Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  ‘Oh!’ I gave a cry of rage, and leaped out of my concealment. In a bound I had reached him. They hardly knew I was there; and I had plunged my dagger in his neck. Giulia gave a piercing shriek as he fell with a groan. The blood spattered over my hand. Then I looked at her. She ran from me with terror-stricken face, her eyes starting from her head. I rushed to her and she shrieked again, but Fabio caught hold of my arm.

  ‘Not her, not her too!’

  I wrenched my hand away from him, and then — then as I saw her pallid face and the look of deathly terror — I stopped. I could not kill her.

  ‘Lock that door,’ I said to Fabio, pointing to the one from which we had come. Then, looking at her, I screamed, —

  ‘Harlot!’

  I called to Fabio, and we left the room. I locked the door, and she remained shut in with her lover....

  I called my servants and bade them follow me, and went out. I walked proudly, surrounded by my retainers, and I came to the house of Bartolomeo Moratini. He had just finished dinner, and was sitting with his sons. They rose as they saw me.

  ‘Ah, Filippo, you have returned.’ Then, seeing my pale face, they cried, ‘But what is it? What has happened?’

  And Bartolomeo broke in.

  ‘What is that on your hand, Filippo?’

  I stretched it out, so that he might see.

  ‘That — that is the blood of your daughter’s lover.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘I found them together, and I killed the adulterer.’

  Bartolomeo kept silence a moment, then he said, —

  ‘You have done well, Filippo.’ He turned to his sons. ‘Scipione, give me my sword.’

  He girded it on, and then he spoke to me.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I beg you to wait here till I come.’

  I bowed.

  ‘Sir, I am your servant.’

  ‘Scipione, Alessandro, follow me!’

  And accompanied by his sons, he left the room, and I remained alone.

  The servants peeped in at the door, looking at me as if I were some strange beast, and fled when I turned round. I walked up and down, up and down; I looked out of window. In the street the people were going to and fro, singing, and talking as if nothing had happened. They did not know that death was flying through the air; they did not know that the happiness of living men had gone for ever.

  At last I heard the steps again, and Bartolomeo Moratini entered the room, followed by his sons; and all three were very grave.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘the stain on your honour and mine has been effaced.’

  I bowed more deeply than before.

  ‘Sir, I am your very humble servant.’

  ‘I thank you that you allowed me to do my duty as a father; and I regret that a member of my family should have shown herself unworthy of my name and yours. I will detain you no longer.’

  I bowed again, and left them.

  XL

  I WALKED back to my house. It was very silent, and as I passed up the stairs the servants shrunk back with averted faces, as if they were afraid to look at me.

  ‘Where is Fabio?’ I asked.

  A page whispered timidly, —

  ‘In the chapel.’

  I turned on my heel, and passed through the rooms, one after another, till I came to the chapel door. I pushed it open and entered. A dim light came through the painted windows, and I could hardly see. In the centre were two bodies covered with a cloth, and their heads were lighted by the yellow gleam of candles. At their feet knelt an old man, praying. It was Fabio.

  I advanced and drew back the cloth; and I fell on my knees. Giulia looked as if she were sleeping. I had so often leant over her, watching the regular heaving of the breast, and sometimes I had thought her features as calm and relaxed as if she were dead. But now the breast would no more rise and fall, and its wonderful soft whiteness was disfigured by a gaping wound. Her eyes were closed and her lips half parted, and the only difference from life was the fallen jaw. Her face was very pale; the rich waving hair encircled it as with an aureole.

  I looked at him, and he, too, was pale, and his fair hair contrasted wonderfully with hers. He looked so young!

  Then, as I knelt there, and the hours passed slowly, I thought of all that had happened, and I tried to understand. The dim light from the window gradually failed, and the candles in the darkness burnt out more brightly; each was surrounded by a halo of light, and lit up the dead faces, throwing into deeper night the rest of the chapel.

  Little by little I seemed to see into the love of these two which had been so strong, that no ties of honour, faith, or truth had been able to influence it. And this is what I imagined, trying to console myself.

  When she was sixteen, I thought, they married her to an old man she had never seen, and she met her husband’s cousin, a boy no older than herself. And the love started and worked its way. But the boy lived on his rich cousin’s charity; from him he had received a home and protection and a thousand kindnesses; he loved against his will, but he loved all the same. And she, I thought, had loved like a woman, passionately, thoughtless of honour and truth. In the sensual violence of her love she had carried him away, and he had yielded. Then with enjoyment had come remorse, and he had torn himself away from the temptress and fled.

  I hardly knew what had happened when she was left alone, pining for her lover. Scandal said evil things.... Had she, too, felt remorse and tried to kill her love, and had the attempt failed? And was it then she flung herself into dissipation to drown her trouble? Perhaps he told her he did not love her, and she in despair may have thrown herself in the arms of other lovers. But he loved her too strongly to forget her; at last he could not bear the absence and came back. And again with enjoyment came remorse, and, ashamed, he fled, hating himself, despising her.

  The years passed by, and her husband died. Why did he not come back to her? Had he lost his love and was he afraid? I could not understand....

  Then she met me. Ah, I wondered what she felt. Did she love me? Perhaps his long absence had made her partly forget him, and she thought he had forgotten her. She fell in love with me, and I — I loved her with all my heart. I knew she loved me then; she must have loved me! But he came back. He may have thought himself cured, he may have said that he could meet her coldly and indifferently. Had I not said the same? But as they saw one another the old love burst out, again it burnt them with consuming fire, and Giulia hated me because I had made her faithless to the lover of her heart.

  The candles were burning low, throwing strange lights and shadows on the faces of the dead.

  Poor fool! His love was as powerful as ever, but he fought against it with all the strength of his weak will. She was the Evil One to him; she took his youth from him, his manhood, his honour, his strength; he felt that her kisses degraded him, and as he rose from her embrace he felt vile and mean. He vowed never to touch her again, and every time he broke the vow. But her love was the same as ever — passionate, even heartless. She cared not if she consumed him as long as she loved him. For her he might ruin his life, he might lose his soul. She cared for nothing; it was all and all for love.

  He fled again, and she turned her eyes on me once more. Perhaps she felt sorry for my pain, perhaps she fancied my love would efface the remembrance of him. And we were married. Ah! now that she was dead I could allow her good intentions. She may have intended to be faithful to me; she may have thought she could truly love and honour me. Perhaps she tried; who knows? But love — love cares not for vows. It was too strong for her, too strong for him. I do not know whether she sent for him, or whether he, in the extremity of his passion, came to her; but what had happened so often happened again. They threw everything to the winds, and gave themselves over to the love that kills....

  The long hours passed as I thought of these things, and the candles were burnt to their sockets.

  At last I felt a touch on my shoulder, and heard Fabio’s voice.

  ‘Master, it is nearly
morning.’

  I stood up, and he added, —

  ‘They put him in the chapel without asking me. You are not angry?’

  ‘They did well!’

  He hesitated a moment and then asked, —

  ‘What shall I do?’

  I looked at him, not understanding.

  ‘He cannot remain here, and she — she must be buried.’

  ‘Take them to the church, and lay them in the tomb my father built — together.’

  ‘The man too?’ he asked. ‘In your own tomb?’

  I sighed and answered sadly, —

  ‘Perhaps he loved her better than I.’

  As I spoke I heard a sob at my feet. A man I had not seen took hold of my hand and kissed it, and I felt it wet with tears.

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked.

  ‘He has been here all the night,’ said Fabio.

  ‘He was my master and I loved him,’ replied the kneeling figure in a broken voice. ‘I thank you that you do not cast him out like a dog.’

  I looked at him and felt deep pity for his grief.

  ‘What will you do now?’ I asked.

  ‘Alas! now I am a wreck that tosses on the billows without a guide.’

  I did not know what to say to him.

  ‘Will you take me as your servant? I will be very faithful.’

  ‘Do you ask me that?’ I said. ‘Do you not know—’

  ‘Ah, yes! you took the life that he was glad to lose. It was almost a kindness; and now you bury him peacefully, and for that I love you. You owe it to me; you have robbed me of a master, give me another.’

  ‘No, poor friend! I want no servants now. I too am like a wreck that drifts aimlessly across the seas. With me, too, it is finished.’

  I looked once more at Giulia, and then I replaced the white cloth, and the faces were covered.

  ‘Bring me my horse, Fabio.’

  In a few minutes it was waiting for me.

  ‘Will you have no one to accompany you?’ he asked.

  ‘No one!’

  Then, as I mounted and arranged the reins in my hand, he said, —

  ‘Where are you going?’

  And I despairingly answered, —

  ‘God knows!’

  XLI

  AND I rode away out of the town into the open country. The day was breaking, and everything was cold and grey. I paid no heed to my course; I rode along, taking the roads as they came, through broad plains, eastwards towards the mountains. In the increasing day I saw the little river wind sinuously through the fields, and the country stretched flat before me, with slender trees marked out against the sky. Now and then a tiny hill was surmounted by a village, and once, as I passed, I heard the tinkling of a bell. I stopped at an inn to water the horse, and then, hating the sight of men, I hurried on. The hours of coolness had passed, and as we tramped along the shapeless roads the horse began to sweat, and the thick white dust rose in clouds behind us.

  At last I came to a roadside inn, and it was nearly mid-day. I dismounted, and giving the horse to the ostler’s care, I went inside and sat at a table. The landlord came to me and offered food. I could not eat, I felt it would make me sick; I ordered wine. It was brought; I poured some out and tasted it. Then I put my elbows on the table and held my head with both hands, for it was aching so as almost to drive me mad.

  ‘Sir!’

  I looked up and saw a Franciscan friar standing by my side. On his back he bore a sack; I supposed he was collecting food.

  ‘Sir, I pray you for alms for the sick and needy.’

  I drew out a piece of gold and threw it to him.

  ‘The roads are hard to-day,’ he said.

  I made no answer.

  ‘You are going far, sir?’

  ‘When one gives alms to a beggar, it is so that he may not importune one,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, no; it is for the love of God and charity. But I do not wish to importune you, I thought I might help you.’

  ‘I want no help.’

  ‘You look unhappy.’

  ‘I beg you to leave me in peace.’

  ‘As you will, my son.’

  He left me, and I returned to my old position. I felt as if a sheet of lead were pressing upon my head. A moment later a gruff voice broke in upon me.

  ‘Ah, Messer Filippo Brandolini!’

  I looked up. At the first glance I did not recognise the speaker; but then as I cleared my mind I saw it was Ercole Piacentini. What was he doing here? Then I remembered that it was on the road to Forli. I supposed he had received orders to leave Castello and was on his way to his old haunts. However, I did not want to speak to him; I bent down, and again clasped my head in my hands.

  ‘That is a civil way of answering,’ he said. ‘Messer Filippo!’

  I looked up, rather bored.

  ‘If I do not answer, it is evidently because I do not wish to speak to you.’

  ‘And if I wish to speak to you?’

  ‘Then I must take the liberty of begging you to hold your tongue.’

  ‘You insolent fellow!’

  I felt too miserable to be angry.

  ‘Have the goodness to leave me,’ I said. ‘You bore me intensely.’

  ‘I tell you that you are an insolent fellow, and I shall do as I please.’

  ‘Are you a beggar, that you are so importunate? What do you want?’

  ‘Do you remember saying in Forli that you would fight me when the opportunity presented itself. It has! And I am ready, for I have to thank you for my banishment from Castello.’

  ‘When I offered to fight you, sir, I thought you were a gentleman. Now that I know your condition, I must decline.’

  ‘You coward!’

  ‘Surely it is not cowardice to refuse a duel with a person like yourself?’

  By this time he was wild with rage; but I was cool and collected.

  ‘Have you so much to boast?’ he asked furiously.

  ‘Happily I am not a bastard!’

  ‘Cuckold!’

  ‘Oh!’

  I sprang up and looked at him with a look of horror. He laughed scornfully and repeated, —

  ‘Cuckold!’

  Now it was my turn. The blood rushed to my head and a terrible rage seized me. I picked up the tankard of wine which was on the table and flung it at him with all my might. The wine splashed over his face, and the cup hit him on the forehead and cut him so that the blood trickled down. In a moment he had drawn his sword, and at the same time I wrenched mine from its sheath.

  He could fight well.

  He could fight well, but against me he was lost. All the rage and agony of the last day gathered themselves together. I was lifted up and cried aloud in the joy of having someone on whom to wreak my vengeance. I felt as if I had against me the whole world and were pouring out my hate at the end of my sword. My fury lent me the strength of a devil. I drove him back, I drove him back, and I fought as I had never fought before. In a minute I had beaten the sword from his hand, and it fell to the floor as if his wrist were broken, clattering down among the cups. He staggered back against the wall, and stood there with his head thrown back and his arms helplessly outspread.

  ‘Ah, God, I thank thee!’ I cried exultingly. ‘Now I am happy.’

  I lifted my sword above my head to cleave his skull, my arm was in the swing — when I stopped. I saw the staring eyes, the white face blanched with terror; he was standing against the wall as he had fallen, shrinking away in his mortal anxiety. I stopped; I could not kill him.

  I sheathed my sword and said, —

  ‘Go! I will not kill you. I despise you too much.’

  He did not move, but stood as if he were turned to stone, still terror-stricken and afraid. Then, in my contempt, I took a horn of water and flung it over him.

  ‘You look pale, my friend,’ I said. ‘Here is water to mix with your wine.’

  Then I leant back and burst into a shout of laughter, and I laughed till my sides ached, and I laughed again.


  I threw down money to pay for my entertainment, and went out. But as I bestrode my horse and we recommenced our journey along the silent roads I felt my head ache worse than ever. All enjoyment was gone; I could take no pleasure in life. How long would it last? How long? I rode along under the mid-day sun, and it fell scorching on my head; the wretched beast trotted with hanging head, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, parched and dry. The sun beat down with all the power of August, and everything seemed livid with the awful heat. Man and beast had shrunk away from the fiery rays, the country folk were taking the noonday rest, the cattle and the horses sheltered by barns and sheds, the birds were silent, and even the lizards had crept into their holes. Only the horse and I tramped along, miserably — only the horse and I. There was no shade; the walls on either side were too low to give shelter, the road glaring and white and dusty. I might have been riding through a furnace.

  Everything was against me. Everything! Even the sun seemed to beat down his hottest rays to increase my misery. What had I done that all this should come to me? I clenched my fist, and in impotent rage cursed God....

  At last I saw close to me a little hill covered with dark fir trees; I came nearer, and the sight of the sombre green was like a draught of cool water. I could no longer bear the horror of the heat. From the main road another smaller one led winding up the hill. I turned my horse, and soon we were among the trees, and I took a long breath of delight in the coolness. I dismounted and led him by the bridle; it was enchanting to walk along the path, soft with the fallen needles, and a delicious green smell hovered in the air. We came to a clearing, where was a little pond; I watered the poor beast, and, throwing myself down, drank deeply. Then I tied him to a tree and advanced a few steps alone. I came to a sort of terrace, and going forward found myself at the edge of the hill, looking over the plain. Behind, the tall fir trees gave me shade and coolness; I sat down, looking at the country before me. In the cloudless sky it seemed now singularly beautiful. Far away on one side I could see the walls and towers of some city, and to it in broad curves wound a river; the maze and corn, vines and olive trees, covered the land, and in the distance I saw the soft blue mountains. Why should the world be so beautiful, and I so miserable?