Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  We made the sign of the cross, and retired as silently as we had come.

  XXII

  MY sleep was troubled, and when I woke the next morning the sun had only just risen.

  It was Saturday, the 14th of April 1488.

  I went to my window and saw a cloudless sky, brilliantly yellow over in the east, and elsewhere liquid and white, hardening gradually into blue. The rays came dancing into my room, and in them incessantly whirled countless atoms of dust. Through the open window blew the spring wind, laden with the scents of the country, the blossoms of the fruit trees, the primroses and violets. I had never felt so young and strong and healthy. What could one not do on such a day as this! I went into Matteo’s room, and found him sleeping as calmly as if this were an ordinary day like any other.

  ‘Rise, thou sluggard!’ I cried.

  In a few minutes we were both ready, and we went to Checco. We found him seated at a table polishing a dagger.

  ‘Do you remember in Tacitus,’ he said, smiling pleasantly, ‘how the plot against Nero was discovered by one of the conspirators giving his dagger to his freedman to sharpen? Whereupon the freedman became suspicious, and warned the Emperor.’

  ‘The philosophers tell us to rise on the mistakes of others,’ I remarked in the same tone.

  ‘One reason for my affection towards you, Filippo,’ he answered, ‘is that you have nice moral sentiments, and a pleasant moral way of looking at things.’

  He held out his dagger and looked at it. The blade was beautifully damaskeened, the hilt bejewelled.

  ‘Look,’ he said, showing me the excellence of the steel, and pointing out the maker’s name. Then, meditatively, ‘I have been wondering what sort of blow would be most effective if one wanted to kill a man.’

  ‘You can get most force,’ said Matteo, ‘by bringing the dagger down from above your head — thus.’

  ‘Yes; but then you may strike the ribs, in which case you would not seriously injure your friend.’

  ‘You can hit him in the neck.’

  ‘The space is too small, and the chin may get in the way. On the other hand, a wound in the large vessels of that region is almost immediately fatal.’

  ‘It is an interesting subject,’ I said. ‘My opinion is that the best of all blows is an underhand one, ripping up the stomach.’

  I took the dagger and showed him what I meant.

  ‘There are no hindrances in the way of bones; it is simple and certainly fatal.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Checco, ‘but not immediately! My impression is that the best way is between the shoulders. Then you strike from the back, and your victim can see no uplifted hand to warn him, and, if he is very quick, enable him to ward the blow.’

  ‘It is largely a matter of taste,’ I answered, shrugging my shoulders. ‘In these things a man has to judge for himself according to his own idiosyncrasies.’

  After a little more conversation I proposed to Matteo that we should go out to the market-place and see the people.

  ‘Yes, do!’ said Checco, ‘and I will go and see my father.’

  As we walked along, Matteo told me that Checco had tried to persuade his father to go away for a while, but that he had refused, as also had his wife. I had seen old Orso d’Orsi once or twice; he was very weak and decrepit; he never came downstairs, but stayed in his own rooms all day by the fireside, playing with his grand-children. Checco was in the habit of going to see him every day, morning and evening, but to the rest of us it was as if he did not exist. Checco was complete master of everything.

  The market-place was full of people. Booths were erected in rows, and on the tables the peasant women had displayed their wares: vegetables and flowers, chickens, ducks and all kinds of domestic fowls, milk, butter, eggs; and other booths with meat and oil and candles. And the sellers were a joyful crew, decked out with red and yellow handkerchiefs, great chains of gold around their necks, and spotless headdresses; they were standing behind their tables, with a scale on one hand and a little basin full of coppers on the other, crying out to one another, bargaining, shouting and joking, laughing, quarrelling. Then there were the purchasers, who walked along looking at the goods, picking up things and pinching them, smelling them, tasting them, examining them from every point of view. And the sellers of tokens and amulets and charms passed through the crowd crying out their wares, elbowing, cursing when someone knocked against them. Gliding in and out, between people’s legs, under the barrow wheels, behind the booths, were countless urchins, chasing one another through the crowd unmindful of kicks and cuffs, pouncing on any booth of which the proprietor had turned his back, seizing the first thing they could lay hands on, and scampering off with all their might. And there was a conjurer with a gaping crowd, a quack extracting teeth, a ballad singer. Everywhere was noise, and bustle, and life.

  ‘One would not say on the first glance that these people were miserably oppressed slaves,’ I said maliciously.

  ‘You must look beneath the surface,’ replied Matteo, who had begun to take a very serious view of things in general. I used to tell him that he would have a call some day and end up as a shaven monk.

  ‘Let us amuse ourselves,’ I said, taking Matteo by the arm, and dragging him along in search of prey. We fixed on a seller of cheap jewellery — a huge woman, with a treble chin and a red face dripping with perspiration. We felt quite sorry for her, and went to console her.

  ‘It is a very cold day,’ I remarked to her, whereupon she bulged out her cheeks and blew a blast that nearly carried me away.

  She took up a necklace of beads and offered it to Matteo for his lady love. We began to bargain, offering her just a little lower than she asked, and then, as she showed signs of coming down, made her a final offer a little lower still. At last she seized a broom and attacked us, so that we had to fly precipitately.

  I had never felt in such high spirits. I offered to race Matteo in every way he liked — riding, running and walking — but he refused, brutally telling me that I was frivolous. Then we went home. I found that Checco had just been hearing mass, and he was as solemn and silent as a hangman. I went about lamenting that I could get no one to talk to me, and at last took refuge with the children, who permitted me to join in their games, so that, at ‘hide-and-seek’ and ‘blind man’s buff,’ I thoroughly amused myself till dinner-time. We ate together, and I tried not to be silenced, talking the greatest nonsense I could think of; but the others sat like owls and did not listen, so that I too began to feel depressed....

  The frowns of the others infected me, and the dark pictures that were before their eyes appeared to mine; my words failed me and we all three sat gloomily. I had started with an excellent appetite, but again the others influenced me, and I could not eat. We toyed with our food, wishing the dinner over. I moved about restlessly, but Checco was quite still, leaning his face on his hand, occasionally raising his eyes and fixing them on Matteo or me. One of the servants dropped some plates; we all started at the sound, and Checco uttered an oath; I had never heard him swear before. He was so pale I wondered if he were nervous. I asked the time: still two hours before we could start. How long would they take to pass! I had been longing to finish dinner, so that I might get up and go away. I felt an urgent need for walking, but when the meal was over a heaviness came to my legs and I could do nothing but sit and look at the other two. Matteo filled his tankard and emptied it several times, but after awhile, as he reached over for the wine, he saw Checco’s eyes fixed on the flagon, with a frown on his forehead, and the curious raising of one corner of the mouth, which was a sign he was displeased. Matteo withdrew his hand and pushed his mug away; it rolled over and fell on the floor. We heard the church bell strike the hour; it was three o’clock. Would it never be time! We sat on and on. At last Checco rose and began walking up and down the room. He called for his children. They came, and he began talking to them in a husky voice, so that they could scarcely understand him. Then, as if frightened of himself, he took them in his arm
s, one after the other, and kissed them convulsively, passionately, as one kisses a woman; and he told them to go. He stifled a sob. We sat on and on. I counted the minutes. I had never lived so long before. It was awful....

  At last!

  It was half-past three; we got up and took our hats.

  ‘Now, my friends!’ said Checco, drawing a breath of relief, ‘our worst troubles are over.’

  We followed him out of the house. I noticed the jewelled hilt of his dagger, and every now and then I saw him put his hand to it to see that it was really there. We passed along the streets, saluted by the people. A beggar stopped us, and Checco threw him a piece of gold.

  ‘God bless you!’ said the man.

  And Checco thanked him fervently.

  We walked along the narrow streets in the shade, but as we turned a corner the sun came full on our faces. Checco stopped a moment and opened his arms, as if to receive the sunbeams in his embrace, and, turning to us, with a smile, he said, —

  ‘A good omen!’

  A few more steps brought us to the piazza.

  XXIII

  AMONG the members of the Count’s household was Fabrizio Tornielli, a cousin of the Orsi on the mother’s side. Checco had told him that he wished to talk with Girolamo about the money he owed him, and thought the best opportunity would be when the Count was alone after the meal which he was in the habit of taking at three. But as he was very anxious to find the Count entirely by himself, he begged his cousin to make him a sign when the time came.... Fabrizio had agreed, and we had arranged to stroll about the piazza till we saw him. We came across our friends; to me they looked different from everyone else. I wondered that people as they passed did not stop them and ask what was disturbing them.

  At last, one of the Palace windows was opened, and we saw Fabrizio Tornielli standing in it, looking down on the piazza. Our opportunity has come. My heart beat so violently against my chest that I had to put my hand to it. Besides Matteo and myself, Marco Scorsacana, Lodovico Pansecchi and Scipione Moratini were to accompany Checco into the Palace. Checco took my arm and we walked slowly up the steps while the others followed on our heels. The head of the Orsi had a key of gold, that is to say he was admitted to the ruler’s presence whenever he presented himself, and without formality. The guard at the door saluted as we passed, making no question. We ascended to Girolamo’s private apartments, and were admitted by a servant. We found ourselves in an ante-room, in one wall of which was a large doorway, closed by curtains....

  ‘Wait for me here,’ said Checco. ‘I will go in to the Count.’

  The servant raised the curtain; Checco entered, and the curtain fell back behind him.

  Girolamo was alone, leaning against the sill of an open window. He stretched out his hand kindly.

  ‘Ah, Checco, how goes it?’

  ‘Well; and you?’

  ‘Oh, I am always well when I get among my nymphs.’

  He waved his hand to the frescoes on the walls. They were the work of a celebrated artist, and represented nymphs sporting, bathing, weaving garlands and offering sacrifice to Pan; the room had been christened the Chamber of the Nymphs.

  Girolamo looked round with a contented smile.

  ‘I am glad everything is finished at last,’ he said. ‘Eight years ago the stones with which the house is built had not been hewn out of the rock, and now every wall is painted, everything is carved and decorated, and I can sit down and say, “It is finished.”’

  ‘It is indeed a work to be proud of,’ said Checco.

  ‘You don’t know how I have looked forward to this, Checco. Until now I have always lived in houses which others had built, and decorated, and lived in; but this one has grown up out of my own head; I have watched every detail of its construction, and I feel it mine as I have never felt anything mine before.’

  He paused a minute, looking at the room.

  ‘Sometimes I think I have lost in its completion, for it gave me many pleasant hours to watch the progress. The hammer of the carpenter, the click of the trowel on the brick were music to my ears. There is always a melancholy in everything that is finished; with a house, the moment of its completion is the commencement of its decay. Who knows how long it will be before these pictures have mouldered off the walls, and the very walls themselves are crumbling to dust?’

  ‘As long as your family reigns in Forli your palace will preserve its splendour.’

  ‘Yes, and it seems to me that as the family will preserve the house, so the house will preserve the family. I feel myself firmer and more settled in Forli; this seems like a rock to which my fortunes can cling. But I am full of hope. I am still young and strong. I have a good thirty years of life before me, and what can one not do in thirty years? And then, Checco, my children! What a proud day it will be for me when I can take my son by the hand and say to him, “You are a full-grown man, and you are capable of taking up the sceptre when death takes it from my hand.” And it will be a good present I shall leave him. My head is full of plans. Forli shall be rich and strong, and its prince shall not need to fear his neighbours, and the Pope and Florence shall be glad of his friendship.’

  He looked into space, as if he saw the future.

  ‘But, meanwhile, I am going to enjoy life. I have a wife whom I love, a house to be proud of, two faithful cities. What more can I want?’

  ‘You are a fortunate man,’ said Checco.

  There was a short silence. Checco looked at him steadily. The Count turned away, and Checco put his hand to his dagger. He followed him. As he was approaching, the Count turned again with a jewel that he had just taken from the window sill.

  ‘I was looking at this stone when you came,’ he said. ‘Bonifazio has brought it me from Milan, but I am afraid I cannot afford it. It is very tempting.’

  He handed it to Checco to look at.

  ‘I don’t think it is better than the one you have on your neck,’ he said, pointing to the jewel which was set in a medallion of gold hanging from a heavy chain.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Girolamo. ‘It is much finer. Look at the two together.’

  Checco approached the stone he held in his hand to the other, and, as he did so, with his other fingers pressed against the Count’s chest. He wanted to see whether by any chance he wore a coat of mail; he did not mean to make the same mistake as the Count.... He thought there was nothing; but he wished to make quite sure.

  ‘I think you are right,’ he said, ‘but the setting shows off the other, so that at first sight it seems more brilliant. And no wonder, for the chain is a masterpiece.’

  He took it up as if to look at it, and as he did so put his hand on the Count’s shoulder. He was certain now.

  ‘Yes,’ said Girolamo, ‘that was made for me by the best goldsmith in Rome. It is really a work of art.’

  ‘Here is your stone,’ said Checco, handing it to him, but awkwardly, so that when Girolamo wanted to take it, it fell between their hands. Instinctively he bent down to catch it. In a moment Checco drew his dagger and buried it in the Count’s back. He staggered forward and fell in a heap on his face.

  ‘Oh God!’ he cried, ‘I am killed.’

  It was the first thing we had heard outside. We heard the cry, the heavy fall. The servant rushed to the curtain.

  ‘They are killing my master,’ he cried.

  ‘Be quiet, you fool!’ I said, seizing his head from behind and with my hands on his mouth dragging him backwards. At the same moment Matteo drew his dagger and pierced the man’s heart. He gave a convulsive leap into the air, and then as he fell I pushed him so that he rolled to one side.

  Immediately afterwards the curtain was lifted and Checco appeared, leaning against the door-post. He was as pale as death, and trembling violently. He stood silent for a moment, open-mouthed, so that I thought he was about to faint; then with an effort he said in a hoarse, broken voice, —

  ‘Gentlemen, we are free!’

  A cry burst from us, —

  ‘Liberty!�
�

  Lodovico Pansecchi asked, —

  ‘Is he dead?’

  A visible shudder passed through Checco, as if he had been struck by an icy wind. He staggered to a chair and groaned, —

  ‘Oh God!’

  ‘I will go and see,’ said Pansecchi, lifting the curtain and entering.

  We stood still, waiting for him. We heard a heavy sound, and as he appeared, he said, —

  ‘There is no doubt now.’

  There was blood on his hands. Going up to Checco, he handed him the jewelled dagger.

  ‘Take this. It will be more use to you than where you left it.’

  Checco turned away in disgust.

  ‘Here, take mine,’ said Matteo. ‘I will take yours. It will bring me good luck.’

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when a step was heard outside. Scipione looked out cautiously.

  ‘Andrea Framonti,’ he whispered.

  ‘Good luck, indeed!’ said Matteo.

  It was the captain of the guard. He was in the habit of coming every day about this hour to receive the password from the Count. We had forgotten him. He entered.

  ‘Good-day to you, gentlemen! Are you waiting to see the Count?’

  He caught sight of the corpse lying against the wall.

  ‘Good God! what is this? What is — ?’

  He looked at us, and stopped suddenly. We had surrounded him.

  ‘Treason!’ he cried. ‘Where is the Count?’

  He looked behind him; Scipione and Matteo barred the door.

  ‘Treason!’ he shouted, drawing his sword.

  At the same moment we drew ours and rushed for him. He parried a few of our blows, but we were too many, and he fell pierced with a dozen wounds.

  The sight of the fray had a magical effect on Checco. We saw him standing up, drawn to his full height, his cheeks aflame, his eyes flashing.

  ‘Good, my friends, good! Luck is on our side,’ he said. ‘Now we must look alive and work. Give me my dagger, Matteo; it is sacred now. It has been christened in blood with the name of Liberty. Liberty, my friends, Liberty!’