ABSTRACT

Florence , however, was not for Machiavelli what it had once been, and city idleness seemed no better to him than idleness in the country. A merry companion and lover of conversation, he must have enjoyed seeing faces and hearing talk more urbane than those of the innkeeper, butcher and kilnmen of Sant ’ Andrea. In the wine cellars where Florentine wit, mordacity and subtlety flourished, he was the sort of man to win the honours every day, and this too was a way of exercising his intellect. But combats of this kind were not enough for him without other employment. When evening came he found himself with that ephemeral harvest of useless jests, more alone than in the solitude of the Albergaccio which was peopled with immortal voices.