The Making of a Saint

by W. Somerset Maugham

  XLI

  And I rode away out of the town into the open country. The day wasbreaking, 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 littleriver wind sinuously through the fields, and the country stretched flatbefore me, with slender trees marked out against the sky. Now and then atiny hill was surmounted by a village, and once, as I passed, I heardthe tinkling of a bell. I stopped at an inn to water the horse, andthen, hating the sight of men, I hurried on. The hours of coolness hadpassed, and as we tramped along the shapeless roads the horse began tosweat, and the thick white dust rose in clouds behind us.

  At last I came to a roadside inn, and it was nearly mid-day. Idismounted, and giving the horse to the ostler's care, I went inside andsat at a table. The landlord came to me and offered food. I could noteat, I felt it would make me sick; I ordered wine. It was brought; Ipoured some out and tasted it. Then I put my elbows on the table andheld my head with both hands, for it was aching so as almost to drive memad.

  'Sir!'

  I looked up and saw a Franciscan friar standing by my side. On his backhe 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 importuneone,' I said.

  'Ah, no; it is for the love of God and charity. But I do not wish toimportune 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 oflead were pressing upon my head. A moment later a gruff voice broke inupon me.

  'Ah, Messer Filippo Brandolini!'

  I looked up. At the first glance I did not recognise the speaker; butthen as I cleared my mind I saw it was Ercole Piacentini. What was hedoing here? Then I remembered that it was on the road to Forli. Isupposed he had received orders to leave Castello and was on his way tohis 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 toyou.'

  '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 Iplease.'

  '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 theopportunity presented itself. It has! And I am ready, for I have tothank you for my banishment from Castello.'

  'When I offered to fight you, sir, I thought you were a gentleman. Nowthat I know your condition, I must decline.'

  'You coward!'

  'Surely it is not cowardice to refuse a duel with a person likeyourself?'

  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 laughedscornfully and repeated,--

  'Cuckold!'

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

  He could fight well.

  He could fight well, but against me he was lost. All the rage and agonyof the last day gathered themselves together. I was lifted up and criedaloud in the joy of having someone on whom to wreak my vengeance. I feltas if I had against me the whole world and were pouring out my hate atthe end of my sword. My fury lent me the strength of a devil. I drovehim 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 thefloor as if his wrist were broken, clattering down among the cups. Hestaggered back against the wall, and stood there with his head thrownback 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 theswing--when I stopped. I saw the staring eyes, the white face blanchedwith 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, stillterror-stricken and afraid. Then, in my contempt, I took a horn of waterand flung it over him.

  'You look pale, my friend,' I said. 'Here is water to mix with yourwine.'

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

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

  Everything was against me. Everything! Even the sun seemed to beat downhis hottest rays to increase my misery. What had I done that all thisshould come to me? I clenched my fist, and in impotent rage cursedGod....

  At last I saw close to me a little hill covered with dark fir trees; Icame nearer, and the sight of the sombre green was like a draught ofcool water. I could no longer bear the horror of the heat. From the mainroad another smaller one led winding up the hill. I turned my horse, andsoon we were among the trees, and I took a long breath of delight in thecoolness. I dismounted and led him by the bridle; it was enchanting towalk along the path, soft with the fallen needles, and a delicious greensmell hovered in the air. We came to a clearing, where was a littlepond; 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 asort 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 andcoolness; I sat down, looking at the country before me. In the cloudlesssky it seemed now singularly beautiful. Far away on one side I could seethe walls and towers of some city, and to it in broad curves wound ariver; the maze and corn, vines and olive trees, covered the land, andin the distance I saw the soft blue mountains. Why should the world beso beautiful, and I so miserable?

  'It is, indeed, a wonderful scene.'

  I looked up and saw the monk whom I had spoken with at the inn. He putdown his sack and sat by my side.

  'You do not think me importunate?' he asked.


  'I beg your pardon,' I replied, 'I was not civil to you; you mustforgive me. I was not myself.'

  'Do not talk of it. I saw you here, and I came down to you to offer youour hospitality.'

  I looked at him questioningly; he pointed over his shoulder, andlooking, I saw, perched on the top of the hill, piercing through thetrees, a little monastery.

  'How peaceful it looks!' I said.

  'It is, indeed. St Francis himself used sometimes to come to enjoy thequiet.'

  I sighed. Oh, why could not I have done with the life I hated, and alsoenjoy the quiet? I felt the monk was watching me, and, looking up, I methis glance. He was a tall, thin man, with deeply-sunken eyes and hollowcheeks. And he was pale and worn from prayer and fasting. But his voicewas sweet and very gentle.

  'Why do you look at me?' I said.

  'I was in the tavern when you disarmed the man and gave him his life.'

  'It was not for charity and mercy,' I said bitterly.

  'I know,' he answered, 'it was from despair.'

  'How do you know?'

  'I watched you; and at the end I said, '"God pity his unhappiness."'

  I looked with astonishment at the strange man; and then, with a groan, Isaid,--

  'Oh, you are right. I am so unhappy.'

  He took my hands in his, and with the gentleness of the mother of Godherself replied,--

  '"Come unto Me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will giveyou rest."'

  Then I could suffer my woe no longer. I buried my face in his bosom, andburst into tears.