Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

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Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 31

by William Somerset Maugham


  I was anxious to see what was happening in the town and what people were talking of; but I thought it prudent not to venture out, for my disguise might be seen through, and if I were discovered I knew well what to expect. So I sat at home twiddling my thumbs and chattering with Andrea. At last, getting tired of doing nothing, and seeing the good woman about to scrub out her courtyard, I volunteered to do it for her. I got a broom and a pail of water and began sweeping away vigorously, while Andrea stood in the doorway scoffing. For a little while I forgot the terrible scene in the piazza.

  There was a knock at the door. We stopped and listened; the knock was repeated, and as no answer was given, the latch was raised and the door opened. A servant-maid walked in and carefully closed it behind her. I recognised her at once; it was Giulia’s maid. I shrank back, and Andrea stood in front of me. His mother went forward.

  ‘And pray, madam, what can I do for you?’

  The maid did not answer, but stepped past her.

  ‘There is a serving-man here for whom I have a message.’

  She came straight towards me, and handed me a piece of paper; then, without another word, slid back to the door and slipped out.

  The note contained four words, ‘Come to me to-night,’ and the handwriting was Giulia’s. A strange feeling came over me as I looked at it, and my hand trembled a little.... Then I began pondering. Why did she want me? I could not think, and it occurred to me that perhaps she wished to give me up to the Countess. I knew she hated me, but I could not think her as vile as that; after all, she was her father’s daughter, and Bartolomeo was a gentleman. Andrea looked at me questioningly.

  ‘It is an invitation from my greatest enemy to put myself in her hands.’

  ‘But you will not?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I will.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it is a woman.’

  ‘But do you think she would betray you?’

  ‘She might.’

  ‘And you are going to take the risk?’

  ‘I think I should be glad to prove her so utterly worthless.’

  Andrea looked at me open-mouthed; he could not understand. An idea struck him.

  ‘Are you in love with her?’

  ‘No; I was.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now, I do not even hate her.’

  XXXVI

  THE night came, and when everyone had gone to bed and the town was quiet, I said to Andrea, ‘Wait for me here, and if I do not come back in two hours you will know—’

  He interrupted me.

  ‘I am coming with you.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ I said. ‘I don’t know what danger there may be, and there is no object in your exposing yourself to it.’

  ‘Where you go I will go too.’

  I argued with him, but he was an obstinate youth.

  We walked along the dark streets, running like thieves round corners when we heard the heavy footsteps of the watch. The Palazzo Aste was all dark; we waited outside a little while, but no one came, and I dared not knock. Then I remembered the side door. I still had the key, and I took it from my pocket.

  ‘Wait outside,’ I said to Andrea.

  ‘No, I am coming with you.’

  ‘Perhaps there is an ambush.’

  ‘Two are more likely to escape than one.’

  I put the key in the lock, and as I did so my heart beat and my hand trembled, but not with fear. The key turned, and I pushed the door open. We entered and walked up the stairs. Sensations which I had forgotten crowded upon me, and my heart turned sick.... We came to an ante-room dimly lit. I signed Andrea to wait, and myself passed into the room I knew too well. It was that in which I had last seen Giulia — the Giulia I had loved — and nothing was altered in it. The same couch stood in the centre, and on it lay Giulia, sleeping. She started up.

  ‘Filippo!’

  ‘At your service, madam.’

  ‘Lucia recognised you in the street yesterday, and she followed you to the house in which you are staying.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My father sent me a message that you were still here, and if I wanted help would give it me.’

  ‘I will do whatever I can for you.’

  What a fool I was to come. My head was in a whirl, my heart was bursting. My God! she was beautiful! I looked at her, and suddenly I knew that all the dreary indifference I had built up had melted away at the first look into her eyes. And I was terrified.... My love was not dead; it was alive, alive! Oh, how I adored that woman! I burned to take her in my arms and cover her soft mouth with kisses.

  Oh, why had I come? I was mad. I cursed my weakness.... And, when I saw her standing there, cold and indifferent as ever, I felt so furious a rage within me that I could have killed her. And I felt sick with love....

  ‘Messer Filippo,’ she said, ‘will you help me now? I have been warned by one of the Countess’s women that the guard have orders to arrest me to-morrow; and I know what the daughter of Bartolomeo Moratini may expect. I must fly to-night — at once.’

  ‘I will help you,’ I answered.

  ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘I can disguise you as a common woman. The mother of my friend Andrea will lend you clothes; and Andrea and I will accompany you. Or, if you prefer, after we have safely passed the gates, he shall accompany you alone wherever you wish to go.’

  ‘Why will you not come?’

  ‘I feared my presence would make the journey more tedious to you.’

  ‘And to you?’

  ‘To me it would be a matter of complete indifference.’

  She looked at me a moment, then she cried, —

  ‘No, I will not come!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you hate me.’

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘I should have thought my sentiments were of no consequence.’

  ‘I will not be helped by you. You hate me too much. I will stay in Forli.’

  ‘You are your own mistress.... Why do you mind?’

  ‘Why do I mind? Shall I tell you?’ She came close up to me. ‘Because — because I love you.’

  My head swam, and I felt myself stagger.... I did not know what was happening.

  ‘Filippo!’

  ‘Giulia!’

  I opened my arms, and she fell into them, and I held her close to my heart, and I covered her with kisses.... I covered her mouth and eyes and neck with kisses.

  ‘Giulia! Giulia!’

  But I wrenched myself away, and taking hold of her shoulders, said almost savagely.

  ‘But this time I must have you altogether. Swear that you will—’

  She lifted her sweet face and smiled, and nestling close up to me, whispered, —

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  I kissed her.

  ‘I loved you always,’ I said. ‘I tried to hate you, but I could not.’

  ‘Do you remember that night at the Palace? You said you had never cared for me.’

  ‘Ah, yes! but you did not believe me.’

  ‘I felt it was not true, but I did not know; and it pained me. And then Claudia—’

  ‘I was so angry with you, I would have done anything to revenge myself; but still I loved you.’

  ‘But, Claudia — you loved her too?’

  ‘No,’ I protested, ‘I hated her and despised her; but I tried to forget you; and I wanted you to feel certain that I no longer cared for you.’

  ‘I hate her.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ I said.

  ‘I forgive you everything,’ she answered.

  I kissed her passionately; and I did not remember that I too had something to forgive.

  The time flew on, and when a ray of light pierced through the windows I started up in surprise.

  ‘We must make haste,’ I said. I went into the ante-room and found Andrea fast asleep. I shook him.

  ‘At what time do the gates open?’ I asked.

  He rubbed his eyes, and, on a repetition
of the question, answered, ‘Five!’

  It was half-past four; we had no time to lose. I thought for a minute. Andrea would have to go to his mother’s and find the needful clothes, then come back; it would all take time, and time meant life and death. Then, the sight of a young and beautiful woman might arouse the guard’s attention, and Giulia might be recognised.

  An idea struck me.

  ‘Undress!’ I said to Andrea.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Undress! Quickly.’

  He looked at me blankly, I signed to him, and as he was not rapid enough I tore off his coat; then he understood and in a minute he was standing in his shirt while I had walked off with his clothes. I handed them to Giulia and came back. Andrea was standing in the middle of the room, the very picture of misery. He looked very ridiculous.

  ‘Look here, Andrea,’ I said. ‘I have given your clothes to a lady, who is going to accompany me instead of you. Do you see?’

  ‘Yes, and what am I to do?’

  ‘You can stay with your mother for the present, and then, if you like, you can join me at my house in Città di Castello.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Oh, now you can go home.’

  He did not answer, but looked at me dubiously, then at his bare legs and his shirt, then again at me. I pretended not to understand.

  ‘You seem troubled, my dear Andrea. What is the matter?’

  He pointed to his shirt.

  ‘Well?’ I said.

  ‘It is usual to go about in clothes.’

  ‘A broad-minded youth like you should be free from such prejudice,’ I answered gravely. ‘On such a morning you will find life much pleasanter without hose and doublet.’

  ‘Common decency—’

  ‘My dear boy, are you not aware that our first parents were content with fig-leaves, and are you not satisfied with a whole shirt? Besides, have you not a fine pair of legs and a handsome body; what are you ashamed of?’

  ‘Everyone will follow me.’

  ‘All the more reason to have something to show them.’

  ‘The guard will lock me up.’

  ‘How will the jailor’s daughter be able to resist you in that costume!’

  Then another idea struck me, and I said, —

  ‘Well, Andrea, I am grieved to find you of so unpoetical a turn of mind; but I will deny you nothing.’ I went to Giulia, and taking the clothes she had just cast off brought them to Andrea.

  ‘There!’

  He gave a cry of delight, but on seizing them, and discovering petticoats and flounces, his face fell. I leant against the wall and laughed till my sides ached.

  Then Giulia appeared, a most fascinating serving-boy....

  ‘Good-bye,’ I cried, and hurried down the stairs. We marched boldly to the city gate, and with beating hearts and innocent countenances, passed through and found ourselves in the open country.

  XXXVII

  THE Orsi and the Moratini had taken my advice and gone to Città di Castello; so it was to that city we directed our way, and eventually reached it in safety. I did not know where Bartolomeo Moratini was, and I did not wish to take Giulia to my own house, so I placed her in a Benedictine convent, the superior of which, on hearing my name, promised to give her guest every care.

  Then I went to the old palace which I had not seen for so many years. I had been too excited to get really home to notice anything of the streets as I passed through them; but as I came in view of the well-remembered walls, I stopped, overcome with strange emotions.... I remembered the day when news had been brought me that the old Vitelli, who was then ruler of Castello, had murmured certain things about me which caused my neck to itch uncomfortably — and upon this I had entrusted my little brother to a relative, who was one of the canons of the cathedral, and the palace to my steward, and mounting my horse, ridden off with all possible haste. I had supposed that a few months would calm the angry Vitelli, but the months had lengthened out into years, and his death had come before his forgiveness. But now I really was back, and I did not mean to go away; my travels had taught me caution, and my intrigues at Forli given me enough excitement for some time. Besides, I was going to marry and rear a family; for, as if Fortune could not give scantily, I had gained a love as well as a home, and everything I wished was granted.

  My meditations were interrupted.

  ‘Corpo di Bacco!’

  It was Matteo, and in a moment I was in his arms.

  ‘I was just asking myself what that fool was staring at this house for, and thinking of telling him it was impolite to stare, when I recognised the house’s owner.’

  I laughed, and shook his hand again.

  ‘Well Filippo, I am sure we shall be very pleased to offer you hospitality.’

  ‘You are most kind.’

  ‘We have annexed the whole place, but I daresay you will be able to find room somewhere. But come in.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘if you do not mind.’

  I found Checco, Bartolomeo and his two sons sitting together. They jumped up when they saw me.

  ‘What news? What news?’ they asked.

  Then suddenly I remembered the terrible story I had to tell, for in my own happiness I had forgotten everything that went before. I suddenly became grave.

  ‘Bad news,’ I said. ‘Bad news.’

  ‘Oh, God! I have been foreboding it. Every night I have dreamed awful things.’

  ‘Checco,’ I answered. ‘I have done all I could; but, alas! it has been of no avail. You left me as a protector and I have been able to protect no one.’

  ‘Go on!’

  Then I began my story. I told them how the Council had opened the gates, surrendering unconditionally, and how the Countess had sallied forth in triumph. That was nothing. If there had been no worse news for them than that! But Checco clenched his hands as I related the sacking of his palace. And I told him how old Orso had refused to fly and had been seized, while I had lain senseless on the floor.

  ‘You did your best, Filippo,’ said Checco. ‘You could do nothing more. But afterwards?’

  I told them how Marco Scorsacana and Pietro had been taken prisoners, and led into the town like thieves caught in the act; how the crowd had gathered together, and how they had been brought to the square and hanged from the Palace window, and their bodies torn to pieces by the people.

  ‘Oh, God!’ uttered Checco. ‘And all this is my fault.’

  I told them that the old Orso was brought forward and taken to his palace, and before his eyes it was torn down, stone after stone, till only a heap of ruins marked the site.

  Checco gave a sob.

  ‘My palace, my home!’

  And then, as if the blow was too great, he bent his head and burst into tears.

  ‘Do not weep yet, Checco,’ I said. ‘You will have cause for tears presently.’

  He looked up.

  ‘What more?’

  ‘Your father.’

  ‘Filippo!’

  He started up, and stepping back, stood against the wall, his arms against it, outstretched, with white and haggard face and staring eyes, like a hunted beast at bay.

  I told him how they had taken his father and bound him, and thrown him down, and tied him to the savage beast, and how he had been dragged along till his blood spattered on the pavement and his soul left him.

  Checco uttered a most awful groan, and, looking up to heaven, as if to call it in witness, cried, —

  ‘Oh, God!’

  Then, sinking into a chair, he buried his face in his hands, and in his agony swayed from side to side. Matteo went up to him and put his hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him; but he motioned him aside.

  ‘Let me be.’

  He rose from his seat, and we saw that his eyes were tearless, for his grief was too great for weeping. Then, with his hands before him like a blind man, he staggered to the door and left us.

  Scipione, the weak man, was crying.

  XXXVIII

 
ONE does not really feel much grief at other people’s sorrows; one tries, and puts on a melancholy face — thinking oneself brutal for not caring more, but one cannot; and it is better, for if one grieved too deeply at other people’s tears life would be unendurable; and every man has sufficient sorrows of his own without taking to heart his neighbour’s. The explanation of all this is that three days after my return to Città di Castello I was married to Giulia.

  Now I remember nothing more. I have a confused idea of great happiness; I lived in an intoxication, half fearing it was all a dream, enchanted when anything occurred to assure me it was true. But the details of our life I have forgotten; I remember I was happy. Is it not a curious irony that we should recall our miseries with such plainness, and that our happiness should pass over us so indistinctly, that when it has gone we can scarcely realise that it ever existed? It is as though Fortune were jealous of the little happiness she has given us, and to revenge herself blots it out of the memory, filling the mind with miseries past.

  But some things I recollect about others. I came across Ercole Piacentini and his wife Claudia. Castello being his native place, he had gone there on the death of the Count; and now, although the Riarii were restored to power, he remained, presumably to watch our movements and report them at Forli. I inquired whom he was, and after some difficulty discovered that he was the bastard of a Castello nobleman and the daughter of a tradesman. I saw that he did not lie when he said he had in his veins as good blood as I. Still I did not think him a very desirable acquisition to the town, and as I was in some favour with the new Lord I determined to procure his expulsion. Matteo proposed picking a quarrel with him and killing him, but that was difficult, because the bold man had become singularly retiring, and it was almost impossible to meet him. The change was so noticeable that we could not help thinking he had received special instructions from Forli; and we determined to take care.

  I invited the Moratini to live with me; but they preferred to take a house of their own. The old man, when I asked him for his daughter’s hand, told me he wished no better son-in-law, and was very contented to see his daughter again settled under a man’s protection. Scipione and Alessandro were both most pleased, and they redoubled the affection they had felt for me before. It all made me extremely happy; for after my long years of wandering I yearned very much for the love of others, and the various affections that surrounded me soothed and comforted me. From Giulia I could ask for nothing more, and I thought she really loved me — of course, not as I loved her, for that would have been impossible; but I was happy. Sometimes I wondered perplexedly at the incident which had separated us, for I could understand nothing of it; but I put it away from me, I did not want to understand, I wanted only to forget.

 

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