Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Matteo came asking me to go to the Palace with him and Checco, at the particular desire of Girolamo, who wished to show them the progress of the decorations. I would not go. I wanted to be alone and think.

  But my thoughts maddened me. Over and over again I repeated every word of the terrible quarrel, and more than ever I was filled with horror for her cold cruelty. What right have these people to make us unhappy? Is there not enough misery in the world already? Oh, it is brutal!

  I could not bear myself; I regretted that I had not gone to the Palace. I detested this solitude.

  The hours passed like years, and as my brain grew tired I sank into a state of sodden, passive misery.

  At last they came back, and Matteo told me what had happened. I tried to listen, to forget myself.... It appeared that the Count had been extremely cordial. After talking to them of his house, and showing the beautiful things he had collected to furnish it with, he took them to Caterina’s apartments, where they found the Countess surrounded by her children. She had been very charming and gracious, even deigning to compliment Matteo on his gallantry. How it interested me to know all this! The children had run to Checco as soon as they saw him, dragging him into their game. The others looked on while the Orsi played good-humouredly with the little boys, and Girolamo, laying his hand on Checco’s shoulder, had remarked, —

  ‘You see, dear friend, the children are determined that there should not be enmity between us. And when the little ones love you so dearly, can you think that I should hate you?’

  And when they left he had accompanied them to the gates and been quite affectionate in his farewell.

  At last the night came and I could shut myself up in my room. I thought with a bitter smile that it was the hour at which I was used to go to Giulia. And now I should never go to Giulia again. My unhappiness was too great for wrath; I felt too utterly miserable to think of my grievances, or of my contempt. I only felt broken-hearted. I could not keep the tears back, and burying my face in the pillows, I cried my heart out. It was years and years since I had wept, not since I was quite a boy, but this blow had taken from me all manliness, and I gave myself over to my grief, passionately, shamelessly. I did not care that I was weak; I had no respect for myself, or care for myself. The sobs came, one on the heels of another like waves, and the pain, as they tore my chest, relieved the anguish of my mind. Exhaustion came at last, and with it sleep.

  But I knew I could not hide the change in me, and Matteo soon noticed it.

  ‘What is the matter with you, Filippo?’ he asked. I blushed and hesitated.

  ‘Nothing,’ I answered at last.

  ‘I thought you were unhappy.’

  Our eyes met, but I could not stand his inquiring glance and looked down. He came to me, and sitting on the arm of my chair, put his hand on my shoulder and said affectionately, —

  ‘We’re friends, aren’t we, Filippo?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, smiling and taking his hand.

  ‘Won’t you trust me?’

  After a pause I answered, —

  ‘I should so much like to.’ I felt as if indeed it would relieve me to be able to confide in somebody, I wanted sympathy so badly.

  He passed his hand gently over my hair.

  I hesitated a little, but I could not help myself, and I told him the whole story from beginning to end.

  ‘Poverino!’ he said, when I had finished; then, clenching his teeth, ‘She is a beast, that woman!’

  ‘I ought to have taken your warning, Matteo, but I was a fool.’

  ‘Who ever does take warning!’ he answered, shrugging his shoulders. ‘How could you be expected to believe me?’

  ‘But I believe you now. I am horrified when I think of her vice and cruelty.’

  ‘Ah, well, it is over now.’

  ‘Quite! I hate her and despise her. Oh, I wish I could get her face to face and tell her what I think of her.’

  I thought my talk with Matteo had relieved me, I thought the worst was over; but at night melancholy came on me stronger than ever, and I groaned as I threw myself on my bed. I felt so terribly alone in the world.... I had no relation but a half-brother, a boy of twelve, whom I had hardly seen; and as I wandered through the land, an exile, I had been continually assailed by the hateful demon of loneliness. And sometimes in my solitude I had felt that I could kill myself. But when I found I was in love with Giulia, I cried aloud with joy.... I threw everything to the winds, gathering myself up for the supreme effort of passion. All the storm and stress were passed; I was no longer alone, for I had someone to whom I could give my love. I was like the ship that arrives in the harbour, and reefs her sails and clears her deck, settling down in the quietness of the waters.

  And now all was over! Oh God, to think that my hopes should be shattered in so short a time, that the ship should be so soon tossed about in the storm, and the stars hidden by the clouds! And the past delight made the present darkness all the more bitter. I groaned. In my misery I uttered a prayer to God to help me. I could not think I should live henceforth. How could I go on existing with this aching void in my heart? I could not spend days and weeks and years always with this despair. It was too terrible to last. My reason told me that time would remedy it; but time was so long, and what misery must I go through before the wound was healed! And as I thought of what I had lost, my agony grew more unbearable. It grew vivid, and I felt Giulia in my arms. I panted as I pressed my lips against hers, and I said to her, —

  ‘How could you!’

  I buried my face in my hands, so as better to enjoy my dream. I smelt the perfume of her breath; I felt on my face the light touch of her hair. But it would not last. I tried to seize the image and hold it back, but it vanished and left me broken-hearted....

  I knew I did not hate her. I had pretended to, but the words came from the mouth. In my heart I loved her still, more passionately than ever. What did I care if she was heartless and cruel and faithless and vicious! It was nothing to me as long as I could hold her in my arms and cover her with kisses. I did despise her; I knew her for what she was, but still I loved her insanely. Oh, if she would only come back to me! I would willingly forget everything and forgive her. Nay, I would ask her forgiveness and grovel before her, if she would only let me enjoy her love again.

  I would go back to her and fall on my knees, and pray her to be merciful. Why should I suppose she had changed in the few days. I knew she would treat me with the same indifference, and only feel a wondering contempt that I should so abase myself. It came like a blow in the face, the thought of her cold cruelty and her calmness. No, I vowed I would never subject myself to that again. I felt myself blush at the remembrance of the humiliation. But perhaps she was sorry for what she had done. I knew her pride would prevent her from coming or sending to me, and should I give her no opportunity? Perhaps, if we saw one another for a few moments everything might be arranged, and I might be happy again. An immense feeling of hope filled me. I thought I must be right in my idea; she could not be so heartless as to have no regret. How willingly I would take her back! My heart leaped. But I dared not go to her house. I knew I should find her on the morrow at her father’s, who was going to give a banquet to some friends. I would speak to her there, casually, as if we were ordinary acquaintances; and then at the first sign of yielding on her part, even if I saw but a tinge of regret in her eyes, I would burst out. I was happy in my plan, and I went to sleep with the name of Giulia on my lips and her image in my heart.

  XIV

  I WENT to the Moratini Palace, and with beating heart looked round for Giulia. She was surrounded by her usual court, and seemed more lively and excited than ever. I had never seen her more beautiful. She was dressed all in white, and her sleeves were sewn with pearls; she looked like a bride. She caught sight of me at once, but pretended not to see me, and went on talking.

  I approached her brother Alessandro and said to him casually, —

  ‘I am told a cousin of your sister has come t
o Forli. Is he here to-day?’

  He looked at me inquiringly, not immediately understanding.

  ‘Giorgio dall’ Aste,’ I explained.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know you meant him. No, he’s not here. He and Giulia’s husband were not friends, and so—’

  ‘Why were they not friends?’ I interrupted, on the spur of the moment, not seeing the impertinence of the question till I had made it.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Relations always are at enmity with one another; probably some disagreement with regard to their estates.’

  ‘Was that all?’

  ‘So far as I know.’

  I recollected that in a scandal the persons most interested are the last to hear it. The husband hears nothing of his wife’s treachery till all the town knows every detail.

  ‘I should like to have seen him,’ I went on.

  ‘Giorgo? Oh, he’s a weak sort of creature; one of those men who commit sins and repent!’

  ‘That is not a fault of which you will ever be guilty, Alessandro,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘I sincerely hope not. After all, if a man has a conscience he ought not to do wrong. But if he does he must be a very poor sort of a fool to repent.’

  ‘You cannot have the rose without the thorn.’

  ‘Why not? It only needs care. There are dregs at the bottom of every cup, but you are not obliged to drink them.’

  ‘You have made up your mind that if you commit sins you are ready to go to hell for them?’ I said.

  ‘It is braver than going to Heaven by the back door, turning pious when you are too old to do anything you shouldn’t.’

  ‘I agree with you that one has little respect for the man who turns monk when things go wrong with him.’

  I saw that Giulia was alone, and seized the opportunity to speak with her.

  ‘Giulia,’ I said, approaching.

  She looked at me for a moment with an air of perplexity, as if she really could not remember whom I was.

  ‘Ah, Messer Filippo!’ she said, as if suddenly recollecting.

  ‘It is not so long since we met that you can have forgotten me.’

  ‘Yes. I remember last time you did me the honour to visit me you were very rude and cross.’

  I looked at her silently, wondering.

  ‘Well?’ she said, steadily answering my gaze and smiling.

  ‘Have you nothing more to say to me than that?’ I asked in an undertone.

  ‘What do you want me to say to you?’

  ‘Are you quite heartless?’

  She gave a sigh of boredom, and looked to the other end of the room, as if for someone to come and break a tedious conversation.

  ‘How could you!’ I whispered.

  Notwithstanding her self-control, a faint blush came over her face. I stood looking at her for a little while and then I turned away. She was quite heartless. I left the Moratini and walked out into the town. This last interview had helped me in so far that it made certain that my love was hopeless. I stood still and stamped on the ground, vowing I would not love her. I would put her away from my thoughts entirely; she was a contemptible, vicious woman, and I was too proud to be subject to her. I wondered I did not kill her. I made up my mind to take my courage in both hands and leave Forli. Once away, I should find myself attracted to different matters, and probably I should not live long before finding some other woman to take Giulia’s place. She was not the only woman in Italy; she was not the most beautiful nor the cleverest. Give me a month and I could laugh at my torments....

  The same evening I told Matteo I meant to leave Forli.

  ‘Why?’ he asked in astonishment.

  ‘I have been here several weeks,’ I answered; ‘I don’t want to outstay my welcome.’

  ‘That is rubbish. You know I should be only too glad for you to stay here all your life.’

  ‘That is very kind of you,’ I replied, with a laugh, ‘but the establishment is not yours.’

  ‘That makes no difference. Besides, Checco has become very fond of you, and I’m sure he wishes you to stay.’

  ‘Of course, I know your hospitality is quite unlimited; but I am beginning to want to get back to Città di Castello.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Matteo, doubtfully.

  ‘One likes to return to one’s native place.’

  ‘You have been away from Castello for ten years; you cannot be in any particular hurry to get back.’

  I was beginning to protest when Checco came in, and Matteo interrupted me with, —

  ‘Listen, Checco, Filippo says he wants to leave us.’

  ‘But he sha’n’t,’ said Checco, laughing.

  ‘I really must!’ I answered gravely.

  ‘You really mustn’t,’ replied Checco. ‘We can’t spare you, Filippo.’

  ‘There’s no great hurry about your going home,’ he added, when I had explained my reasons, ‘and I fancy that soon we shall want you here. A good sword and a brave heart will probably be of good use to us.’

  ‘Everything is as quiet as a cemetery,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders.

  ‘It is quiet above; but below there are rumblings and strange movements. I feel sure this calm only presages a storm. It is impossible for Girolamo to go on as he is now; his debts are increasing every day, and his difficulties will soon be impracticable. He must do something. There is certain to be a disturbance at any attempt to put on the taxes, and then Heaven only knows what will happen.’

  I was beginning to get a little vexed at their opposition, and I answered petulantly, —

  ‘No, I must go.’

  ‘Stay another month; things must come to a head before then.’

  A month would have been as bad as a year.

  ‘I am out of health,’ I answered; ‘I feel I want to get into a different atmosphere.’

  Checco thought for a moment.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘we can arrange matters to suit us both. I want someone to go to Florence for me to conclude a little business matter with Messer Lorenzo de’ Medici. You would be away a fortnight; and if you are out of sorts the ride across country will put you right. Will you go?’

  I thought for a moment. It was not a very long absence, but the new sights would distract me, and I wanted to see Florence again. On the whole, I thought it would suffice, and that I could count on the cure of my ill before the time was up.

  ‘Very well,’ I answered.

  ‘Good! And you will have a pleasant companion. I had talked to Scipione Moratini about it; it did not occur to me that you would go. But it will be all the better to have two of you.’

  ‘If I go,’ I said, ‘I shall go alone.’

  Checco was rather astonished.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Scipione bores me. I want to be quiet and do as I like.’

  I was quite determined that neither of the Moratini should come with me. They would have reminded me too much of what I wanted to forget.

  ‘As you like,’ said Checco. ‘I can easily tell Scipione that I want him to do something else for me.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘When will you start?’

  ‘At once.’

  ‘Then come, and I will give you the instructions and necessary papers.’

  XV

  NEXT morning I mounted my horse and set out with Matteo, who was to accompany me for a little way.

  But at the town gate a guard stopped us and asked where we were going.

  ‘Out!’ I answered shortly, moving on.

  ‘Stop!’ said the man, catching hold of my bridle.

  ‘What the devil d’you mean?’ said Matteo. ‘D’you know whom we are?’

  ‘I have orders to let no one go by without the permission of my captain.’

  ‘What tyrants they are!’ cried Matteo. ‘Well, what the hell are you standing there for? Go and tell your captain to come out.’

  The man signed to another soldier, who went into the guard-house; he was still holding my bridle. I was not very good-tempered t
hat morning.

  ‘Have the goodness to take your hands off,’ I said.

  He looked as if he were about to refuse.

  ‘Will you do as you are told?’ Then, as he hesitated, I brought down the butt-end of my whip on his fingers, and with an oath bade him stand off. He let go at once, cursing, and looked as if he would willingly stab me if he dared. We waited impatiently, but the captain did not appear.

  ‘Why the devil doesn’t this man come?’ I said; and Matteo, turning to one of the soldiers, ordered, —

  ‘Go and tell him to come here instantly.’

  At that moment the captain appeared, and we understood the incident, for it was Ercole Piacentini. He had apparently seen us coming, or heard of my intended journey, and had set himself out to insult us. We were both furious.

  ‘Why the devil don’t you hurry up when you’re sent for?’ said Matteo.

  He scowled, but did not answer. Turning to me he asked, —

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Matteo and I looked at one another in amazement at the man’s impudence, and I burst forth, —

  ‘You insolent fellow! What do you mean by stopping me like this?’

  ‘I have a right to refuse passage to anyone I choose.’

  ‘Take care!’ I said. ‘I swear the Count shall be told of your behaviour, and nowadays the Count is in the habit of doing as the Orsi tell him.’

  ‘He shall hear of this,’ growled the Piacentini.

  ‘Tell him what you like. Do you think I care? You can tell him that I consider his captain a very impertinent ruffian. Now, let me go.’

  ‘You shall not pass till I choose.’

  ‘By God! man,’ I said, absolutely beside myself, ‘it seems I cannot touch you here, but if ever we meet in Città di Castello—’

  ‘I will give you any satisfaction you wish,’ he answered hotly.

  ‘Satisfaction! I would not soil my sword by crossing it with yours. I was going to say that if ever we meet in Castello I will have you whipped by my lacqueys in the public place.’

  I felt a ferocious pleasure in throwing the words of contempt in his face.