‘He says he will never be satisfied till he has your blood.’
I was not alarmed.
‘He talked of making a vow never to cut his beard or his hair till he had his revenge, but I implored him not to make himself more hideous than a merciful Providence had already made him.’
I thought of the ferocious Ercole with a long, untrimmed beard and unkempt hair falling over his face.
‘He would have looked like a wild man of the woods,’ I said. ‘I should have had to allow myself to be massacred for the good of society. I should have been one more of the martyrs of humanity — Saint Philip Brandolini!’
I offered her my arm, suggesting a saunter through the gardens.... We wandered along cool paths bordered with myrtle and laurel and cypress trees; the air was filled with the song of birds, and a gentle breeze bore to us the scent of the spring flowers. By-and-by we came to a little lawn shut in by tall shrubs; in the middle a fountain was playing, and under the shadow of a chestnut-tree was a marble seat supported by griffins; in one corner stood a statue of Venus framed in green bushes. We had left the throng of guests far behind, and the place was very still; the birds, as if oppressed with its beauty, had ceased to sing, and only the fountain broke the silence. The unceasing fall of water was like a lullaby in its monotony, and the air was scented with lilac.
We sat down. The quiet was delightful; peace and beauty filled one, and I felt a great sense of happiness pass into me, like some subtle liquid permeating every corner of my soul. The smell of the lilac was beginning to intoxicate me; and from my happiness issued a sentiment of love towards all nature; I felt as though I could stretch out my arms and embrace its impalpable spirit. The Venus in the corner gained flesh-like tints of green and yellow, and seemed to be melting into life; the lilac came across to me in great waves, oppressive, over-powering.
I looked at Claudia. I thought she was affected as myself; she, too, was overwhelmed by the murmur of the water, the warmth, the scented air. And I was struck again with the wonderful voluptuousness of her beauty; her mouth sensual and moist, the lips deep red and heavy. Her neck was wonderfully massive, so white that the veins showed clear and blue; her clinging dress revealed the fulness of her form, its undulating curves. She seemed some goddess of Sensuality. As I looked at her I was filled with a sudden blind desire to possess her. I stretched out my arms, and she, with a cry of passion, like an animal, surrendered herself to my embrace. I drew her to me and kissed her beautiful mouth sensual and moist, her lips deep red and heavy....
We sat side by side looking at the fountain, breathing in the scented air.
‘When can I see you?’ I whispered.
‘To-morrow.... After midnight. Come into the little street behind my house, and a door will be opened to you.’
‘Claudia!’
‘Good-bye. You must not come back with me now, we have been away so long, people would notice us. Wait here a while after me, and then there will be no fear. Good-bye.’
She left me, and I stretched myself on the marble seat, looking at the little rings which the drops made as they fell on the water. My love for Giulia was indeed finished now — dead, buried, and a stone Venus erected over it as only sign of its existence. I tried to think of a suitable inscription.... Time could kill the most obstinate love, and a beautiful woman, with the breezes of spring to help her, could carry away even the remembrance. I felt that my life was now complete. I had all pleasures imaginable at my beck and call: good wines to drink, good foods to eat, nice clothes; games, sports and pastimes; and, last of all, the greatest gift the gods can make, a beautiful woman to my youth and strength. I had arrived at the summit of wisdom, the point aimed at by the wise man, to take the day as it comes, seizing the pleasures, avoiding the disagreeable, enjoying the present, and giving no thought to the past or future. That, I said to myself, is the highest wisdom — never to think; for the way of happiness is to live in one’s senses as the beasts, and like the ox, chewing the cud, use the mind only to consider one’s superiority to the rest of mankind.
I laughed a little as I thought of my tears and cries when Giulia left me. It was not a matter worth troubling about; all I should have said to myself was that I was a fool not to abandon her before she abandoned me. Poor Giulia! I quite frightened her in the vehemence of my rage.
The following evening I would not let Matteo go to bed.
‘You must keep me company,’ I said, ‘I am going out at one.’
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘if you will tell me where you’re going.’
‘Ah, no, that is a secret; but I am willing to drink her health with you.’
‘Without a name?’
‘Yes!’
‘To the nameless one, then; and good luck!’
Then, after a little conversation, he said, —
‘I am glad you have suffered no more from Giulia dall’ Aste. I was afraid—’
‘Oh, these things pass off. I took your advice, and found the best way to console myself was to fall in love with somebody else.’
There was a little excitement in going to this mysterious meeting. I wondered whether it was a trap arranged by the amiable Ercole to get me in his power and rid himself of my unpleasant person. But faint heart never won fair lady; and even if he set on me with two or three others, I should be able to give a reasonable account of myself.
But there had been nothing to fear. On my way home, as the day was breaking, I smiled to myself at the matter-of-fact way in which a woman had opened the little door, and shown me into the room Claudia had told me of. She was evidently well used to her business; she did not even take the trouble to look into my face to see who was the newcomer. I wondered how many well-cloaked gallants she had let in by the same door; I did not care if they were half a hundred. I did not suppose the beautiful Claudia was more virtuous than myself. Suddenly it occurred to me that I had revenged myself on Ercole Piacentini at last; and the quaint thought, coming unexpectedly, made me stop dead and burst into a shout of laughter. The thought of that hang-dog visage, and the beautiful ornaments I had given him, was enough to make a dead man merry. Oh, it was a fairer revenge than any I could have dreamed of!
But, besides that, I was filled with a great sense of pleasure because I was at last free. I felt that if some slight chain still bound me to Giulia now, even that was broken and I had recovered my liberty. There was no love this time. There was a great desire for the magnificent sensual creature, with the lips deep red and heavy; but it left my mind free. I was now again a complete man; and this time I had no Nemesis to fear.
XVIII
AND so my life went on for a little while, filled with pleasure and amusement. I was contented with my lot, and had no wish for change. The time went by, and we reached the first week in April. Girolamo had organised a great ball to celebrate the completion of his Palace. He had started living in it as soon as there were walls and roof, but he had spent years on the decorations, taking into his service the best artists he could find in Italy; and now at last everything was finished. The Orsi had been invited with peculiar cordiality, and on the night we betook ourselves to the Palace.
We walked up the stately staircase, a masterpiece of architecture, and found ourselves in the enormous hall which Girolamo had designed especially for gorgeous functions. It was ablaze with light. At the further end, on a low stage, led up to by three broad steps, under a daïs, on high-backed, golden chairs, sat Girolamo and Caterina Sforza. Behind them, in a semicircle, and on the steps at each side, were the ladies of Caterina’s suite, and a number of gentlemen; at the back, standing like statues, a row of men-at-arms.
‘It is almost regal!’ said Checco, pursing up his lips.
‘It is not so poor a thing to be the Lord of Forli,’ answered Matteo. Fuel to the fire!
We approached, and Girolamo, as he saw us, rose and came down the steps.
‘Hail, my Checco!’ he said, taking both his hands. ‘Till you had come the assembly was not complete.�
�
Matteo and I went to the Countess. She had surpassed herself this night. Her dress was of cloth of silver, shimmering and sparkling. In her hair were diamonds shining like fireflies in the night; her arms, her neck, her fingers glittered with costly gems. I had never seen her look so beautiful, nor so magnificent. Let them say what they liked, Checco and Matteo and the rest of them, but she was born to be a queen. How strange that this offspring of the rough Condottiere and the lewd woman should have a majesty such as one imagines of a mighty empress descended from countless kings.
She took the trouble to be particularly gracious to us. Me she complimented on some verses she had seen, and was very flattering in reference to a pastoral play which I had arranged. She could not congratulate my good Matteo on any intellectual achievements, but the fame of his amours gave her a subject on which she could playfully reproach him. She demanded details, and I left her listening intently to some history which Matteo was whispering in her ear; and I knew he was not particular in what he said.
I felt in peculiarly high spirits, and I looked about for someone on whom to vent my good humour. I caught sight of Giulia. I had seen her once or twice since my return to Forli, but had never spoken to her. Now I felt sure of myself; I knew I did not care two straws for her, but I thought it would please me to have a little revenge. I looked at her a moment. I made up my mind; I went to her and bowed most ceremoniously.
‘Donna Giulia, behold the moth!’ I had used the simile before, but not to her, so it did not matter.
She looked at me undecidedly, not quite knowing how to take me.
‘May I offer you my arm,’ I said as blandly as I could.
She smiled a little awkwardly and took it.
‘How beautiful the Countess is to-night!’ I said. ‘Everyone will fall in love with her.’ I knew she hated Caterina, a sentiment which the great lady returned with vigour. ‘I would not dare say it to another; but I know you are never jealous: she is indeed like the moon among the stars.’
‘The idea does not seem too new,’ she said coldly.
‘It is all the more comprehensible. I am thinking of writing a sonnet on the theme.’
‘I imagined it had been done before; but the ladies of Forli will doubtless be grateful to you.’
She was getting cross; and I knew by experience that when she was cross she always wanted to cry.
‘I am afraid you are angry with me,’ I said.
‘No, it is you who are angry with me,’ she answered rather tearfully.
‘I? Why should you think that?’
‘You have not forgiven me for—’
I wondered whether the conscientious Giorgio had had another attack of morality and ridden off into the country.
‘My dear lady,’ I said, with a little laugh, ‘I assure you that I have forgiven you entirely. After all, it was not such a very serious matter.’
‘No?’ She looked at me with a little surprise.
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘You were quite right in what you did. Those things have to finish some time or other, and it really does not so much matter when.’
‘I was afraid I had hurt you,’ she said in a low voice.
The scene came to my mind; the dimly-lit room, the delicate form lying on the couch, cold and indifferent, while I was given over to an agony of despair. I remembered the glitter of the jewelled ring against the white hand. I would have no mercy.
‘My dear Giulia — you will allow me to call you Giulia?’
She nodded.
‘My dear Giulia, I was a little unhappy at first, I acknowledge, but one gets over those things so quickly — a bottle of wine, and a good sleep: they are like bleeding to a fever.’
‘You were unhappy?’
‘Naturally; one is always rather put out when one is dismissed. One would prefer to have done the breaking oneself.’
‘It was a matter of pride?’
‘I am afraid I must confess to it.’
‘I did not think so at the time.’
I laughed.
‘Oh, that is my excited way of putting things. I frightened you; but it did not really mean anything.’
She did not answer. After a while I said, —
‘You know, when one is young one should make the most of one’s time. Fidelity is a stupid virtue, unphilosophical and extremely unfashionable.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Simply this; you did not particularly love me, and I did not particularly love you.’
‘Oh!’
‘We had a passing fancy for one another, and that satisfied there was nothing more to keep us together. We should have been very foolish not to break the chain; if you had not done so, I should have. With your woman’s intuition, you saw that and forestalled me!’
Again she did not answer.
‘Of course, if you had been in love with me, or I with you, it would have been different. But as it was—’
‘I see my cousin Violante in the corner there; will you lead me to her?’
I did as she asked, and as she was bowing me my dismissal I said, —
‘We have had a very pleasant talk, and we are quite good friends, are we not?’
‘Quite!’ she said.
I drew a long breath as I left her. I hoped I had hurt; I hoped I had humiliated her. I wished I could have thought of things to say that would have cut her to the heart. I was quite indifferent to her, but when I remembered — I hated her.
I knew everyone in Forli by now, and as I turned away from Giulia I had no lack of friends with whom to talk. The rooms became more crowded every moment. The assembly was the most brilliant that Forli had ever seen; and as the evening wore on the people became more animated; a babel of talk drowned the music, and the chief topic of conversation was the wonderful beauty of Caterina. She was bubbling over with high spirits; no one knew what had happened to make her so joyful, for of late she had suffered a little from the unpopularity of her husband, and a sullen look of anger had replaced the old smiles and graces. But to-night she was herself again. Men were standing round talking to her, and one heard a shout of laughter from them as every now and then she made some witty repartee; and her conversation gained another charm from a sort of soldierly bluntness which people remembered in Francesco Sforza, and which she had inherited. People also spoke of the cordiality of Girolamo towards our Checco; he walked up and down the room with him, arm in arm, talking affectionately; it reminded the onlookers of the time when they had been as brothers together. Caterina occasionally gave them a glance and a little smile of approval; she was evidently well pleased with the reconciliation.
I was making my way through the crowd, watching the various people, giving a word here and there or a nod, and I thought that life was really a very amusing thing. I felt mightily pleased with myself, and I wondered where my good friend Claudia was; I must go and pay her my respects.
‘Filippo!’
I turned and saw Scipione Moratini standing by his sister, with a number of gentlemen and ladies, most of them known to me.
‘Why are you smiling so contentedly?’ he said. ‘You look as if you had lost a pebble and found a diamond in its place.’
‘Perhaps I have; who knows?’
At that moment I saw Ercole Piacentini enter the room with his wife; I wondered why they were so late. Claudia was at once seized upon by one of her admirers, and, leaving her husband, sauntered off on the proffered arm. Ercole came up the room on his way to the Count. His grim visage was contorted into an expression of amiability, which sat on him with an ill grace.
‘This is indeed a day of rejoicing,’ I said; ‘even the wicked ogre is trying to look pleasant.’
Giulia gave a little silvery laugh. I thought it forced.
‘You have a forgiving spirit, dear friend,’ she said, accenting the last word in recollection of what I had said to her. ‘A truly Christian disposition!’
‘Why?’ I asked, smiling.
‘I admire t
he way in which you have forgiven Ercole for the insults he has offered you; one does not often find a gentleman who so charitably turns his other cheek to the smiter!’
I laughed within myself; she was trying to be even with me. I was glad to see that my darts had taken good effect. Scipione interposed, for what his sister had said was sufficiently bitter.
‘Nonsense, Giulia!’ he said. ‘You know Filippo is the last man to forgive his enemies until the breath is well out of their bodies; but circumstances—’
Giulia pursed up her lips into an expression of contempt.
‘Circumstances. I was surprised, because I remembered the vigour with which Messer Filippo had vowed to revenge himself.’
‘Oh, but Messer Filippo considers that he has revenged himself very effectively,’ I said.
‘How?’
‘There are more ways of satisfying one’s honour than by cutting a hole in a person’s chest.’
‘What do you mean, Filippo?’ said Scipione.
‘Did you not see as he passed?’
‘Ercole? What?’
‘Did you not see the adornment of his noble head, the elegant pair of horns?’
They looked at me, not quite understanding; then I caught sight of Claudia, who was standing close to us.
‘Ah, I see the diamond I have found in place of the pebble I have lost. I pray you excuse me.’
Then as they saw me walk towards Claudia they understood, and I heard a burst of laughter. I took my lady’s hand, and bowing deeply, kissed it with the greatest fervour. I glanced at Giulia from the corner of my eyes and saw her looking down on the ground, with a deep blush of anger on her face. My heart leapt for joy to think that I had returned something of the agony she had caused me.
The evening grew late and the guests began to go. Checco, as he passed me, asked, —
‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes!’ I said, accompanying him to Girolamo and the Countess to take our leave.
‘You are very unkind, Checco,’ said the Countess. ‘You have not come near me the whole evening.’
‘You have been so occupied,’ he answered.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 22