are going to the city before dark," said Antonio. Machiavelli shrugged his shoulders, tightened the rein in his hand, and the tired horse began to move forward again.