Introduction

In which one Samuel Taylor Coleridge makes the acquaintance of an Italianate stranger who may or may not be extremely questionable company.

“Damn, damn, damn!” Samuel swore, throwing down his pen. He had written all of three lines that day. He leaned back and closed his eyes, as a feeling of deep despair and inadequacy swept over him. Just beyond the border of his consciousness, Samuel could almost hear William laughing at him. By this time, William would probably be scanning the pages he'd surely written that evening, nodding sagely over them with a self-satisfied air and sending them off to be published. Samuel kicked the table.

Sitting there, rubbing his toe (he had stubbed it kicking the table), Samuel suddenly became aware of a gentle, if persistent knocking sound. Not thinking it likely that anyone would call at this hour, he ignored the noise. The knocking, however, continued. Sighing deeply, and limping a bit, Samuel made his way to the door and opened it. The sight that meet his eyes was more than a little disconcerting, for standing outside was a veritable cliche of an ominous visitor: a tall, thin stranger with a skull-like face and dark, piercing eyes that seemed to glow like coals. He was wearing an archaic kind of robe in a deep dark color and when he raised one skeletal hand, Samuel drew back instinctively.

“Signior Col-e-ridge?” the stranger spoke with a strange lilting accent Samuel couldn't quite place, showing white white and alarmingly sharp teeth as he did so.

“I...uh...yes. Quite.” Samuel stammered.

“I would very much like to speak with you.” the stranger's eyes seemed to glow brighter and Samuel found himself quite unable to look away as much as he wished to do so.

“I...uh...yes.” Samuel said. “Please. Come in.”

With a look of great relief, the stranger swept past Samuel, settled himself comfortably in Samuel's chair and looked at Samuel expectantly.

“So, Signior.” said the stranger.

“So, yourself!” Samuel exploded. “Just who in the name of all that's holy are you? And what are you doing in my house? In my chair?!”

“My name” the stranger sighed. “I do not think you will believe me.”

“Your name, sir.” Samuel insisted. “Your full, proper, real name.”

“Niccolo Machiavelli.” the stranger responded.

Samuel was momentarily stunned. Then he recovered. “Your parents must have had an awfully odd sense of humour, eh?”

“No” the stranger sighed again. “Niccolo Machiavelli. The Machiavelli. You have heard of me? Il Principe?”

“Well, yes! Of course!” sputtered Samuel. “But he's...that is to say...you're...you're supposed to be, well, dead, aren't you?”

Machiavelli, for it was he, sighed yet again. “Yes.” he said. “Yes.”