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My theory is that if you look confident you can pull off anything - even if you have no clue what you're doing.
Oh. Who's "my", by the way? But, yes, I agree. In general. Although I'd like to add - and you may trust me on this - that things tend to work out better if you do know what you're doing. Then you can even look like a complete idiot while you're doing it - be my guest, I won't hold it against you.
As for me... I think I've used both: ostensible stupidity, and supreme confidence in the face of certain defeat.
I meekly bent my knee and bowed my head when that gormless French village idiot with a crown wanted to drag Cem and me to Naples, didn't I? The curia, the barons - everybody was convinced father would fight Charles VIII teeth and nails. That I wouldn't have to go. Ecco, I went. With father's blessings. I even said so myself then: oh come now, flighty young Cesare, the Pope's nephew? He's expendable.
What a tedious, tedious journey. Cem's incessant whining. The French with their uncouth, revolting ways; boorish clowns all of them, down to their king. The promise of loot and plunder drew them from Rome; what would spell doom for Naples gave father room to breathe, so yes, I did my best to lure them away. Departed with the choicest bits of my household, strapped to the backs of eighteen mules. Mother of God, I would have loved to see Charles's face when he discovered that the trunks held only stones and straw! No doubt Michelotto and I were almost back in Rome by that time. Shame we had to lie low for a while; it would have been a good public laugh. So you can look like a dimwit and still win, see. Provided you know what you're doing.
Or you can have a tenth - a third, at best - of the forces conspiring against you, can have one or three trusted condottieri versus the twenty or more who have turned traitors and schemers... you may already see everything come tumbling down, your secret heart of hearts may despair every time you open a missive, receive a messenger, write a letter, hear somebody out, but if you keep your wits about you... chances are, you'll live. And win.
I'm referring to Senigallia, of course. Things had looked dismal for a while there. Losing Urbino was a low blow, and Urbino could very well have toppled everything. An avalanche. Bon déu, I already saw it coming. Daily, I expected it. But I kept my head, nevermind that meanwhile at La Magione, they were fantasizing about who'd get to fuck me first, whose cock I'd have to suck, and who'd get to finish me, knife in hand. Take a look around - Oliverotto, Vitellozzo, the Varano, Paolo Orsini, the Baglioni, Petrucci, Bentivoglio, where are they now?
It's still true; sprezzatura goes a long way. A word of advice, though: don't confuse feigned haplessness with real ignorance.
Oh. Who's "my", by the way? But, yes, I agree. In general. Although I'd like to add - and you may trust me on this - that things tend to work out better if you do know what you're doing. Then you can even look like a complete idiot while you're doing it - be my guest, I won't hold it against you.
As for me... I think I've used both: ostensible stupidity, and supreme confidence in the face of certain defeat.
I meekly bent my knee and bowed my head when that gormless French village idiot with a crown wanted to drag Cem and me to Naples, didn't I? The curia, the barons - everybody was convinced father would fight Charles VIII teeth and nails. That I wouldn't have to go. Ecco, I went. With father's blessings. I even said so myself then: oh come now, flighty young Cesare, the Pope's nephew? He's expendable.
What a tedious, tedious journey. Cem's incessant whining. The French with their uncouth, revolting ways; boorish clowns all of them, down to their king. The promise of loot and plunder drew them from Rome; what would spell doom for Naples gave father room to breathe, so yes, I did my best to lure them away. Departed with the choicest bits of my household, strapped to the backs of eighteen mules. Mother of God, I would have loved to see Charles's face when he discovered that the trunks held only stones and straw! No doubt Michelotto and I were almost back in Rome by that time. Shame we had to lie low for a while; it would have been a good public laugh. So you can look like a dimwit and still win, see. Provided you know what you're doing.
Or you can have a tenth - a third, at best - of the forces conspiring against you, can have one or three trusted condottieri versus the twenty or more who have turned traitors and schemers... you may already see everything come tumbling down, your secret heart of hearts may despair every time you open a missive, receive a messenger, write a letter, hear somebody out, but if you keep your wits about you... chances are, you'll live. And win.
I'm referring to Senigallia, of course. Things had looked dismal for a while there. Losing Urbino was a low blow, and Urbino could very well have toppled everything. An avalanche. Bon déu, I already saw it coming. Daily, I expected it. But I kept my head, nevermind that meanwhile at La Magione, they were fantasizing about who'd get to fuck me first, whose cock I'd have to suck, and who'd get to finish me, knife in hand. Take a look around - Oliverotto, Vitellozzo, the Varano, Paolo Orsini, the Baglioni, Petrucci, Bentivoglio, where are they now?
It's still true; sprezzatura goes a long way. A word of advice, though: don't confuse feigned haplessness with real ignorance.
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