Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  ‘They were fools. We do not mistake as in Florence; we have the people with us, and we shall not bungle it as they did.’

  ‘No, no, it cannot be.’

  ‘I tell you it must. It is our only safety!’

  Checco looked round anxiously.

  ‘We are all safe,’ said Oliva. ‘Have no fear.’

  ‘What do you think of it?’ asked Checco. ‘I know what you think, Filippo, and Matteo.’

  ‘I think with my father!’ said Scipione.

  ‘I too!’ said his brother.

  ‘And I!’

  ‘And I!’

  ‘Every one of you,’ said Checco; ‘you would have me murder him.’

  ‘It is just and lawful.’

  ‘Remember that he was my friend. I helped him to this power. Once we were almost brothers.’

  ‘But now he is your deadly enemy. He is sharpening a knife for your heart — and if you do not kill him, he will kill you.’

  ‘It is treachery. I cannot!’

  ‘When a man has killed another, the law kills him. It is a just revenge. When a man attempts another’s life, the law permits him to kill that man in self-defence. Girolamo has killed you in thought — and at this moment he may be arranging the details of your murder. It is just and lawful that you take his life to defend your own and ours.’

  ‘Bartolomeo is right,’ said Matteo.

  A murmur of approval showed what the others thought.

  ‘But think, Bartolomeo,’ said Checco, ‘you are grey-headed; you are not so very far from the tomb; if you killed this man, what of afterwards?’

  ‘I swear to you, Checco, that you would be a minister of God’s vengeance. Has he not madly oppressed the people? What right has he more than another? Through him men and women and children have died of want; unhappiness and misery have gone through the land — and all the while he has been eating and drinking and making merry.’

  ‘Make up your mind, Checco. You must give way to us!’ said Matteo. ‘Girolamo has failed in every way. On the score of honesty and justice he must die. And to save us he must die.’

  ‘You drive me mad,’ said Checco. ‘All of you are against me. You are right in all you say, but I cannot — oh God, I cannot!’

  Bartolomeo was going to speak again, but Checco interrupted him.

  ‘No, no, for Heaven’s sake, say nothing more. Leave me alone. I want to be quiet and think.’

  IX

  IN the evening at ten I went to the Palazzo Aste. The servant who let me in told me that Donna Giulia was at her father’s, and he did not know when she would be back. I was intensely disappointed. I had been looking forward all day to seeing her, for the time in church had been so short.... The servant looked at me as if expecting me to go away, and I hesitated; but then I had such a desire to see her that I told him I would wait.

  I was shown into the room I already knew so well, and I sat down in Giulia’s chair. I rested my head on the cushions which had pressed against her beautiful hair, her cheek; and I inhaled the fragrance which they had left behind them.

  How long she was! Why did she not come?

  I thought of her sitting there. In my mind I saw the beautiful, soft brown eyes, the red lips; her mouth was exquisite, very delicately shaped, with wonderful curves. It was for such a mouth as hers that the simile of Cupid’s bow had been invented.

  I heard a noise below, and I went to the door to listen. My heart beat violently, but, alas! it was not she, and, bitterly disappointed, I returned to the chair. I thought I had been waiting hours, and every hour seemed a day. Would she never come?

  At last! The door opened, and she came in — so beautiful. She gave me both her hands.

  ‘I am sorry you have had to wait,’ she said, ‘but I could not help it.’

  ‘I would wait a hundred years to see you for an hour.’

  She sat down, and I lay at her feet.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘all that has happened to-day.’

  I did as she asked; and as I gave my story, her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed. I don’t know what came over me; I felt a sensation of swooning, and at the same time I caught for breath. And I had a sudden impulse to take her in my arms and kiss her many times.

  ‘How lovely you are!’ I said, raising myself to her side.

  She did not answer, but looked at me, smiling. Her eyes glistened with tears, her bosom heaved.

  ‘Giulia!’

  I put my arm round her, and took her hands in mine.

  ‘Giulia, I love you!’

  She bent over to me, and put forward her face; and then — then I took her in my arms and covered her mouth with kisses. Oh God! I was mad, I had never tasted such happiness before. Her beautiful mouth, it was so soft, so small, I gasped in the agony of my happiness. If I could only have died then!

  Giulia! Giulia!

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  The cock crew, and the night seemed to fade away into greyness. The first light of dawn broke through the windows, and I pressed my love to my heart in one last kiss.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said; ‘I love you.’

  I could not speak; I kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her breasts.

  ‘Don’t go,’ she said.

  ‘My love!’

  At last I tore myself away, and as I gave her the last kiss of all, she whispered, —

  ‘Come soon.’

  And I replied, —

  ‘To-night!’

  I walked through the grey streets of Forli, wondering at my happiness; it was too great to realise. It seemed absurd that I, a poor, commonplace man, should be chosen out for this ecstasy of bliss. I had been buffeted about the world, an exile, wandering here and there in search of a captain under whom to serve. I had had loves before, but common, grotesque things — not like this, pure and heavenly. With my other loves I had often felt a certain ugliness about them; they had seemed sordid and vulgar; but this was so pure, so clean! She was so saintly and innocent. Oh, it was good! And I laughed at myself for thinking I was not in love with her. I had loved her always; when it began I did not know ... and I did not care; all that interested me now was to think of myself, loving and beloved. I was not worthy of her; she was so good, so kind, and I a poor, mean wretch. I felt her a goddess, and I could have knelt down and worshipped her.

  I walked through the streets of Forli with swinging steps; I breathed in the morning air, and felt so strong, and well, and young. Everything was beautiful — all life! The grey walls enchanted me; the sombre carvings of the churches; the market women, gaily dressed, entering the town laden with baskets of many-coloured fruit. They gave me greeting, and I answered with a laughing heart. How kind they were! Indeed, my heart was so full of love that it welled over and covered everything and everybody, so that I felt a strange, hearty kindness to all around me. I loved mankind!

  X

  WHEN I got home, I threw myself on my bed and enjoyed a delightful sleep, and when I awoke felt cool and fresh, and very happy.

  ‘What is the matter with you?’ asked Matteo.

  ‘I am rather contented with myself,’ I said.

  ‘Then, if you want to make other people contented, you had better come with me to Donna Claudia.’

  ‘The beautiful Claudia?’

  ‘The same!’

  ‘But can we venture in the enemy’s camp?’

  ‘That is exactly why I want you to come. The idea is to take no notice of the events of yesterday, and that we should all go about as if nothing had happened.’

  ‘But Messer Piacentini will not be very glad to see us.’

  ‘He will be grinding his teeth, and inwardly spitting fire; but he will take us to his arms and embrace us, and try to make us believe he loves us with the most Christian affection.’

  ‘Very well; come on!’

  Donna Claudia, at all events, was delighted to see us, and she began making eyes and sighing, and putting her hand to her bosom in the most affecting manner.
r />   ‘Why have you not been to see me, Messer Filippo?’ she asked.

  ‘Indeed, madam, I was afraid of being intrusive.’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, with a sweeping glance, ‘how could you be! No, there was another reason for your absence. Alas!’

  ‘I dared not face those lustrous eyes.’

  She turned them full on me, and then turned them up, Madonna-wise, showing the whites.

  ‘Are they so cruel, do you think?’

  ‘They are too brilliant. How dangerous to the moth is the candle; and in this case the candle is twain.’

  ‘But they say the moth as it flutters in the flame enjoys a perfection of ecstasy.’

  ‘Ah, but I am a very sensible moth,’ I answered in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘and I am afraid of burning my wings.’

  ‘How prosaic!’ she murmured.

  ‘The muse,’ I said politely, ‘loses her force when you are present.’

  She evidently did not quite understand what I meant, for there was a look of slight bewilderment in her eyes; and I was not surprised, for I had not myself the faintest notion of my meaning. Still she saw it was a compliment.

  ‘Ah, you are very polite!’

  We paused a moment, during which we both looked unutterable things at one another. Then she gave a deep sigh.

  ‘Why so sad, sweet lady?’ I asked.

  ‘Messer Filippo,’ she answered, ‘I am an unhappy woman.’ She hit her breast with her hand.

  ‘You are too beautiful,’ I remarked gallantly.

  ‘Ah no! ah no! I am unhappy.’

  I glanced at her husband, who was stalking grimly about the room, looking like a retired soldier with the gout; and I thought that to be in the society of such a person was enough to make anyone miserable.

  ‘You are right,’ she said, following my eyes; ‘it is my husband. He is so unsympathetic.’

  I condoled with her.

  ‘He is so jealous of me, and, as you know, I am a pattern of virtue to Forli!’

  I had never heard her character so described, but, of course, I said, —

  ‘To look at you would be enough to reassure the most violent of husbands.’

  ‘Oh, I have temptation enough, I assure you,’ she answered quickly.

  ‘I can well believe that.’

  ‘But I am as faithful to him as if I were old and ugly; and yet he is jealous.’

  ‘We all have our crosses in this life,’ I remarked sententiously.

  ‘Heaven knows I have mine; but I have my consolations.’

  So I supposed, and answered, —

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘I pour out my soul in a series of sonnets.’

  ‘A second Petrarch!’

  ‘My friends say some of them are not unworthy of that great name.’

  ‘I can well believe it.’

  Here relief came, and like the tired sentinel, I left the post of duty. I thought of my sweet Giulia, and wondered at her beauty and charm; it was all so much clearer and cleaner than the dross I saw around me. I came away, for I was pining for solitude, and then I gave myself up to the exquisite dreams of my love.

  At last the time came, the long day had at last worn away, and the night, the friend of lovers, gave me leave to go to Giulia.

  XI

  I WAS so happy. The world went on; things happened in Forli, the rival parties agitated and met together and discussed; there was a general ferment — and to it all I was profoundly indifferent. What matter all the petty little affairs of life? I said. People work and struggle, plot, scheme, make money, lose it, conspire for place and honour; they have their ambitions and hopes; but what is it all beside love? I had entered into the excitement of politics in Forli; I was behind the veil and knew the intricacies, the ambitions, the emotions of the actors; but now I withdrew myself. What did I care about the prospects of Forli, whether taxes were put on or taken off, or whether A killed B or B killed A, it really seemed so unimportant. I looked upon them as puppets performing on a stage, and I could not treat their acts with seriousness. Giulia! That was the great fact in life. Nothing mattered to me but Giulia. When I thought of Giulia my heart was filled with ecstasy, and I spat with scorn on all the silly details of events.

  I would willingly have kept myself out of the stream which was carrying along the others; but I could not help knowing what happened. And it was indeed ridiculous. After the great scene at the Palace people had begun to take steps as if for big events. Checco had sent a large sum of money to Florence for the Medici to take care of; Bartolomeo Moratini had made preparations; there were generally a stir and unrest. Girolamo was supposed to be going to take some step; people were prepared for everything; when they woke up in the morning they asked if aught had taken place in the night; and Checco wore a coat of mail. On the Count’s side people were asking what Checco meant to do, whether the ovation he had received would encourage him to any violent step. All the world was agog for great events — and nothing happened. It reminded me of a mystery play in which, after great preparation of dialogue, some great stage effect is going to be produced — a saint is going to ascend to heaven, or a mountain is to open and the devil spring out. The spectators are sitting open-mouthed; the moment has come, everything is ready, the signal is given; the mob have already drawn their breath for a cry of astonishment — and something goes wrong and nothing happens.

  The good Forlivesi could not understand it: they were looking for signs and miracles, and behold! they came not. Each day they said to themselves that this would be one to be remembered in the history of the town; that to-day Girolamo would surely leave his hesitations; but the day wore on quite calmly. Everyone took his dinner and supper as usual, the sun journeyed from east to west as it had done on the previous day, the night came, and the worthy citizen went to his bed at his usual hour, and slept in peace till the following sunrise. Nothing happened, and it seemed that nothing was going to happen. The troubled spirits gradually came to the conclusion that there was nothing to be troubled about, and the old quiet came over the town; there was no talk of new taxes, and the world wagged on.... Checco and Matteo and the Moratini resigned themselves to the fact that the sky was serene, and that they had better pursue their way without troubling their little heads about conspiracies and midnight daggers.

  Meanwhile, I laughed, and admired their folly and my own wisdom. For I worried myself about none of these things; I lived in Giulia, for Giulia, by Giulia.... I had never enjoyed such happiness before; she was a little cold, perhaps, but I did not mind. I had passion that lived by its own flame, and I cared for nothing as long as she let me love her. And I argued with myself that it is an obvious thing that love is not the same on both sides. There is always one who loves and one who lets himself be loved. Perhaps it is a special decree of Nature; for the man loves actively, caresses and is passionate; while the woman gives herself to him, and is in his embrace like some sweet, helpless animal. I did not ask for such love as I gave; all I asked was that my love should let herself be loved. That was all I cared for; that was all I wanted. My love for Giulia was wonderful even to me. I felt I had lost myself in her. I had given my whole being into her hand. Samson and Delilah! But this was no faithless Philistine. I would have given my honour into her keeping and felt it as sure as in my own. In my great love I felt such devotion, such reverence, that sometimes I hardly dared touch her; it seemed to me I must kneel and worship at her feet. I learnt the great delight of abasing myself to the beloved. I could make myself so small and mean in my humility; but nothing satisfied my wish to show my abject slavery.... Oh, Giulia! Giulia!

  But this inaction on the part of Girolamo Riario had the effect of persuading his subjects of his weakness. They had given over expecting reprisals on his part, and the only conclusion they could come to was that he dared do nothing against Checco. It was inconceivable that he should leave unavenged the insults he had received; that he should bear without remark the signs of popularity which greeted Checco, not only on the day of
the Council meeting, but since, every time he appeared in the streets. They began to despise their ruler as well as hate him, and they told one another stories of violent disputes in the Palace between the Count and Caterina. Everyone knew the pride and passion which came to the Countess with her Sforza blood, and they felt sure that she would not patiently bear the insults which her husband did not seem to mind; for the fear of the people could not stop their sarcasms, and when any member of the household was seen he was assailed with taunts and jeers; Caterina herself had to listen to scornful laughs as she passed by, and the town was ringing with a song about the Count. It was whispered that Girolamo’s little son, Ottaviano, had been heard singing it in ignorance of its meaning, and had been nearly killed by his father in a passion of rage. Evil reports began to circulate about Caterina’s virtue; it was supposed that she would not keep faithful to such a husband, and another song was made in praise of cuckoldry.

  The Orsi would not be persuaded that this calm was to be believed in. Checco was assured that Girolamo must have some scheme on hand, and the quiet and silence seemed all the more ominous.

  The Count very rarely appeared in Forli; but one Saint’s day he went to the Cathedral, and as he came back to the Palace, passing through the piazza, saw Checco. At the same moment Checco saw him, and stopped, uncertain what to do. The crowd suddenly became silent, and they stood still like statues petrified by a magic spell. What was going to happen? Girolamo himself hesitated a moment; a curious spasm crossed his face. Checco made as if to walk on, pretending not to notice the Count. Matteo and I were dumbfounded, absolutely at a loss. Then the Count stepped forward, and held out his hand.

  ‘Ah, my Checco! how goes it?’

  He smiled and pressed warmly the hand which the Orsi gave him. Checco was taken aback, pale as if the hand he held were the hand of death.

  ‘You have neglected me of late, dear friend,’ said the Count.