‘Come on,’ said Matteo; ‘we cannot waste our time here.’
We put the spurs to our horses. The soldiers looked to their captain to see whether they should stop us, but he gave no order, and we passed through. When we got outside, Matteo said to me, —
‘Girolamo must be planning something, or Ercole would not have dared to do that.’
‘It is only the impotent anger of a foolish man,’ I answered. ‘The Count will probably be very angry with him when he hears of it.’
We rode a few miles, and then Matteo turned back. When I found myself alone I heaved a great sigh of relief. I was free for a while at least.... Another episode in my life was finished; I could forget it, and look forward to new things.
As I rode on, the March wind got into my blood and sent it whirling madly through my veins. The sun was shining brightly and covered everything with smiles; the fruit trees were all in flower — apples, pears, almonds — the dainty buds covered the branches with a snow of pink and white. The ground beneath them was bespattered with narcissi and anemones, the very olive trees looked gay. All the world laughed with joy at the bright spring morning, and I laughed louder than the rest. I drew in long breaths of the keen air, and it made me drunk, so that I set the spurs to my horse and galloped wildly along the silent road.
I had made up my mind to forget Giulia, and I succeeded, for the changing scenes took me away from myself, and I was intent on the world at large. But I could not command my dreams. At night she came to me, and I dreamed that she was by my side, with her arms round my neck, sweetly caressing, trying to make me forget what I had suffered. And the waking was bitter.... But even that would leave me soon, I hoped, and then I should be free indeed.
I rode on, full of courage and good spirits, along endless roads, putting up at wayside inns, through the mountains, past villages and hamlets, past thriving towns, till I found myself in the heart of Tuscany, and finally I saw the roofs of Florence spread out before me.
After I had cleaned myself at the inn and had eaten, I sauntered through the town, renewing my recollections. I walked round Madonna del Fiore, and leaning against one of the houses at the back of the piazza looked at the beautiful apse, the marble all glistening in the moonlight. It was very quiet and peaceful; the exquisite church filled me with a sense of rest and purity, so that I cast far from me all vice.... Then I went to the baptistery and tried to make out in the dim light the details of Ghiberti’s wonderful doors. It was late and the streets were silent as I strolled to the Piazza della Signoria, and saw before me the grim stone palace with its tower, and I came down to the Arno and looked at the glistening of the water, with the bridge covered with houses; and as I considered the beauty of it all I thought it strange that the works of man should be so good and pure and man himself so vile.
Next day I set about my business. I had a special letter of introduction to Lorenzo, and was ushered in to him by a clerk. I found two people in the room; one, a young man with a long, oval face, and the bones of the face and chin very strongly marked; he had a very wonderful skin, like brown ivory, black hair that fell over his forehead and ears, and, most striking of all, large brown eyes, very soft and melancholy. I thought I had never before seen a man quite so beautiful. Seated by him, talking with animation, was an insignificant man, bent and wrinkled and mean, looking like a clerk in a cloth merchant’s shop, except for the massive golden chain about his neck and the dress of dark red velvet with an embroidered collar. His features were ugly; a large, coarse nose, a heavy, sensual mouth, small eyes, but very sharp and glittering; the hair thin and short, the skin muddy, yellow, wrinkled — Lorenzo de’ Medici!
As I entered the room, he interrupted himself and spoke to me in a harsh, disagreeable voice.
‘Messer Filippo Brandolini, I think. You are very welcome.’
‘I am afraid I interrupt you,’ I said, looking at the youth with the melancholy eyes.
‘Oh no,’ answered Lorenzo, gaily. ‘We were talking of Plato. I really ought to have been attending to very much more serious matters, but I never can resist Pico.’
Then that was the famous Pico della Mirandola. I looked at him again and felt envious that one person should be possessed of such genius and such beauty. It was hardly fair on Nature’s part.
‘It is more the subject than I that is irresistible.’
‘Ah, the banquet!’ said Lorenzo, clasping his hands. ‘What an inexhaustible matter! I could go on talking about it all day and all night for a year, and then find I had left unsaid half what I had in my mind.’
‘You have so vast an experience in the subject treated of,’ said Pico, laughing; ‘you could give a chapter of comment to every sentence of Plato.’
‘You rascal, Pico!’ answered Lorenzo, also laughing. ‘And what is your opinion of love, Messer?’ he added, turning to me.
I answered, smiling, —
‘Con tua promesse, et tua false parole,
Con falsi risi, et con vago sembiante,
Donna, menato hai il tuo fidele amante.’
. . . . . . . . . .
Those promises of thine, and those false words,
Those traitor smiles, and that inconstant seeming,
Lady, with these thou’st led astray thy faithful lover.
They were Lorenzo’s own lines, and he was delighted that I should quote them, but still the pleasure was not too great, and I saw that it must be subtle flattery indeed that should turn his head.
‘You have the spirit of a courtier, Messer Filippo,’ he said in reply to my quotation. ‘You are wasted on liberty!’
‘It is in the air in Florence — one breathes it in through every pore.’
‘What, liberty?’
‘No; the spirit of the courtier.’
Lorenzo looked at me sharply, then at Pico, repressing a smile at my sarcasm.
‘Well, about your business from Forli?’ he said; but when I began explaining the transaction he interrupted me. ‘Oh, all that you can arrange with my secretaries. Tell me what is going on in the town. There have been rumours of disturbance.’
I looked at Pico, who rose and went out, saying, —
‘I will leave you. Politics are not for me.’
I told Lorenzo all that had happened, while he listened intently, occasionally interrupting me to ask a question. When I had finished, he said —
‘And what will happen now?’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Who knows?’
‘The wise man knows,’ he said earnestly, ‘for he has made up his mind what will happen, and goes about to cause it to happen. It is only the fool who trusts to chance and waits for circumstances to develop themselves....’
‘Tell your master—’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I interrupted.
He looked at me interrogatively.
‘I was wondering of whom you were speaking,’ I murmured.
He understood and, smiling, said, —
‘I apologise. I was thinking you were a Forlivese. Of course, I remember now that you are a citizen of Castello, and we all know how tenacious they have been of their liberty and how proud of their freedom.’
He had me on the hip; for Città di Castello had been among the first of the towns to lose its liberty, and, unlike others, had borne its servitude with more equanimity than was honourable.
‘However,’ he went on, ‘tell Checco d’Orsi that I know Girolamo Riario. It was his father and he who were the prime movers in the conspiracy which killed my brother and nearly killed myself. Let him remember that the Riario is perfectly unscrupulous, and that he is not accustomed to forgive an injury — or forget it. You say that Girolamo has repeatedly threatened Checco. Has that had no effect on him?’
‘He was somewhat alarmed.’
‘Besides?’
I looked at him, trying to seize his meaning.
‘Did he make up his mind to sit still and wait till Girolamo found means to carry his threats into effect?’
‘It was suggested to him that it would be unwise,’ I replied slowly.
‘And what did he answer to that?’
‘He recalled the ill results of certain recent — events.’
‘Ah!’
He took his eyes off me, as if he had suddenly seen the meaning behind my words, and was now quite sure of everything he wanted to know. He walked up and down the room, thinking; then he said to me, —
‘Tell Checco that Girolamo’s position is very insecure. The Pope is against him, though he pretends to uphold him. You remember that when the Zampeschi seized his castle of San Marco, Girolamo thought they had the tacit consent of the Pope, and dared make no reprisal. Lodovico Sforza would doubtless come to the assistance of his half-sister, but he is occupied with the Venetians — and if the people of Forli hate the Count!’
‘Then you advise—’
‘I advise nothing. But let Checco know that it is only the fool who proposes to himself an end when he cannot or will not attain it; but the man who deserves the name of man, marches straight to the goal with clearness of mind and strength of will. He looks at things as they are and puts aside all vain appearances; and when his intelligence has shown him the means to his end, he is a fool if he refuses them, and he is a wise man if he uses them steadily and unhesitatingly. Tell that to Checco!’
He threw himself into his chair with a little cry of relief.
‘Now we can talk of other things. Pico!’
A servant came in to say that Pico had gone away.
‘The villain!’ cried Lorenzo. ‘But I daresay you will want to go away too, Messer Brandolini. But you must come to-morrow; we are going to act the Menacchini of Plautus; and besides the wit of the Latin you will see all the youth and beauty of Florence.’
As I took my leave, he added, —
‘I need not warn you to be discreet.’
XVI
A FEW days later I found myself in sight of Forli. As I rode along I meditated; and presently the thought came to me that after all there was perhaps a certain equality in the portioning out of good and evil in this world. When fate gave one happiness she followed it with unhappiness, but the two lasted about an equal time, so that the balance was not unevenly preserved.... In my love for Giulia I had gone through a few days of intense happiness; the first kiss had caused me such ecstasy that I was rapt up to heaven; I felt myself a god. And this was followed by a sort of passive happiness, when I lived but to enjoy my love and cared for nothing in the world besides. Then came the catastrophe, and I passed through the most awful misery that man had ever felt: even now as I thought of it the sweat gathered on my forehead. But I noticed that strangely as this wretchedness was equal with the first happiness, so was it equal in length. And this was followed by a passive unhappiness when I no longer felt all the bitterness of my woe, but only a certain dull misery, which was like peace. And half smiling, half sighing, I thought that the passive misery again was equal to the passive happiness. Finally came the blessed state of indifference, and, except for the remembrance, my heart was as if nothing had been at all. So it seemed to me that one ought not to complain; for if the world had no right to give one continual misery, one had no cause to expect unmingled happiness, and the conjunction of the two, in all things equal, seemed normal and reasonable. And I had not noticed that I was come to Forli.
I entered the gate with a pleasant sense of homecoming. I passed along the grey streets I was beginning to know so well, and felt for them something of the affection of old friends. I was glad, too, that I should shortly see Checco and my dear Matteo. I felt I had been unkind to Matteo: he was so fond of me and had always been so good, but I had been so wrapped up in my love that his very presence had been importunate, and I had responded coldly to his friendliness. And being then in a sentimental mood, I thought how much better and more trustworthy a friend is to the most lovely woman in the world. You could neglect him and be unfaithful to him, and yet if you were in trouble you could come back and he would take you to his arms and comfort you, and never once complain that you had strayed away. I longed to be with Matteo, clasping his hand. In my hurry I put the spurs to my horse, and clattered along the street. In a few minutes I had reached the Palazzo, leapt off my horse, sprung up the stairs, and flung myself into the arms of my friend.
After the first greetings, Matteo dragged me along to Checco.
‘The good cousin is most eager to hear your news. We must not keep him waiting.’
Checco seemed as pleased to see me as Matteo. He warmly pressed my hand, and said, —
‘I am glad to have you back, Filippo. In your absence we have been lamenting like forsaken shepherdesses. Now, what is your news?’
I was fully impressed with my importance at the moment, and the anxiety with which I was being listened to. I resolved not to betray myself too soon, and began telling them about the kindness of Lorenzo, and the play which he had invited me to see. I described the brilliancy of the assembly, and the excellence of the acting. They listened with interest, but I could see it was not what they wanted to hear.
‘But I see you want to hear about more important matters,’ I said. ‘Well—’
‘Ah!’ they cried, drawing their chairs closer to me, settling themselves to listen attentively.
With a slight smile I proceeded to give them the details of the commercial transaction which had been the ostensible purpose of my visit, and I laughed to myself as I saw their disgust. Checco could not restrain his impatience, but did not like to interrupt me. Matteo, however, saw that I was mocking, and broke in.
‘Confound you, Filippo! Why do you torment us when you know we are on pins and needles?’
Checco looked up and saw me laughing, and implored, —
‘Put us out of torture, for Heaven’s sake!’
‘Very well!’ I answered. ‘Lorenzo asked me about the state of Forli, and I told him. Then, after thinking awhile, he said, “Tell this to Checco—”’
And I repeated word for word what Lorenzo had said to me, and, as far as I could, I reproduced his accent and gesture.
When I had finished they both sat still and silent. At last Matteo, glancing to his cousin, said, —
‘It seems sufficiently clear.’
‘It is, indeed, very clear,’ answered Checco, gravely.
XVII
I MADE up my mind to amuse myself now. I was sick of being grave and serious. When one thinks how short a while youth lasts it is foolish not to take the best advantage of it; the time man has at his disposal is not long enough for tragedy and moaning; he has only room for a little laughter, and then his hair gets grey and his knees shaky, and he is left repenting that he did not make more of his opportunities. So many people have told me that they have never regretted their vices, but often their virtues! Life is too short to take things seriously. Let us eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.
There was really so much to do in Forli that amusement became almost hard work. There were hunting parties in which we scoured the country all day and returned at night, tired and sleepy, but with a delicious feeling of relief, stretching our limbs like giants waking from their sleep. There were excursions to villas, where we would be welcomed by some kind lady, and repeat on a smaller scale the Decameron of Boccaccio, or imitate the learned conversations of Lorenzo and his circle at Careggio; we could platonise as well as they, and we discovered the charm of treating impropriety from a philosophic point of view. We would set ourselves some subject and all write sonnets on it, and I noticed that the productions of our ladies were always more highly spiced than our own. Sometimes we would play at being shepherds and shepherdesses, but in this I always failed lamentably, for my nymph invariably complained that I was not as enterprising as a swain should be. Then we would act pastoral plays in the shadow of the trees; Orpheus was our favourite subject, and I was a
lways set for the title part, rather against my will, for I could never bring the proper vigour into my lament for Eurydice, since it always struck me as both unreasonable and ungallant to be so inconsolable for the loss of one love when there were all around so many to console one....
And in Forli itself there was a continuous whirl of amusement, festivities of every kind crowded on one, so that one had scarcely time to sleep; from the gravity and instructive tedium of a comedy by Terence to a drinking bout or a card party. I went everywhere, and everywhere received the heartiest of welcomes. I could sing and dance, and play the lute, and act, and I was ready to compose a sonnet or an ode at a moment’s notice; in a week I could produce a five-act tragedy in the Senecan manner, or an epic on Rinaldo or Launcelot; and as I had not a care in the world and was as merry as a drunken friar, they opened their arms to me and gave me the best of all they had....
I was attentive to all the ladies, and scandalous tongues gave me half a dozen mistresses, with details of the siege and capture. I wondered whether the amiable Giulia heard the stories, and what she thought of them. Occasionally I saw her, but I did not trouble to speak to her; Forli was large enough for the two of us; and when people are disagreeable why should you trouble your head about them?
One afternoon I rode with Matteo a few miles out of Forli to a villa where there was to be some festivity in honour of a christening. It was a beautiful spot, with fountains and shady walks, and pleasant lawns of well-mown grass; and I set myself to the enjoyment of another day. Among the guests was Claudia Piacentini. I pretended to be very angry with her because, at a ball which she had recently given, I had not received the honour of an invitation. She came to me to ask forgiveness.
‘It was my husband,’ she said, which I knew perfectly well. ‘He said he would not have you in his house. You’ve had another quarrel with him!’
‘How can I help it, when I see him the possessor of the lovely Claudia!’
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 21