Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  ‘Stop!’ he cried. ‘Here are the children. Stop!’

  Checco turned round to him.

  ‘I will not have them given up. Take them away!’

  ‘I have never asked you anything before, Checco,’ said Bartolomeo; ‘I have always done as you commanded; but this time I implore you to give way.’

  I joined my words to his.

  ‘You must give way. We shall all be massacred.’

  Checco stood for a moment undecided, then, without speaking, he turned into a room looking on the court. We took it for consent, and Bartolomeo handed the frightened children to the councillors. A shout of joy broke from the people and they marched off with their prize in triumph....

  I sought Checco and found him alone. As he heard the shouts of the people, a sob came from him in the misery of his humiliation.

  But Jacopo Ronchi and the two sons of Bartolomeo were sent out to discover what was going on. We could not think what had driven the council to their step; but we felt sure they must have good reasons for acting so courageously. We felt also that we had lost all power, all hope. The wheel had turned, and now we were at the bottom. After several hours, Alessandro Moratini came back and said, —

  ‘The council has been meeting again, and it has been receiving messengers; but that is all I know. Everyone looks upon me with an evil eye and becomes silent at my approach. I ask questions and they say they know nothing, have seen nothing, heard nothing.’

  ‘Brutes!’ said Matteo.

  ‘And for these people we risked our lives and fortunes!’ said Bartolomeo.

  Checco looked at him curiously; and, like him, I thought of our disinterestedness! Alessandro, having given his news, filled a glass with wine and sat down. We all kept silence. The time went on, and the afternoon began to close; the hours seemed interminable. At last Jacopo Ronchi came panting.

  ‘I have discovered everything,’ he said. ‘The council has resolved to surrender the town to the Duke, who promises, in return for the children, to forgive everything and allow them to rule themselves, with half the council appointed by him.’

  We sprang up with a cry.

  ‘I will not allow it,’ said Checco.

  ‘If the conspirators make any disturbance, they are to be outlawed and a price set upon their heads.’

  ‘How far have the negotiations gone?’ I asked.

  ‘The messengers have been sent to the Duke now.’

  ‘In that case there is no time to lose,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Checco.

  ‘We must escape.’

  ‘Escape!’

  ‘Or we shall be taken alive; and you know what to expect from Caterina and Lodovico. Do not think of their promises of pardon.’

  ‘I put no trust in their promises,’ said Checco, bitterly.

  ‘Filippo is right,’ said Bartolomeo. ‘We must escape.’

  ‘And quickly!’ I said.

  ‘I cannot throw up the game,’ said Checco. ‘And without me, what will happen to my supporters?’

  ‘They may find forgiveness in submission. But you can do no good here. If you are in safety, you may be of some assistance. Anyhow, you will have life.’

  Checco buried his face in his hands.

  ‘I cannot, I cannot.’

  The Moratini and I insisted. We adduced every argument. Finally he consented.

  ‘We must go together,’ I said; ‘we may have to fight our way through.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Scipione. ‘Let us meet at the gate by the river — at two.’

  ‘But go there separately. If the people find we are attempting to escape, they will set upon us.’

  ‘I wish they would,’ said Matteo. ‘It would give me such satisfaction to put my sword into half a score of their fat bellies!’

  ‘There is no moon.’

  ‘Very well; at two!’

  The night was cloudy, and if there had been a moon, it would have been covered. A thin, cold rain was falling, and it was pitch dark. When I got to the river gate, four or five of them were already there. We felt too cold and miserable to speak; we sat on our horses, waiting. As new arrivals came, we peered into their faces, and then, on recognising them, bent back and sat on silently. We were all there but Checco. We waited for a time. At last Bartolomeo Moratini whispered to Matteo, —

  ‘Where did you leave Checco?’

  ‘In the house. He told me to go on, saying he would follow shortly. Two horses were saddled besides mine.’

  ‘Whom was the second for?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  We waited on. The rain fell thin and cold. It struck half-past two. Immediately afterwards, we heard the sound of hoofs, and through the mist saw a black form coming towards us.

  ‘Is it you, Checco?’ we whispered, for the guard of the gate might have heard us. We were standing in a little plot of waste ground, ten yards from the walls.

  ‘I cannot go with you,’ said Checco.

  ‘Why?’ we cried.

  ‘Ssh!’ said Checco. ‘I intended to bring my father, but he will not come.’

  None of us had thought of old Orso Orsi.

  ‘He says he is too old, and will not leave his native town. I did all I could to persuade him, but he bade me go, and said they would not dare to touch him. I cannot leave him; therefore go, all of you, and I will remain.’

  ‘You must come, Checco; without you we are helpless.’

  ‘And what of your wife and children?’

  ‘Your presence will exasperate the tyrants. You can do no good, only harm.’

  ‘I cannot leave my father unprotected.’

  ‘I will stay, Checco,’ I said. ‘I am not well known as you are. I will take care of your father, and you can watch over your family and your interests in safety.’

  ‘No, you must go. It is too dangerous for you.’

  ‘Not half so dangerous as for you. I will do my best to preserve him. Let me stay.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the others, ‘let Filippo stay. He may escape detection, but you would have no chance.’

  The clock struck three.

  ‘Come, come; it is getting late. We must be thirty miles away before daybreak.’

  We had already arranged to go to Città di Castello, which was my native place, and in case of accident I had given them letters, so that they might be housed and protected for the present.

  ‘We must have you, Checco, or we will all stay.’

  ‘You will take care of him?’ said Checco to me at last.

  ‘I swear it!’

  ‘Very well! Good-bye, Filippo, and God bless you!’

  They advanced to the gate, and Checco summoned the captain.

  ‘Open the gate,’ he said shortly.

  The captain looked at them undecisively. I stood behind in the shade, so that I could not be seen.

  ‘If you make a sound, we will kill you,’ said Checco.

  They drew their swords. He hesitated, and Checco repeated, —

  ‘Open the gate!’

  Then he brought out the heavy keys; the locks were turned, the gate growled on its hinges, and one by one they filed out. Then the gate swung back behind them. I heard a short word of command, and the clatter of horses’ hoofs. I put the spurs to my own, and galloped back into the town.

  In half an hour the bells were ringing furiously; and it was announced from house to house that the conspirators had fled and the town was free.

  XXXI

  IN the morning the council met again and resolved that the town should return to its old obedience, and by surrendering without conditions hoped to receive pardon for its offences. Lodovico Moro entered in triumph, and going to the fortress was received by Caterina, who came forth from the citadel and with him proceeded to the cathedral to hear mass. The good Forlivesi were getting used to ovations; as the Countess passed through the streets they received her with acclamation, thronging the road on each side, blessing her, and her mother, and all her ancestors. She went her way as indiff
erent as when she had crossed the same streets a few days back amid the execrations of her faithful subjects. The keen observers noticed the firm closing of her mouth, which boded no particular good to the Forlivesi, and consequently redoubled their shouts of joy.

  The protonotary Savello had mysteriously disappeared when the news of Checco’s flight had been brought him; but Caterina was soon informed that he had taken refuge in a Dominican monastery. A light smile broke over her lips as she remarked, —

  ‘One would rather have expected him to take refuge in a convent.’

  Then she sent people to him to assure him of her good will and beg him to join her. The good man turned pale at the invitation, but he dared not refuse it. So, comforting himself with the thought that she dared not harm the legate of the Pope, he clothed himself in all his courage and his most gorgeous robes, and proceeded to the cathedral.

  When she saw him she lifted up two fingers and said solemnly, —

  ‘The peace of God be upon you!’

  Then, before he could recover himself, she went on, —

  ‘Sir, it has always been my hope that I should some day meet the gentleman whose fame has reached me as the most talented, most beautiful and most virtuous of his day.’

  ‘Madam—’ he interrupted.

  ‘Sir, I beseech you bravely to bear your evil fortunes. Do you not know that fortune is uncertain? If the city has been taken from you, it is the will of God, and as a Christian you must with resignation submit yourself to His decrees.’

  It was the beginning of her revenge, and one could see how sweet it was. The courtiers were sniggering at Caterina’s speech, and Savello was the picture of discomfort.

  ‘Messer Savello,’ she proceeded, ‘on a previous meeting you made me some very excellent admonitions on the will of God; now, notwithstanding your order, I am going to be so bold as to give you some equally excellent lessons on the same subject. If you will take your place by my side, you will have every opportunity of examining the ways of the Almighty, which, as you may remember you remarked, are inscrutable.’

  Savello bowed and advanced to the place pointed out to him.

  XXXII

  THE first thing I had done on returning to the Palazzo Orsi was to strip myself of my purple and fine linen, shave my beard and moustache, cut my hair short, put on the clothes of a serving-man, and look at myself in a mirror. If I had met in the street the image I saw I should have passed on without recognising it. Still I was not dissatisfied with myself, and I smiled as I thought that it would not be too extraordinary if a lady’s wench lost her heart to such a serving-man.

  I went to the old Orso’s apartments, and found everything quiet; I lay down on a couch outside the doors and tried to sleep; but my thoughts troubled me. My mind was with the sad horsemen galloping through the night, and I wondered what the morrow had in store for them and me. I knew a price would be set upon my head, and I had to remain here in the midst of my enemies as the only protection of an old man of eighty-five.

  In a little while I heard the bells which told the town that the conspirators had fled, and at last I fell into a restless sleep. At six I was awakened by a hurry and bustle in the house.... The servants told one another that Checco had gone, and the Countess would come out of the fortress in a little while; and then God only knew what would happen. They cowered about, whispering, taking no notice of the new serving-man who had appeared in the night. They said that the Palace would be given over to the vengeance of the people, that the servants would suffer instead of the master; and soon one of them gave the signal; he said he would not stay, and since his wages had not been paid he would take them with him. He filled his pockets with such valuables as he could find, and going down a back staircase slid out of a little side door and was lost in the labyrinth of streets. The others were quick to follow his example, and the Palace was subjected to a looting in miniature; the old steward stood by, wringing his hands, but they paid no attention to him, thinking only of their safety and their pockets. Before the sun had had time to clear away the early mists, they had all fled; and besides the old man, the house contained only the white-haired steward, a boy of twenty, his nephew, and myself; and Checco had been such a sweet and gentle master!

  We went in to the old Orso. He was seated in a large arm-chair by the fireside, huddled up in a heavy dressing-gown. He had sunk his head down in his collar to keep warm, so that one could only see the dead eyes, the nose, and the sunken, wrinkled cheeks; a velvet cap covered his hair and forehead. He was holding his long, shrivelled hands to the fire, and the flames almost shone through them; they trembled incessantly. He looked up at the sound of our entrance.

  ‘Ah, Pietro!’ he said to the steward. Then, after a pause, ‘Where is Fabrizio?’

  Fabrizio was the servant in whose particular charge the Orso had been put, and the old man had become so fond of him that he would take food only from his hand, and insisted on having him near at every moment of the day. He had been among the first to fill his pockets and decamp.

  ‘Why does not Fabrizio come?’ he asked querulously. ‘Tell him I want him. I will not be neglected in this way.’

  Pietro did not know what to answer. He looked about him in embarrassment.

  ‘Why does not Fabrizio come? Now that Checco is master here, they neglect me. It is scandalous. I shall talk to Checco about it. Where is Fabrizio? Tell him to come immediately on pain of my displeasure.’

  His voice was so thin and weak and trembling it was like that of a little child ill with some fever. I saw that Pietro had nothing to say, and Orso was beginning to moan feebly.

  ‘Fabrizio has been sent away,’ I said, ‘and I have been put in his place.’

  Pietro and his nephew looked at me. They noticed for the first time that my face was new, and they glanced at one another with upraised brows.

  ‘Fabrizio sent away! Who sent him away? I won’t have him sent away.’

  ‘Checco sent him away.’

  ‘Checco had no right to send him away. I am master here. They treat me as if I were a child. It is shameful! Where is Fabrizio? I will not have it, I tell you. It is shameful! I shall speak to Checco about it. Where is Checco?’

  None of us answered.

  ‘Why don’t you answer when I speak to you? Where is Checco?’

  He raised himself in his chair and bent forward to look at us, then he fell back.

  ‘Ah, I remember now,’ he murmured. ‘Checco has gone. He wanted me to go too. But I am too old, too old, too old. I told Checco what it would be. I know the Forlivesi; I have known them for eighty years. They are more fickle and cowardly than any other people in this cesspool which they call God’s earth. I have been an exile fourteen times. Fourteen times I have fled from the city, and fourteen times I have returned. Ah yes, I have lived the life in my time, but I am tired now. I don’t want to go out again; and besides, I am so old. I might die before I returned, and I want to die in my own house.’

  He looked at the fire, murmuring his confidences to the smouldering ashes. Then he seemed to repeat his talk with Checco.

  ‘No, Checco, I will not come. Go alone. They will not touch me. I am Orso Orsi. They will not touch me; they dare not. Go alone, and give my love to Clarice.’

  Clarice was Checco’s wife. He kept silence for a while, then he broke out again, —

  ‘I want Fabrizio.’

  ‘Will I not do instead?’ I asked.

  ‘Who are you?’

  I repeated patiently, —

  ‘I am the servant placed here to serve you instead of Fabrizio. My name is Fabio.’

  ‘Your name is Fabio?’ he asked, looking at me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, it is not! Why do you tell me your name is Fabio? I know your face. You are not a serving-man.’

  ‘You are mistaken,’ I said.

  ‘No, no. You are not Fabio. I know your face. Who are you?’

  ‘I am Fabio.’

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked again que
rulously. ‘I cannot remember whom you are. Why don’t you tell me? Can’t you see that I am an old man? Why don’t you tell me?’

  His voice broke into the moan, and I thought he would cry. He had only seen me twice, but among his few visitors the faces of those he saw remained with him, and he recognised me partly.

  ‘I am Filippo Brandolini,’ I said. ‘I have remained here to look after you and see that no harm happens. Checco wished to stay himself, but we insisted on his going.’

  ‘Oh, you are a gentleman,’ he answered. ‘I am glad of that.’

  Then, as if the talk had tired him, he sank deeper down in his chair and fell into a dose.

  I sent Andrea, the steward’s nephew, to see what was happening in the town, and Pietro and I sat in the large window talking in undertones. Suddenly Pietro stopped and said, —

  ‘What is that?’

  We both listened. A confused roar in the distance; it resembled the raging of the sea very far away. I opened the window and looked out. The roar became louder, louder, and at last we discovered that it was the sound of many voices.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Pietro again.

  There was a scrambling up the stairs, the noise of running feet. The door was burst violently open, and Andrea rushed in.

  ‘Save yourselves!’ he cried. ‘Save yourselves!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘They are coming to sack the Palace. The Countess has given them leave, and the whole populace is up.’

  The roar increased, and we could distinctly hear the shouting.

  ‘Be quick!’ cried Andrea. ‘For God’s sake be quick! They will be here in a moment!’

  I looked to the door, and Pietro, seeing my thoughts, said, —

  ‘Not that way! Here is another door which leads along a passage into a side street.’

  He lifted the tapestry and showed a tiny door, which he opened. I ran to old Orso and shook him.

  ‘Wake up!’ I said; ‘wake up and come with me!’