Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  V

  A FEW days later, Matteo came to me as I was dressing, having rescued my clothes from him.

  ‘I wonder you’re not ashamed to go out in those garments,’ he remarked, ‘people will say that you wear my old things.’

  I took no notice of the insult.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘To Madonna Giulia.’

  ‘But you went there yesterday!’

  ‘That is no reason why I should not go to-day. She asked me to come.’

  ‘That’s very obliging of her, I’m sure.’ Then, after a pause, during which I continued my toilet, ‘I have been gathering the news of Forli.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Madonna Giulia has been affording a great deal of interest....’

  ‘You have been talking to the lady whom you call the beautiful Claudia,’ I said.

  ‘By the way, why have you not been to her?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ I said. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘You told me you had progressed a long way in her favours during the half-hour’s talk you had with her the other night; have you not followed up the advantage?’

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘I don’t think I like a woman to make all the advances.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ said Matteo. ‘I do!’

  ‘Besides, I don’t care for the type; she is too massive.’

  ‘She feels very much hurt at your neglect. She says you have fallen in love with Giulia.’

  ‘That is absurd,’ I replied; ‘and as to her being hurt at my neglect, I am very sorry, but I don’t feel any obligation to throw myself into the arms of every woman who chooses to open them.’

  ‘I quite agree with you; neither she nor Giulia are a bit better than they should be. I’m told Giulia’s latest lover is Amtrogio della Treccia. It seems one day he was almost caught by old Bartolomeo, and had to slip out of the window and perform feats worthy of a professional acrobat to get out of the way.’

  ‘I don’t think I attach belief to all the scandal circulating on the subject of that lady.’

  ‘You’re not in love with her?’ asked Matteo, quickly.

  I laughed.

  ‘Certainly not. But still—’

  ‘That’s all right; because, of course, you know it’s notorious that she has had the most disgraceful amours. And she hasn’t even kept them to her own class; all sorts of people have enjoyed her favours.’

  ‘She does not look very much like a Messalina,’ I said, sneering a little.

  ‘Honestly, Filippo, I do think she is really very little better than a harlot.’

  ‘You are extremely charitable,’ I said. ‘But don’t you think you are somewhat prejudiced by the fact that you yourself did not find her one. Besides, her character makes no particular difference to me; I really care nothing if she’s good or bad; she is agreeable, and that is all I care about. She is not going to be my wife.’

  ‘She may make you very unhappy; you won’t be the first.’

  ‘What a fool you are!’ I said, a little angrily. ‘You seem to think that because I go and see a woman I must be dying of love for her. You are absurd.’

  I left him, and soon found myself at the Palazzo Aste, where Donna Giulia was waiting for me. I had been to see her nearly every day since my arrival in Forli, for I really liked her. Naturally, I was not in love with her as Matteo suggested, and I had no intention of entering into that miserable state. I had found her charmingly simple, very different from the monster of dissipation she was supposed to be. She must have been three or four-and-twenty, but in all her ways she was quite girlish, merry and thoughtless, full of laughter at one moment, and then some trifling thing would happen to discompose her and she would be brought to the verge of tears; but a word or caress, even a compliment, would make her forget the unhappiness which had appeared so terrible, and in an instant she would be wreathed in smiles. She seemed so delightfully fragile, so delicate, so weak, that one felt it necessary to be very gentle with her. I could not imagine how anyone could use a hard word to her face.

  Her eyes lit up as she saw me.

  ‘How long you’ve been,’ she said. ‘I thought you were never coming.’

  She always seemed so glad so see you that you thought she must have been anxiously awaiting you, and that you were the very person of all others that she wished to have with her. Of course, I knew it was an affectation, but it was a very charming one.

  ‘Come and sit by me here,’ she said, making room for me on a couch; then when I had sat down, she nestled close up to me in her pretty childish way, as if seeking protection. ‘Now, tell me all you’ve been doing.’

  ‘I’ve been talking to Matteo,’ I said.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Tell me what he said.’

  ‘Nothing to your credit, my dear,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘Poor Matteo,’ she answered. ‘He’s such a clumsy, lumbering creature, one can see he’s spent half his life in camps.’

  ‘And I? I have spent the same life as Matteo. Am I a clumsy, lumbering creature?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she answered, ‘you are quite different.’ She put the pleasantest compliments in the look of her eyes.

  ‘Matteo told me all sorts of scandal about you.’ She blushed a little.

  ‘Did you believe it?’

  ‘I said I did not much care if it were true or not.’

  ‘But do you believe it?’ she asked, insisting.

  ‘If you’ll tell me it is not true, I will believe absolutely what you say.’

  The little anxious look on her face gave way to a bright smile.

  ‘Of course, it is not true.’

  ‘How beautiful you are when you smile,’ I remarked irrelevantly. ‘You should always smile.’

  ‘I always do on you,’ she answered. She opened her mouth, as if about to speak, held back, as if unable to make up her mind, then said, ‘Did Matteo tell you he made love to me once, and was very angry because I would not pick up the handkerchief which he had condescended to throw.’

  ‘He mentioned it.’

  ‘Since then, I am afraid he has not had very much good to say of me.’

  I had thought at the time that Matteo was a little bitter in his account of Donna Giulia, and I felt more inclined to believe her version of the story than his.

  ‘He has been beseeching me not to fall in love with you,’ I said.

  She laughed.

  ‘Claudia Piacentini has been telling everyone that it is too late, and she is horribly jealous.’

  ‘Has she? Matteo also seemed certain I was in love with you.’

  ‘And are you?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘No!’ I replied with great promptness.

  ‘Brutta bestia!’ she said, throwing herself to the end of the couch, and beginning to pout.

  ‘I am very sorry,’ I said, laughing, ‘but I cannot help it.’

  ‘I think it is horrid of you,’ she remarked.

  ‘You have so many adorers,’ I said in expostulation.

  ‘Yes, but I want more,’ she smiled.

  ‘But what good can it do you to have all these people in love with you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘it is a pleasant sensation.’

  ‘What a child you are!’ I answered, laughing.

  She bent forward seriously.

  ‘But are you not at all in love with me?’

  I shook my head. She came close up to me, so that her hair brushed lightly against my cheek; it sent a shiver through me. I looked at her tiny ear; it was beautifully shaped, transparent as a pink shell. Unconsciously, quite without intention, I kissed it. She pretended to take no notice, and I was full of confusion. I felt myself blushing furiously.

  ‘Are you quite sure?’ she said gravely.

  I got up to go, foolishly, rather angry with myself.

  ‘When shall I see you again?’ I asked.

  ‘I am going to confession
to-morrow. Be at San Stefano at ten, and we can have a little talk in the church when I have finished.’

  VI

  THERE had been a great commotion in Forli during the last two days; for it had become known that the country people of the Count’s domain had sent a petition for the removal of certain taxes which pressed so heavily upon them, that the land was speedily going to ruin. The proprietors were dismissing their labourers, the houses of the peasants were falling into decay, and in certain districts the poverty had reached such a height that the farmers had not even grain wherewith to sow their fields, and all around the ground was lying bare and desolate. A famine had been the result, and if the previous year the countrymen had found it difficult to pay their taxes, this year they found it impossible. Girolamo had listened to their arguments, and knew them to be true. After considering with his councillors, he had resolved to remit certain of the more oppressive taxes; but in doing this he was confronted with the fact that his Treasury was already empty, and that if the income were further diminished it would be impossible for him to meet the demands of the coming year.

  It was clear that the country could not pay, and it was clear that the money must be procured. He set his eyes on the town, and saw that it was rich and flourishing, but he dared not, on his own initiative, propose any increase in its burdens. He called a council, showed the state of his affairs, and asked the elders for advice. No one stirred or spoke. At last Antonio Lassi, a creature of the Count, whom he had raised to the council from a humble position, rose to his feet and gave utterance to the plan which his master had suggested to him. The pith of it was to abrogate the taxes on the country people, and in compensation place others on certain food-stuffs and wines, which had previously gone free. Girolamo answered in a studied speech, pretending great unwillingness to charge what were the necessaries of life, and asked several of the more prominent members what they thought of the suggestion. They had met Antonio Lassi’s speech with silence, and now applauded Girolamo’s answer; they agreed with him that such taxes should not be. Then the Count changed his tone. He said it was the only means of raising the money, and gathering anger from their sullen looks and their silence, he told them that if they would not give their sanction to the decree, he would do without their sanction. Then, breaking short, he asked them for their answer. The councillors looked at one another, rather pale but determined; and the reply came from one after the other, quietly, —

  ‘No — no — no!’

  Antonio Lassi was cowed, and dared not give his answer at all. The Count, with an oath, beat his fist on the table and said, ‘I am determined to be lord and master here; and you shall learn, all of you, that my will is law.’

  With that he dismissed them.

  When the people heard the news, there was great excitement. The murmurs against the Count, which had hitherto been cautiously expressed, were now cried out in the market-place; the extravagance of the Countess was bitterly complained of, and the townsmen gathered together in groups, talking heatedly of the proposed exaction, occasionally breaking out into open menace. It was very like sedition.

  On the day after the council, the head of the customs had been almost torn to pieces by the people as he was walking towards the Palace, and on his way back he was protected by a troop of soldiers. Antonio Lassi was met everywhere with hoots and cries, and Checco d’Orsi, meeting him in the loggia of the piazza, had assailed him with taunts and bitter sarcasms. Ercole Piacentini interposed and the quarrel nearly ended in a brawl; but Checco, with difficulty restraining himself, withdrew before anything happened....

  On leaving Donna Giulia, I walked to the piazza. and found the same restlessness as on the preceding days. Through all these people a strange commotion seemed to pass, a tremor like the waves of the sea; everywhere little knots of people were listening eagerly to some excited speaker; no one seemed able to work; the tradesmen were gathered at their doors talking with one another; idlers were wandering to and fro, now joining themselves to one group, now to another.

  Suddenly there was a silence; part of the crowd began looking eagerly in one direction, and the rest in their curiosity surged to the end of the piazza to see what was happening. Then it was seen that Caterina was approaching. She entered the place, and all eyes were fixed upon her. As usual, she was magnificently attired; her neck and hands and arms, her waistband and headgear, shone with jewels; she was accompanied by several of her ladies and two or three soldiers as guard. The crowd separated to let her pass, and she walked proudly between the serried rows of people, her head uplifted and her eyes fixed straight in front, as if she were unaware that anyone was looking at her. A few obsequiously took off their hats, but most gave no greeting; all around her was silence, a few murmurs, an oath or two muttered under breath, but that was all. She walked steadily on, and entered the Palace gates. At once a thousand voices burst forth, and after the deadly stillness the air seemed filled with confused sounds. Curses and imprecations were hurled on her from every side; they railed at her pride, they called her foul names.... Six years before, when she happened to cross the streets, the people had hurried forward to look at her, with joy in their hearts and blessings on their lips. They vowed they would die for her, they were in ecstasies at her graciousness.

  I went home thinking of all these things and of Donna Giulia. I was rather amused at my unintentional kiss; I wondered if she was thinking of me.... She really was a charming creature, and I was glad at the idea of seeing her again on the morrow. I liked her simple, fervent piety. She was in the habit of going regularly to mass, and happening to see her one day, I was struck with her devout air, full of faith; she also went to confessional frequently. It was rather absurd to think she was the perverse being people pretended....

  When I reached the Palazzo Orsi I found the same excitement as outside in the piazza, Girolamo had heard of the dispute in the loggia, and had sent for Checco to hear his views on the subject of the tax. The audience was fixed for the following morning at eleven, and as Checco never went anywhere without attendants, Scipione Moratini, Giulia’s second brother, and I were appointed to accompany him. Matteo was not to go for fear of the presence of the two most prominent members of the family tempting the Count to some sudden action.

  The following morning I arrived at San Stefano at half-past nine, and to my surprise found Giulia waiting for me.

  ‘I did not think you would be out of the confessional so soon,’ I said. ‘Were your sins so small this week?’

  ‘I haven’t been,’ she answered. ‘Scipione told me that you and he were to accompany Checco to the Palace, and I thought you would have to leave here early, so I postponed the confessional.’

  ‘You have preferred earth and me to Heaven and the worthy father?’

  ‘You know I would do more for you than that,’ she answered.

  ‘You witch!’

  She took my arm.

  ‘Come,’ she said, ‘come and sit in one of the transept chapels; it is quiet and dark there.’

  It was deliciously cool. The light came dimly through the coloured glass, clothing the marble of the chapel in mysterious reds and purples, and the air was faintly scented with incense. Sitting there she seemed to gain a new charm. Before, I had never really appreciated the extreme beauty of the brown hair tinged with red, its wonderful quality and luxuriance. I tried to think of something to say, but could not. I sat and looked at her, and the perfumes of her body blended with the incense.

  ‘Why don’t you speak?’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry; I have nothing to say.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Tell me of what you are thinking.’

  ‘I daren’t,’ I said.

  She looked at me, repeating the wish with her eyes.

  ‘I was thinking you were very beautiful.’

  She turned to me and leant forward so that her face was close to mine; her eyes acquired a look of deep, voluptuous languor. We sat without speaking, and my head began to whirl.


  The clock struck ten.

  ‘I must go,’ I said, breaking the silence.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘but come to-night and tell me what has happened.’

  I promised I would, then asked whether I should lead her to another part of the church.

  ‘No, leave me here,’ she said. ‘It is so good and quiet. I will stay and think.’

  ‘Of what?’ I said.

  She did not speak, but she smiled so that I understood her answer.

  VII

  I HURRIED back to the Palazzo and found Scipione Moratini already arrived. I liked him for his sister’s sake, but in himself he was a pleasant person.

  Both he and his brother had something of Giulia in them — the delicate features, the fascination and the winning ways which in them seemed almost effeminate. Their mother had been a very beautiful woman — report said somewhat gay — and it was from her the sons had got the gallantry which made them the terror of husbands in Forli, and Giulia the coquetry which had given rise to so much scandal. The father, Bartolomeo, was quite different. He was a rugged, upright man of sixty, very grave and very dignified, the only resemblance of feature to his children being the charming smile, which the sons possessed as well as Giulia; though in him it was rarely seen. What I liked most in him was the blind love for his daughter, leading him to unbend and become a youth to flatter her folly. He was really devoted to her, so that it was quite pathetic to see the look of intense affection in his eyes as he followed her movements. He, of course, had never heard a word of the rumours circulating about Giulia; he had the utmost faith in her virtue, and I, it seems to me, had gained faith from him.

  After talking a while with Scipione, Checco came, and we started for the Palazzo. The people in Forli know everything, and were well aware of Checco’s mission. As we walked along we were met by many kind greetings, good luck, and God speed were wished us, and Checco, beaming with joy, graciously returned the salutations.

  We were ushered into the council chamber, where we found the councillors and many of the more prominent citizens, and several gentlemen of the Court; immediately the great folding doors were opened and Girolamo entered with his wonted state, accompanied by his courtiers and men-at-arms, so that the hall was filled with them. He took his seat on a throne, and graciously bowed to the left and to the right. His courtiers responded, but the citizens preserved a severe aspect, quite unsympathetic towards his condescension.