Then there were Checco and Matteo. The Orsi family had bought a palace in Castello, and there they could have settled themselves happily enough had they not been driven on by an unextinguishable desire to regain what they had lost. Checco was rich even now, able to live as luxuriously as before, and in a little while he might have gained in Castello as much power as he had lost in Forli, for the young Vitelli had been singularly attracted by him, and was already inclined to give trust to his counsels; but the wretched man was filled with sadness. All day his thoughts were in the town he loved so well, and now his love was increased tenfold.... Sometimes he would think of Forli before the troubles, when he was living a peaceful life surrounded by his friends; and in mind, he wandered through the quiet streets, every house of which he knew. He would go from room to room in his palace, looking at the pictures, the statues, the armour; from the window at night he gazed upon the dark, silent town, with the houses rising like tall phantoms; in the morning a silver mist covered the earth, and as it rose left the air cool and fresh. But when his house appeared before him, a bare heap of ruins, with the rain beating down on the roofless stones, he would bury his face in his hands, and so remain during long hours of misery. Sometimes he would review the stirring events, which began with the attempted assassination of himself and ended with the ride out of the gate by the river in the cold open country beyond; and as they passed before him, he would wonder what he had done wrong, what he might have done differently. But he could alter nothing; he saw no mistake other than of trusting the populace who vowed to follow him to death, and of trusting the friends who promised to send him help. He had done his part, and what had followed was impossible to foresee. Fortune was against him and that was all....
But he did not entirely give himself over to vain regrets; he had opened up communication with Forli, and through his spies had learnt that the Countess had imprisoned and put to death all those who had been in any way connected with the rebellion, and that the town lay cowed, submissive as a whipped dog. And there was no hope for Checco from within, for his open partisans had suffered terrible punishments, and the others were few and timid. Then Checco turned his attention to the rival states; but everywhere he received rebuffs, for the power of Milan overshadowed them all, and they dared nothing while the Duke Lodovico was almighty. ‘Wait,’ they said, ‘till he has roused the jealousy of the greater states of Florence and Venice, then will be your opportunity, and then will we willingly give you our help.’ But Checco could not wait, every lost day seemed to him a year. He grew thin and haggard. Matteo tried to comfort him, but gradually Checco’s troubles weighed on him too; he lost his mirth and became as moody and silent as his cousin. So passed a year, full of anxiety and heartburning for them, full of the sweetest happiness for me.
One day Checco came to me and said, —
‘Filippo, you have been very good to me; now I want you to do me one more favour, and that shall be the last I will ask you.’
‘What is it?’
Then he expounded to me a scheme for interesting the Pope in his affairs. He knew how angry his Holiness had been, not only at the loss of the town, but also at the humiliation he had received through his lieutenant. There was a difficulty at the time between the Duke of Milan and Rome respecting certain rights of the former, and he did not think it unlikely that the Pope would be willing to break off negotiations and recover his advantage by making a sudden attack on Forli. Caterina’s tyranny had become insupportable, and there was no doubt that at the sight of Checco leading the papal army they would open their gates and welcome him as the Pope’s representative.
I did not see of what use I could be, and I was very unwilling to leave my young wife. But Checco was so anxious that I should come, seeming to think I should be of such assistance, that I felt it would be cruel to refuse. Moreover, I reckoned a month would bring me back to Castello, and if the parting was bitter, how sweet would be the return! And I had certain business of my own in Rome, which I had delayed for months because I could not bear the thought of separation from Giulia. So I decided to go.
A few days later we were riding towards Rome. I was sad, for it was the first time I had left my wife since our marriage, and the parting had been even more painful than I expected. A thousand times I had been on the verge of changing my mind and saying I would not go; but I could not, for Checco’s sake. I was also a little sad because I thought Giulia was not so pained as I was, but then I chid myself for my folly. I expected too much. After all, it was only four short weeks, and she was still too great a child to feel very deeply. It is only when one is old or has greatly suffered that one’s emotions are really powerful.
We reached Rome and set about soliciting an audience from the Pope. I cannot remember the countless interviews we had with minor officials, how we were driven from cardinal to cardinal, the hours we spent in ante-rooms waiting for a few words from some great man. I used to get so tired that I could have dropped off to sleep standing, but Checco was so full of eagerness that I had to accompany him from place to place. The month passed, and we had done nothing. I suggested going home, but Checco implored me to stay, assuring me that the business would be finished in a fortnight. I remained, and the negotiations dragged their weary length through weeks and weeks. Now a ray of hope lightened our struggles, and Checco would become excited and cheerful; now the hope would be dashed to the ground, and Checco begin to despair. The month had drawn itself out into three, and I saw clearly enough that nothing would come of our endeavours. The conferences with the Duke were still going on, each party watching the other, trying by means of untruth and deceit and bribery to gain the advantage. The King of Naples was brought in; Florence and Venice began to send ambassadors to and fro, and no one knew what would be the result of it all.
At last one day Checco came to me and threw himself on my bed.
‘It’s no good,’ he said, in a tone of despair. ‘It is all up.’
‘I’m very sorry, Checco.’
‘You had better go home now. You can do nothing here. Why should I drag you after me in my unhappiness?’
‘But you, Checco, if you can do no good, why will not you come too?’
‘I am better here than at Castello. Here I am at the centre of things, and I will take heart. War may break out any day, and then the Pope will be more ready to listen to me.’
I saw it was no use that I should stay, and I saw I could not persuade him to come with me, so I packed up my things, and bidding him good-bye, started on the homeward journey.
XXXIX
WHAT shall I say of the eagerness with which I looked forward to seeing my dear wife, the rapture with which, at last, I clasped her in my arms?
A little later I walked out to find Matteo. He was quite astonished to see me.
‘We did not expect you so soon.’
‘No,’ I answered; ‘I thought I should not arrive till after to-morrow, but I was so impatient to get home that I hurried on without stopping, and here I am.’
I shook his hand heartily, I was so pleased and happy.
‘Er — have you been home?’
‘Of course,’ I answered, smiling; ‘it was the first thing I thought of.’
I was not sure; I thought a look of relief came over Matteo’s face. But why? I could not understand, but I thought it of no consequence, and it passed from my memory. I told Matteo the news I had, and left him. I wished to get back to my wife.
On my way I happened to see Claudia Piacentini coming out of a house. I was very surprised, for I knew that my efforts had succeeded, and Ercole’s banishment decreed. I supposed the order had not yet been issued. I was going to pass the lady without acknowledgment, for since my marriage she had never spoken to me, and I could well understand why she did not want to. To my astonishment she stopped me.
‘Ah, Messer Filippo!’
I bowed profoundly.
‘How is it that now you never speak to me? Are you so angry with me?’
‘No one
can be angry with so beautiful a woman.’
She flushed, and I felt I had said a stupid thing, for I had made remarks too similar on another occasion. I added, ‘But I have been away.’
‘I know. Will you not come in?’ She pointed to the house from which she had just issued.
‘But I shall be disturbing you, for you were going out.’
She smiled as she replied. ‘I saw you pass my house a little while ago; I guessed you were going to Matteo d’Orsi, and I waited for you on your return.’
‘You are most kind.’
I wondered why she was so anxious to see me. Perhaps she knew of her husband’s approaching banishment, and the cause of it.
We went in and sat down.
‘Have you been home?’ she asked.
It was the same question as Matteo had asked. I gave the same answer.
‘It was the first thing I thought of.’
‘Your wife must have been — surprised to see you.’
‘And delighted.’
‘Ah!’ She crossed her hands and smiled.
I wondered what she meant.
‘You were not expected for two days, I think.’
‘You know my movements very well. I am pleased to find you take such interest in me.’
‘Oh, it is not I alone. The whole town takes interest in you. You have been a most pleasant topic of conversation.’
‘Really!’ I was getting a little angry. ‘And what has the town to say of me?’
‘Oh, I do not want to trouble your peace of mind.’
‘Will you have the goodness to tell me what you mean?’
She shrugged her shoulders and smiled enigmatically.
‘Well?’ I said.
‘If you insist, I will tell you. They say that you are a complaisant husband.’
‘That is a lie!’
‘You are not polite,’ she answered calmly.
‘How dare you say such things, you impudent woman!’
‘My good sir, it is true, perfectly true. Ask Matteo.’
Suddenly I remembered Matteo’s question, and his look of relief. A sudden fear ran through me. I took hold of Claudia’s wrists and said, —
‘What do you mean? What do you mean?’
‘Leave go; you hurt me!’
‘Answer, I tell you. I know you are dying to tell me. Is this why you lay in wait for me, and brought me here? Tell me.’
A sudden transformation took place in Claudia; rage and hate broke out and contorted her face, so that one would not have recognised it.
‘Do you suppose you can escape the ordinary fate of husbands?’ She broke into a savage laugh.
‘It is a lie. You slander Giulia because you are yourself impure.’
‘You were willing enough to take advantage of that impurity. Do you suppose Giulia’s character has altered because you have married her? She made her first husband a cuckold, and do you suppose that she has suddenly turned virtuous? You fool!’
‘It is a lie. I will not believe a word of it.’
‘The whole town has been ringing with her love for Giorgio dall’ Aste.’
I gave a cry; it was for him that she abandoned me before....
‘Ah, you believe me now!’
‘Listen!’ I said. ‘If this is not true, I swear by all the saints that I will kill you.’
‘Good; if it is not true, kill me. But, by all the saints, I swear it is true, true, true!’ She repeated the words in triumph, and each one fell like the stab of a dagger in my heart.
I left her. As I walked home, I fancied the people were looking at me, and smiling. Once I was on the verge of going up to a man, and asking him why he laughed, but I contained myself. How I was suffering! I remembered that Giulia had not seemed so pleased to see me; at the time I chid myself, and called myself exacting, but was it true? I fancied she turned away her lips when I was imprinting my passionate kisses on them. I told myself I was a fool, but was it true? I remembered a slight movement of withdrawal when I clasped her in my arms. Was it true? Oh God! was it true?
I thought of going to Matteo, but I could not. He knew her before her marriage; he would be willing to accept the worst that was said of her. How could I be so disturbed at the slanders of a wicked, jealous woman? I wished I had never known Claudia, never given her reason to take this revenge on me. Oh, it was cruel! But I would not believe it; I had such trust in Giulia, such love. She could not betray me, when she knew what passionate love was poured down upon her. It would be too ungrateful. And I had done so much for her, but I did not wish to think of that.... All that I had done had been for pure love and pleasure, and I required no thanks. But surely if she had no love, she had at least some tender feeling for me; she would not give her honour to another. Ah no, I would not believe it. But was it true, oh God! was it true?
I found myself at home, and suddenly I remembered the old steward, whom I had left in charge of my house. His name was Fabio; it was from him that I got the name when I presented myself as a serving-man to old Orso. If anything had taken place in the house he must know it; and she, Claudia, said the whole town knew it.
‘Fabio!’
‘My master!’
He came into my room, and I looked at him steadily.
‘Fabio, have you well looked after all I left in your hands when I went to Rome?’
‘Your rents are paid, your harvests taken in, the olives all gathered.’
‘I left in your charge something more precious than cornfields and vineyards.’
‘My lord!’
‘I made you guardian of my honour. What of that?’
He hesitated, and his voice as he answered trembled.
‘Your honour is — intact.’
I took him by the shoulders.
‘Fabio, what is it? I beseech you by your master, my father, to tell me.’
I knew he loved my father’s memory with more than human love. He looked up to heaven and clasped his hands; he could hardly speak.
‘By my dear master, your father, nothing — nothing!’
‘Fabio, you are lying.’ I pressed his wrists which I was holding clenched in my hands.
He sank down on his knees.
‘Oh, master, have mercy on me!’ He buried his face in his hands. ‘I cannot tell you.’
‘Speak, man, speak!’
At last, with laments and groans, he uttered the words, —
‘She has — oh God, she has betrayed you!’
‘Oh!’ I staggered back.
‘Forgive me!’
‘Why did you not tell me before?’
‘Ah, how could I? You loved her as I have never seen man love woman.’
‘Did you not think of my honour?’
‘I thought of your happiness. It is better to have happiness without honour, than honour without happiness.’
‘For you,’ I groaned, ‘but not for me.’
‘You are of the same flesh and blood, and you suffer as we do. I could not destroy your happiness.’
‘Oh, Giulia! Giulia!’ Then, after a while, I asked again, ‘But are you sure?’
‘Alas, there is no doubt!’
‘I cannot believe it! Oh God, help me! You don’t know how I loved her! She could not! Let me see it with my own eyes, Fabio.’
We both stood silent; then a horrible thought struck me.
‘Do you know — when they meet?’ I whispered.
He groaned. I asked again.
‘God help me!’
‘You know? I command you to tell me.’
‘They did not know you were coming back till after to-morrow.’
‘He is coming?’
‘To-day.’
‘Oh!’ I seized him by the hand. ‘Take me, and let me see them.’
‘What will you do?’ he asked, horror-stricken.
‘Never mind, take me!’
Trembling, he led me through ante-rooms and passages, till he brought me to a staircase. We mounted the steps and came to a little door. He
opened it very quietly, and we found ourselves behind the arras of Giulia’s chamber. I had forgotten the existence of door and steps, and she knew nothing of them. There was an opening in the tapestry to give exit.
No one was in the room. We waited, holding our breath. At last Giulia entered. She walked to the window and looked out, and went back to the door. She sat down, but sprang up restlessly, and again looked out of window. Whom was she expecting?
She walked up and down the room, and her face was full of anxiety. I watched intently. At last a light knock was heard; she opened the door and a man came in. A small, slight, thin man, with a quantity of corn-coloured hair falling over his shoulders, and a pale, fair skin. He had blue eyes, and a little golden moustache. He looked hardly twenty, but I knew he was older.
He sprang forward, seizing her in his arms, and he pressed her to his heart, but she pushed him back.
‘Oh, Giorgio, you must go,’ she cried. ‘He has come back.’
‘Your husband?’
‘I hoped you would not come. Go quickly. If he found you he would kill us both.’
‘Tell me you love me, Giulia.’
‘Oh yes, I love you with all my heart and soul.’
For a moment they stood still in one another’s arms, then she tore herself away.
‘But go, for God’s sake!’
‘I go, my love. Good-bye!’
‘Good-bye, beloved!’
He took her in his arms again, and she placed hers around his neck. They kissed one another passionately on the lips; she kissed him as she had never kissed me.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 32