ILOOKEDat these events as I might have looked at a comedy of Plautus; it was very amusing, but perhaps a little vulgar. I was wrapped up in my own happiness, and I had forgotten Nemesis.
One day, perhaps two months from my arrival in Forli, I heard Checco tell his cousin that a certain Giorgio dall' Aste had returned. I paid no particular attention to the remark; but later, when I was alone with Matteo, it occurred to me that I had not heard before of this person. I did not know that Giulia had relations on her husband's side. I asked,—
'By the way, who is that Giorgio dall' Aste, of whom Checco was speaking?'
'A cousin of Donna Giulia's late husband.'
'I have never heard him spoken of before.'
'Haven't you? He enjoys quite a peculiar reputation, as being the only lover that the virtuous Giulia has kept for more than ten days.'
'Another of your old wives' tales, Matteo! Nature intended you for a begging friar.'
'I have often thought I have missed my vocation. With my brilliant gift for telling lies in a truthfulmanner, I should have made my way in the Church to the highest dignities. Whereas, certain antiquated notions of honour having been instilled into me during my training as a soldier, my gifts are lost; with the result, that when I tell the truth people think I am lying. But this is solemn truth!'
'All your stories are!' I jeered.
'Ask anyone. This has been going on for years. When Giulia was married by old Tommaso, whom she had never seen in her life before the betrothal, the first thing she did was to fall in love with Giorgio. He fell in love with her, but being a fairly honest sort of man, he had some scruples about committing adultery with his cousin's wife, especially as he lived on his cousin's money. However, when a woman is vicious, a man's scruples soon go to the devil. If Adam couldn't refuse the apple, you can't expect us poor fallen creatures to do so either. The result was that Joseph did not run away from Potiphar's wife so fast as to prevent her from catching him.'
'How biblical you are.'
'Yes,' answered Matteo; 'I'm making love to a parson's mistress, and I am cultivating the style which I find she is used to.... But, however, Giorgio, being youthful, after a short while began to have prickings of conscience, and went away from Forli. Giulia was heart-broken, and her grief was so great that she must have half the town to console her. Then Giorgio's conscience calmed down, and he came back, and Giulia threw over all her lovers.'
'I don't believe a single word you say.'
'On my honour, it's true.'
'On the face of it, the story is false. If she really loves him, why do they not keep together now that there is no hindrance?'
'Because Giulia has the heart of a strumpet and can't be faithful to any one man. She's very fond of him, but they quarrel, and she takes a sudden fancy for somebody else, and for a while they won't see one another. But there seems some magical charm between them, for sooner or later they always come back to one another. I believe, if they were at the ends of the world, eventually they would be drawn together, even if they struggled with all their might against it. And, I promise you, Giorgio has struggled; he tries to part with her for good and all, and each time they separate he vows it shall be for ever. But there is an invisible chain and it always brings him back.'
I stood looking at him in silence. Strange, horrible thoughts passed through my head and I could not drive them away. I tried to speak quite calmly.
'And how is it when they are together?'
'All sunshine and storm, but as time goes on the storm gets longer and blacker; and then Giorgio goes away.'
'But, good God! man, how do you know?' I cried in agony.
He shrugged his shoulders.
'They quarrel?' I asked.
'Furiously! He feels himself imprisoned against his will, with the door open to escape, but not the strength to do it; and she is angry that he should love her thus, trying not to love her. It rather seems to me that it explains her own excesses; her otherloves are partly to show him how much she is loved, and to persuade herself that she is lovable.'
I did not believe it. Oh, no, I swear I did not believe it, yet I was frightened, horribly frightened; but I would not believe a single word of it.
'Listen, Matteo,' I said. 'You believe badly of Giulia; but you do not know her. I swear to you that she is good and pure, whatever she may have been in the past; and I do not believe a word of these scandals. I am sure that now she is as true and faithful as she is beautiful.'
Matteo looked at me for a moment.
'Are you her lover?' he asked.
'Yes!'
Matteo opened his mouth as if about to speak, then stopped, and after a moment's hesitation turned away.
That evening I went to Giulia. I found her lying full length on a divan, her head sunken in soft cushions. She was immersed in reverie. I wondered whether she was thinking of me, and I went up to her silently, and, bending over her, lightly kissed her lips. She gave a cry, and a frown darkened her eyes.
'You frightened me!'
'I am sorry,' I answered humbly. 'I wanted to surprise you.'
She did not answer, but raised her eyebrows, slightly shrugging her shoulders. I wondered whether something had arisen to vex her. I knew she had a quick temper, but I did not mind it; a cross word was so soon followed by a look of repentanceand a word of love. I passed my hand over her beautiful soft hair. The frown came again, and she turned her head away.
'Giulia,' I said, 'what is it?' I took her hand; she withdrew it immediately.
'Nothing,' she answered.
'Why do you turn away from me and withdraw your hand?'
'Why should I not turn away from you and withdraw my hand?'
'Don't you love me, Giulia?'
She gave a sigh, and pretended to look bored. I looked at her, pained at heart and wondering.
'Giulia, my dear, tell me what it is. You are making me very unhappy.'
'Oh, don't I tell you, nothing, nothing, nothing!'
'Why are you cross?'
I put my face to her's, and my arms round her neck. She disengaged herself impatiently.
'You refuse my kisses, Giulia!'
She made another gesture of annoyance.
'Giulia, don't you love me?' My heart was beginning to sink, and I remembered what I had heard from Matteo. Oh, God! could it be true?...
'Yes, of course I love you, but sometimes I must be left in peace.'
'You have only to say the word, and I will go away altogether.'
'I don't want you to do that, but we shall like one another much better if we don't see too much of one another.'
'When one is in love, really and truly, one does not think of such wise precautions.'
'And you are here so often that I am afraid of my good name.'
'You need have no fear about your character,' I answered bitterly. 'One more scandal will not make much difference.'
'You need not insult me!'
I could not be angry with her, I loved her too much, and the words I had said hurt me ten times more than they hurt her. I fell on my knees by her side and took hold of her arms.
'Oh, Giulia, Giulia, forgive me! I don't mean to say anything to wound you. But, for God's sake! don't be so cold. I love you, I love you. Be good to me.'
'I think I have been good to you.... After all, it is not such a very grave matter. I have not taken things more seriously than you.'
'What do you mean?' I cried, aghast.
She shrugged her shoulders.
'I suppose you found me a pretty woman, and thought you could occupy a few spare moments with a pleasant amour. You can hardly have expected me to be influenced by sentiments very different from your own.'
'You mean you do not love me?'
'I love you as much as you love me. I don't suppose either you are Lancelot, or I Guinevere.'
I still knelt at her side in silence, and my head felt as if the vessels in it were bursting....
'You know,' she went on quite calmly, 'one cannot love for ever.'
'But I love you, Giulia; I love you with all my heart and soul! I have had loves picked up for theopportunity's sake, or for pure idleness; but my love for you is different. I swear to you it is a matter of my whole life.'
'That has been said to me so often....'
I was beginning to be overwhelmed.
'But do you mean that it is all finished? Do you mean that you won't have anything more to do with me!'
'I don't say I won't have anything more to do with you.'
'But love? It is love I want.'
She shrugged her shoulders.
'But why not?' I said despairingly. 'Why have you given it me at all if you want to take it away?'
'One is not master of one's love. It comes and goes.'
'Don't you love me at all?'
'No!'
'Oh, God! But why do you tell me this to-day?'
'I had to tell you some time.'
'But why not yesterday, or the day before? Why to-day particularly?'
She did not answer.
'Is it because Giorgio dall' Aste has just returned?'
She started up and her eyes flashed.
'What have they been telling you about him?'
'Has he been here to-day? Were you thinking of him when I came? Were you languorous from his embraces?'
'How dare you!'
'The only lover to whom you have been faithful, more or less!'
'You vowed you did not believe the scandalsabout me, and now, when I refuse you the smallest thing, you are ready to believe every word. What a love is this! I thought I had heard you talk so often of boundless confidence.'
'I believe every word I have heard against you. I believe you are a harlot.'
She had raised herself from her couch, and we were standing face to face.
'Do you want money? Look! I have as good money as another. I will pay you for your love; here, take it.'
I took gold pieces from my pocket and flung them at her feet.
'Ah,' she cried in indignation, 'you cur! Go, go!'
She pointed to the door. Then I felt a sudden revulsion. I fell on my knees and seized her hands.
'Oh, forgive me, Giulia. I don't know what I am saying; I am mad. But don't rob me of your love; it is the only thing I have to live for. For God's sake, forgive me! Oh, Giulia, I love you, I love you. I can't live without you.' The tears broke from my eyes. I could not stop them.
'Leave me! leave me!'
I was ashamed of my abjectness; I rose up indignant.
'Oh, you are quite heartless. You have no right to treat me so. You were not obliged to give me your love; but when once you have given it you cannot take it away. No one has the right to make another unhappy as you make me. You are a bad, evil woman. I hate you!'
I stood over her with clenched fists. She shrank back, afraid.
'Don't be frightened,' I said; 'I won't touch you. I hate you too much.'
Then I turned to the crucifix, and lifted my hands.
'Oh, God! I pray you, let this woman be treated as she has treated me.' And to her,'I hope to God you are as unhappy as I am. And I hope the unhappiness will come soon—you harlot!'
I left her, and in my rage slammed the door, so that the lock shattered behind me.
IWALKEDthrough the streets like a man who has received sentence of death. My brain was whirling, and sometimes I stopped and pressed my head with both hands to relieve the insupportable pressure. I could not realise what had happened; I only knew it was terrible. I felt as if I were going mad; I could have killed myself. At last, getting home, I threw myself on my bed and tried to gather myself together. I cried out against that woman. I wished I had my fingers curling round her soft white throat, that I could strangle the life out of her. Oh, I hated her!
At last I fell asleep, and in that sweet forgetfulness enjoyed a little peace. When I woke I lay still for a moment without remembering what had happened; then suddenly it came back to me, and the blood flushed to my face as I thought of how I had humiliated myself to her. She must be as hard as stone, I said to myself, to see my misery and not take pity on me. She saw my tears and was notmoved one jot. All the time I had been praying and beseeching, she had been as calm as a marble figure. She must have seen my agony and the passion of my love, and yet she was absolutely, absolutely indifferent. Oh, I despised her! I had known even when I adored her madly that it was only my love which gave her the qualities I worshipped. I had seen she was ignorant and foolish, and commonplace and vicious; but I did not care as long as I loved her and could have her love in return. But when I thought of her so horribly heartless, so uncaring to my unhappiness, I did more than hate her—I utterly despised her. I despised myself for having loved her. I despised myself for loving her still....
I got up and went about my day's duties, trying to forget myself in their performance. But still I brooded over my misery, and in my heart I cursed the woman. It was Nemesis, always Nemesis! In my folly I had forgotten her; and yet I should have remembered that through my life all happiness had been followed by all misery.... I had tried to ward off the evil by sacrifice; I had rejoiced at the harm which befell me, but the very rejoicing seemed to render the hurt of no avail, and with the inevitableness of fate, Nemesis had come and thrown me back into the old unhappiness. But of late I had forgotten. What was Nemesis to me now when I thought my happiness so great that it could not help but last? It was so robust and strong that I never thought of its cessation. I did not even think the Gods were good to me at last. I had forgotten the Gods; I thought of nothing but love and Giulia.
Matteo came asking me to go to the Palace with him and Checco, at the particular desire of Girolamo, who wished to show them the progress of the decorations. I would not go. I wanted to be alone and think.
But my thoughts maddened me. Over and over again I repeated every word of the terrible quarrel, and more than ever I was filled with horror for her cold cruelty. What right have these people to make us unhappy? Is there not enough misery in the world already? Oh, it is brutal!
I could not bear myself; I regretted that I had not gone to the Palace. I detested this solitude.
The hours passed like years, and as my brain grew tired I sank into a state of sodden, passive misery.
At last they came back, and Matteo told me what had happened. I tried to listen, to forget myself.... It appeared that the Count had been extremely cordial. After talking to them of his house, and showing the beautiful things he had collected to furnish it with, he took them to Caterina's apartments, where they found the Countess surrounded by her children. She had been very charming and gracious, even deigning to compliment Matteo on his gallantry. How it interested me to know all this! The children had run to Checco as soon as they saw him, dragging him into their game. The others looked on while the Orsi played good-humouredly with the little boys, and Girolamo, laying his hand on Checco's shoulder, had remarked,—
'You see, dear friend, the children are determined that there should not be enmity between us. Andwhen the little ones love you so dearly, can you think that I should hate you?'
And when they left he had accompanied them to the gates and been quite affectionate in his farewell.
At last the night came and I could shut myself up in my room. I thought with a bitter smile that it was the hour at which I was used to go to Giulia. And now I should never go to Giulia again. My unhappiness was too great for wrath; I felt too utterly miserable to think of my grievances, or of my contempt. I only felt broken-hearted. I could not keep the tears back, and burying my face in the pillows, I cried my heart out. It was years and years since I had wept, not since I was quite a boy, but this blow had taken from me all manliness, and I gave myself over to my grief, passionately, shamelessly. I did not care that I was weak; I had no respect for myself, or care for myself. The sobs came, one on the heels of another like waves, and the pain, as they tore my chest, relieved the anguish of my mind. Exhaustion came at last, and with it sleep.
But I knew I could not hide the change in me, and Matteo soon noticed it.
'What is the matter with you, Filippo?' he asked. I blushed and hesitated.
'Nothing,' I answered at last.
'I thought you were unhappy.'
Our eyes met, but I could not stand his inquiring glance and looked down. He came to me, and sitting on the arm of my chair, put his hand on my shoulder and said affectionately,—
'We're friends, aren't we, Filippo?'
'Yes,' I answered, smiling and taking his hand.
'Won't you trust me?'
After a pause I answered,—
'I should so much like to.' I felt as if indeed it would relieve me to be able to confide in somebody, I wanted sympathy so badly.
He passed his hand gently over my hair.
I hesitated a little, but I could not help myself, and I told him the whole story from beginning to end.
'Poverino!' he said, when I had finished; then, clenching his teeth, 'She is a beast, that woman!'
'I ought to have taken your warning, Matteo, but I was a fool.'
'Who ever does take warning!' he answered, shrugging his shoulders. 'How could you be expected to believe me?'
'But I believe you now. I am horrified when I think of her vice and cruelty.'
'Ah, well, it is over now.'
'Quite! I hate her and despise her. Oh, I wish I could get her face to face and tell her what I think of her.'
I thought my talk with Matteo had relieved me, I thought the worst was over; but at night melancholy came on me stronger than ever, and I groaned as I threw myself on my bed. I felt so terribly alone in the world.... I had no relation but a half-brother, a boy of twelve, whom I had hardly seen; and as I wandered through the land, an exile, I had been continually assailed by the hateful demon of loneliness. And sometimes in my solitude I hadfelt that I could kill myself. But when I found I was in love with Giulia, I cried aloud with joy.... I threw everything to the winds, gathering myself up for the supreme effort of passion. All the storm and stress were passed; I was no longer alone, for I had someone to whom I could give my love. I was like the ship that arrives in the harbour, and reefs her sails and clears her deck, settling down in the quietness of the waters.
And now all was over! Oh God, to think that my hopes should be shattered in so short a time, that the ship should be so soon tossed about in the storm, and the stars hidden by the clouds! And the past delight made the present darkness all the more bitter. I groaned. In my misery I uttered a prayer to God to help me. I could not think I should live henceforth. How could I go on existing with this aching void in my heart? I could not spend days and weeks and years always with this despair. It was too terrible to last. My reason told me that time would remedy it; but time was so long, and what misery must I go through before the wound was healed! And as I thought of what I had lost, my agony grew more unbearable. It grew vivid, and I felt Giulia in my arms. I panted as I pressed my lips against hers, and I said to her,—
'How could you!'
I buried my face in my hands, so as better to enjoy my dream. I smelt the perfume of her breath; I felt on my face the light touch of her hair. But it would not last. I tried to seize the image and hold it back, but it vanished and left me broken-hearted....
I knew I did not hate her. I had pretended to,but the words came from the mouth. In my heart I loved her still, more passionately than ever. What did I care if she was heartless and cruel and faithless and vicious! It was nothing to me as long as I could hold her in my arms and cover her with kisses. I did despise her; I knew her for what she was, but still I loved her insanely. Oh, if she would only come back to me! I would willingly forget everything and forgive her. Nay, I would ask her forgiveness and grovel before her, if she would only let me enjoy her love again.
I would go back to her and fall on my knees, and pray her to be merciful. Why should I suppose she had changed in the few days. I knew she would treat me with the same indifference, and only feel a wondering contempt that I should so abase myself. It came like a blow in the face, the thought of her cold cruelty and her calmness. No, I vowed I would never subject myself to that again. I felt myself blush at the remembrance of the humiliation. But perhaps she was sorry for what she had done. I knew her pride would prevent her from coming or sending to me, and should I give her no opportunity? Perhaps, if we saw one another for a few moments everything might be arranged, and I might be happy again. An immense feeling of hope filled me. I thought I must be right in my idea; she could not be so heartless as to have no regret. How willingly I would take her back! My heart leaped. But I dared not go to her house. I knew I should find her on the morrow at her father's, who was going to give a banquet to some friends. I would speak to her there, casually, as if we were ordinary acquaintances;and then at the first sign of yielding on her part, even if I saw but a tinge of regret in her eyes, I would burst out. I was happy in my plan, and I went to sleep with the name of Giulia on my lips and her image in my heart.
IWENTto the Moratini Palace, and with beating heart looked round for Giulia. She was surrounded by her usual court, and seemed more lively and excited than ever. I had never seen her more beautiful. She was dressed all in white, and her sleeves were sewn with pearls; she looked like a bride. She caught sight of me at once, but pretended not to see me, and went on talking.
I approached her brother Alessandro and said to him casually,—
'I am told a cousin of your sister has come to Forli. Is he here to-day?'
He looked at me inquiringly, not immediately understanding.
'Giorgio dall' Aste,' I explained.
'Oh, I didn't know you meant him. No, he's not here. He and Giulia's husband were not friends, and so—'
'Why were they not friends?' I interrupted, on the spur of the moment, not seeing the impertinence of the question till I had made it.
'Oh, I don't know. Relations always are at enmity with one another; probably some disagreement with regard to their estates.'
'Was that all?'
'So far as I know.'
I recollected that in a scandal the persons most interested are the last to hear it. The husband hears nothing of his wife's treachery till all the town knows every detail.
'I should like to have seen him,' I went on.
'Giorgo? Oh, he's a weak sort of creature; one of those men who commit sins and repent!'
'That is not a fault of which you will ever be guilty, Alessandro,' I said, smiling.
'I sincerely hope not. After all, if a man has a conscience he ought not to do wrong. But if he does he must be a very poor sort of a fool to repent.'
'You cannot have the rose without the thorn.'
'Why not? It only needs care. There are dregs at the bottom of every cup, but you are not obliged to drink them.'
'You have made up your mind that if you commit sins you are ready to go to hell for them?' I said.
'It is braver than going to Heaven by the back door, turning pious when you are too old to do anything you shouldn't.'
'I agree with you that one has little respect for the man who turns monk when things go wrong with him.'
I saw that Giulia was alone, and seized the opportunity to speak with her.
'Giulia,' I said, approaching.
She looked at me for a moment with an air of perplexity,as if she really could not remember whom I was.
'Ah, Messer Filippo!' she said, as if suddenly recollecting.
'It is not so long since we met that you can have forgotten me.'
'Yes. I remember last time you did me the honour to visit me you were very rude and cross.'
I looked at her silently, wondering.
'Well?' she said, steadily answering my gaze and smiling.
'Have you nothing more to say to me than that?' I asked in an undertone.
'What do you want me to say to you?'
'Are you quite heartless?'
She gave a sigh of boredom, and looked to the other end of the room, as if for someone to come and break a tedious conversation.
'How could you!' I whispered.
Notwithstanding her self-control, a faint blush came over her face. I stood looking at her for a little while and then I turned away. She was quite heartless. I left the Moratini and walked out into the town. This last interview had helped me in so far that it made certain that my love was hopeless. I stood still and stamped on the ground, vowing I would not love her. I would put her away from my thoughts entirely; she was a contemptible, vicious woman, and I was too proud to be subject to her. I wondered I did not kill her. I made up my mind to take my courage in both hands and leave Forli. Once away, I should find myself attracted to different matters, andprobably I should not live long before finding some other woman to take Giulia's place. She was not the only woman in Italy; she was not the most beautiful nor the cleverest. Give me a month and I could laugh at my torments....
The same evening I told Matteo I meant to leave Forli.
'Why?' he asked in astonishment.
'I have been here several weeks,' I answered; 'I don't want to outstay my welcome.'
'That is rubbish. You know I should be only too glad for you to stay here all your life.'
'That is very kind of you,' I replied, with a laugh, 'but the establishment is not yours.'
'That makes no difference. Besides, Checco has become very fond of you, and I'm sure he wishes you to stay.'
'Of course, I know your hospitality is quite unlimited; but I am beginning to want to get back to Città di Castello.'
'Why?' asked Matteo, doubtfully.
'One likes to return to one's native place.'
'You have been away from Castello for ten years; you cannot be in any particular hurry to get back.'
I was beginning to protest when Checco came in, and Matteo interrupted me with,—
'Listen, Checco, Filippo says he wants to leave us.'
'But he sha'n't,' said Checco, laughing.
'I really must!' I answered gravely.
'You really mustn't,' replied Checco. 'We can't spare you, Filippo.'
'There's no great hurry about your going home,'he added, when I had explained my reasons, 'and I fancy that soon we shall want you here. A good sword and a brave heart will probably be of good use to us.'
'Everything is as quiet as a cemetery,' I said, shrugging my shoulders.
'It is quiet above; but below there are rumblings and strange movements. I feel sure this calm only presages a storm. It is impossible for Girolamo to go on as he is now; his debts are increasing every day, and his difficulties will soon be impracticable. He must do something. There is certain to be a disturbance at any attempt to put on the taxes, and then Heaven only knows what will happen.'
I was beginning to get a little vexed at their opposition, and I answered petulantly,—
'No, I must go.'
'Stay another month; things must come to a head before then.'
A month would have been as bad as a year.
'I am out of health,' I answered; 'I feel I want to get into a different atmosphere.'
Checco thought for a moment.
'Very well,' he said, 'we can arrange matters to suit us both. I want someone to go to Florence for me to conclude a little business matter with Messer Lorenzo de' Medici. You would be away a fortnight; and if you are out of sorts the ride across country will put you right. Will you go?'
I thought for a moment. It was not a very long absence, but the new sights would distract me, and I wanted to see Florence again. On the whole, I thought it would suffice, and that I couldcount on the cure of my ill before the time was up.
'Very well,' I answered.
'Good! And you will have a pleasant companion. I had talked to Scipione Moratini about it; it did not occur to me that you would go. But it will be all the better to have two of you.'
'If I go,' I said, 'I shall go alone.'
Checco was rather astonished.
'Why?'
'Scipione bores me. I want to be quiet and do as I like.'
I was quite determined that neither of the Moratini should come with me. They would have reminded me too much of what I wanted to forget.
'As you like,' said Checco. 'I can easily tell Scipione that I want him to do something else for me.'
'Thanks.'
'When will you start?'
'At once.'
'Then come, and I will give you the instructions and necessary papers.'
NEXTmorning I mounted my horse and set out with Matteo, who was to accompany me for a little way.
But at the town gate a guard stopped us and asked where we were going.
'Out!' I answered shortly, moving on.
'Stop!' said the man, catching hold of my bridle.
'What the devil d'you mean?' said Matteo. 'D'you know whom we are?'
'I have orders to let no one go by without the permission of my captain.'
'What tyrants they are!' cried Matteo. 'Well, what the hell are you standing there for? Go and tell your captain to come out.'
The man signed to another soldier, who went into the guard-house; he was still holding my bridle. I was not very good-tempered that morning.
'Have the goodness to take your hands off,' I said.
He looked as if he were about to refuse.
'Will you do as you are told?' Then, as he hesitated, I brought down the butt-end of my whip on hisfingers, and with an oath bade him stand off. He let go at once, cursing, and looked as if he would willingly stab me if he dared. We waited impatiently, but the captain did not appear.
'Why the devil doesn't this man come?' I said; and Matteo, turning to one of the soldiers, ordered,—
'Go and tell him to come here instantly.'
At that moment the captain appeared, and we understood the incident, for it was Ercole Piacentini. He had apparently seen us coming, or heard of my intended journey, and had set himself out to insult us. We were both furious.
'Why the devil don't you hurry up when you're sent for?' said Matteo.
He scowled, but did not answer. Turning to me he asked,—
'Where are you going?'
Matteo and I looked at one another in amazement at the man's impudence, and I burst forth,—
'You insolent fellow! What do you mean by stopping me like this?'
'I have a right to refuse passage to anyone I choose.'
'Take care!' I said. 'I swear the Count shall be told of your behaviour, and nowadays the Count is in the habit of doing as the Orsi tell him.'
'He shall hear of this,' growled the Piacentini.
'Tell him what you like. Do you think I care? You can tell him that I consider his captain a very impertinent ruffian. Now, let me go.'
'You shall not pass till I choose.'
'By God! man,' I said, absolutely beside myself,'it seems I cannot touch you here, but if ever we meet in Città di Castello—'
'I will give you any satisfaction you wish,' he answered hotly.
'Satisfaction! I would not soil my sword by crossing it with yours. I was going to say that if ever we meet in Castello I will have you whipped by my lacqueys in the public place.'
I felt a ferocious pleasure in throwing the words of contempt in his face.
'Come on,' said Matteo; 'we cannot waste our time here.'
We put the spurs to our horses. The soldiers looked to their captain to see whether they should stop us, but he gave no order, and we passed through. When we got outside, Matteo said to me,—
'Girolamo must be planning something, or Ercole would not have dared to do that.'
'It is only the impotent anger of a foolish man,' I answered. 'The Count will probably be very angry with him when he hears of it.'
We rode a few miles, and then Matteo turned back. When I found myself alone I heaved a great sigh of relief. I was free for a while at least.... Another episode in my life was finished; I could forget it, and look forward to new things.
As I rode on, the March wind got into my blood and sent it whirling madly through my veins. The sun was shining brightly and covered everything with smiles; the fruit trees were all in flower—apples, pears, almonds—the dainty buds covered the branches with a snow of pink and white. The ground beneath them was bespattered with narcissiand anemones, the very olive trees looked gay. All the world laughed with joy at the bright spring morning, and I laughed louder than the rest. I drew in long breaths of the keen air, and it made me drunk, so that I set the spurs to my horse and galloped wildly along the silent road.
I had made up my mind to forget Giulia, and I succeeded, for the changing scenes took me away from myself, and I was intent on the world at large. But I could not command my dreams. At night she came to me, and I dreamed that she was by my side, with her arms round my neck, sweetly caressing, trying to make me forget what I had suffered. And the waking was bitter.... But even that would leave me soon, I hoped, and then I should be free indeed.
I rode on, full of courage and good spirits, along endless roads, putting up at wayside inns, through the mountains, past villages and hamlets, past thriving towns, till I found myself in the heart of Tuscany, and finally I saw the roofs of Florence spread out before me.
After I had cleaned myself at the inn and had eaten, I sauntered through the town, renewing my recollections. I walked round Madonna del Fiore, and leaning against one of the houses at the back of the piazza looked at the beautiful apse, the marble all glistening in the moonlight. It was very quiet and peaceful; the exquisite church filled me with a sense of rest and purity, so that I cast far from me all vice.... Then I went to the baptistery and tried to make out in the dim light the details of Ghiberti's wonderful doors. It was late and the streets weresilent as I strolled to the Piazza della Signoria, and saw before me the grim stone palace with its tower, and I came down to the Arno and looked at the glistening of the water, with the bridge covered with houses; and as I considered the beauty of it all I thought it strange that the works of man should be so good and pure and man himself so vile.
Next day I set about my business. I had a special letter of introduction to Lorenzo, and was ushered in to him by a clerk. I found two people in the room; one, a young man with a long, oval face, and the bones of the face and chin very strongly marked; he had a very wonderful skin, like brown ivory, black hair that fell over his forehead and ears, and, most striking of all, large brown eyes, very soft and melancholy. I thought I had never before seen a man quite so beautiful. Seated by him, talking with animation, was an insignificant man, bent and wrinkled and mean, looking like a clerk in a cloth merchant's shop, except for the massive golden chain about his neck and the dress of dark red velvet with an embroidered collar. His features were ugly; a large, coarse nose, a heavy, sensual mouth, small eyes, but very sharp and glittering; the hair thin and short, the skin muddy, yellow, wrinkled—Lorenzo de' Medici!
As I entered the room, he interrupted himself and spoke to me in a harsh, disagreeable voice.
'Messer Filippo Brandolini, I think. You are very welcome.'
'I am afraid I interrupt you,' I said, looking at the youth with the melancholy eyes.
'Oh no,' answered Lorenzo, gaily. 'We were talkingof Plato. I really ought to have been attending to very much more serious matters, but I never can resist Pico.'
Then that was the famous Pico della Mirandola. I looked at him again and felt envious that one person should be possessed of such genius and such beauty. It was hardly fair on Nature's part.
'It is more the subject than I that is irresistible.'
'Ah, the banquet!' said Lorenzo, clasping his hands. 'What an inexhaustible matter! I could go on talking about it all day and all night for a year, and then find I had left unsaid half what I had in my mind.'
'You have so vast an experience in the subject treated of,' said Pico, laughing; 'you could give a chapter of comment to every sentence of Plato.'
'You rascal, Pico!' answered Lorenzo, also laughing. 'And what is your opinion of love, Messer?' he added, turning to me.
I answered, smiling,—
They were Lorenzo's own lines, and he was delighted that I should quote them, but still the pleasure was not too great, and I saw that it must be subtle flattery indeed that should turn his head.
'You have the spirit of a courtier, Messer Filippo,' he said in reply to my quotation. 'You are wasted on liberty!'
'It is in the air in Florence—one breathes it in through every pore.'
'What, liberty?'
'No; the spirit of the courtier.'
Lorenzo looked at me sharply, then at Pico, repressing a smile at my sarcasm.
'Well, about your business from Forli?' he said; but when I began explaining the transaction he interrupted me. 'Oh, all that you can arrange with my secretaries. Tell me what is going on in the town. There have been rumours of disturbance.'
I looked at Pico, who rose and went out, saying,—
'I will leave you. Politics are not for me.'
I told Lorenzo all that had happened, while he listened intently, occasionally interrupting me to ask a question. When I had finished, he said—
'And what will happen now?'
I shrugged my shoulders.
'Who knows?'
'The wise man knows,' he said earnestly, 'for he has made up his mind what will happen, and goes about to cause it to happen. It is only the fool who trusts to chance and waits for circumstances to develop themselves....'
'Tell your master—'
'I beg your pardon?' I interrupted.
He looked at me interrogatively.
'I was wondering of whom you were speaking,' I murmured.
He understood and, smiling, said,—
'I apologise. I was thinking you were a Forlivese. Of course, I remember now that you are a citizen of Castello, and we all know how tenacious they have been of their liberty and how proud of their freedom.'
He had me on the hip; for Città di Castello had been among the first of the towns to lose its liberty, and, unlike others, had borne its servitude with more equanimity than was honourable.
'However,' he went on, 'tell Checco d'Orsi that I know Girolamo Riario. It was his father and he who were the prime movers in the conspiracy which killed my brother and nearly killed myself. Let him remember that the Riario is perfectly unscrupulous, and that he is not accustomed to forgive an injury—or forget it. You say that Girolamo has repeatedly threatened Checco. Has that had no effect on him?'
'He was somewhat alarmed.'
'Besides?'
I looked at him, trying to seize his meaning.
'Did he make up his mind to sit still and wait till Girolamo found means to carry his threats into effect?'
I was rather at a loss for an answer. Lorenzo's eyes were fixed keenly upon me; they seemed to be trying to read my brain.
'It was suggested to him that it would be unwise,' I replied slowly.
'And what did he answer to that?'
'He recalled the ill results of certain recent—events.'
'Ah!'
He took his eyes off me, as if he had suddenlyseen the meaning behind my words, and was now quite sure of everything he wanted to know. He walked up and down the room, thinking; then he said to me,—
'Tell Checco that Girolamo's position is very insecure. The Pope is against him, though he pretends to uphold him. You remember that when the Zampeschi seized his castle of San Marco, Girolamo thought they had the tacit consent of the Pope, and dared make no reprisal. Lodovico Sforza would doubtless come to the assistance of his half-sister, but he is occupied with the Venetians—and if the people of Forli hate the Count!'
'Then you advise—'
'I advise nothing. But let Checco know that it is only the fool who proposes to himself an end when he cannot or will not attain it; but the man who deserves the name of man, marches straight to the goal with clearness of mind and strength of will. He looks at things as they are and puts aside all vain appearances; and when his intelligence has shown him the means to his end, he is a fool if he refuses them, and he is a wise man if he uses them steadily and unhesitatingly. Tell that to Checco!'
He threw himself into his chair with a little cry of relief.
'Now we can talk of other things. Pico!'
A servant came in to say that Pico had gone away.
'The villain!' cried Lorenzo. 'But I daresay you will want to go away too, Messer Brandolini. But you must come to-morrow; we are going to act the Menacchini of Plautus; and besides the wit of theLatin you will see all the youth and beauty of Florence.'
As I took my leave, he added,—
'I need not warn you to be discreet.'
AFEWdays later I found myself in sight of Forli. As I rode along I meditated; and presently the thought came to me that after all there was perhaps a certain equality in the portioning out of good and evil in this world. When fate gave one happiness she followed it with unhappiness, but the two lasted about an equal time, so that the balance was not unevenly preserved.... In my love for Giulia I had gone through a few days of intense happiness; the first kiss had caused me such ecstasy that I was rapt up to heaven; I felt myself a god. And this was followed by a sort of passive happiness, when I lived but to enjoy my love and cared for nothing in the world besides. Then came the catastrophe, and I passed through the most awful misery that man had ever felt: even now as I thought of it the sweat gathered on my forehead. But I noticed that strangely as this wretchedness was equal with the first happiness, so was it equal in length. And this was followed by a passive unhappiness when I no longer felt all the bitterness of my woe, but only acertain dull misery, which was like peace. And half smiling, half sighing, I thought that the passive misery again was equal to the passive happiness. Finally came the blessed state of indifference, and, except for the remembrance, my heart was as if nothing had been at all. So it seemed to me that one ought not to complain; for if the world had no right to give one continual misery, one had no cause to expect unmingled happiness, and the conjunction of the two, in all things equal, seemed normal and reasonable. And I had not noticed that I was come to Forli.
I entered the gate with a pleasant sense of homecoming. I passed along the grey streets I was beginning to know so well, and felt for them something of the affection of old friends. I was glad, too, that I should shortly see Checco and my dear Matteo. I felt I had been unkind to Matteo: he was so fond of me and had always been so good, but I had been so wrapped up in my love that his very presence had been importunate, and I had responded coldly to his friendliness. And being then in a sentimental mood, I thought how much better and more trustworthy a friend is to the most lovely woman in the world. You could neglect him and be unfaithful to him, and yet if you were in trouble you could come back and he would take you to his arms and comfort you, and never once complain that you had strayed away. I longed to be with Matteo, clasping his hand. In my hurry I put the spurs to my horse, and clattered along the street. In a few minutes I had reached the Palazzo, leapt off my horse, sprung up the stairs, and flung myself into the arms of my friend.
After the first greetings, Matteo dragged me along to Checco.
'The good cousin is most eager to hear your news. We must not keep him waiting.'
Checco seemed as pleased to see me as Matteo. He warmly pressed my hand, and said,—
'I am glad to have you back, Filippo. In your absence we have been lamenting like forsaken shepherdesses. Now, what is your news?'
I was fully impressed with my importance at the moment, and the anxiety with which I was being listened to. I resolved not to betray myself too soon, and began telling them about the kindness of Lorenzo, and the play which he had invited me to see. I described the brilliancy of the assembly, and the excellence of the acting. They listened with interest, but I could see it was not what they wanted to hear.
'But I see you want to hear about more important matters,' I said. 'Well—'
'Ah!' they cried, drawing their chairs closer to me, settling themselves to listen attentively.
With a slight smile I proceeded to give them the details of the commercial transaction which had been the ostensible purpose of my visit, and I laughed to myself as I saw their disgust. Checco could not restrain his impatience, but did not like to interrupt me. Matteo, however, saw that I was mocking, and broke in.
'Confound you, Filippo! Why do you torment us when you know we are on pins and needles?'
Checco looked up and saw me laughing, and implored,—
'Put us out of torture, for Heaven's sake!'
'Very well!' I answered. 'Lorenzo asked me about the state of Forli, and I told him. Then, after thinking awhile, he said, "Tell this to Checco—"'
And I repeated word for word what Lorenzo had said to me, and, as far as I could, I reproduced his accent and gesture.
When I had finished they both sat still and silent. At last Matteo, glancing to his cousin, said,—
'It seems sufficiently clear.'
'It is, indeed, very clear,' answered Checco, gravely.
IMADEup my mind to amuse myself now. I was sick of being grave and serious. When one thinks how short a while youth lasts it is foolish not to take the best advantage of it; the time man has at his disposal is not long enough for tragedy and moaning; he has only room for a little laughter, and then his hair gets grey and his knees shaky, and he is left repenting that he did not make more of his opportunities. So many people have told me that they have never regretted their vices, but often their virtues! Life is too short to take things seriously. Let us eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.
There was really so much to do in Forli that amusement became almost hard work. There were hunting parties in which we scoured the country all day and returned at night, tired and sleepy, but with a delicious feeling of relief, stretching our limbs like giants waking from their sleep. There were excursions to villas, where we would be welcomed by some kind lady, and repeat on a smaller scale the Decameron of Boccaccio, or imitate the learned conversations of Lorenzo and his circle at Careggio; wecould platonise as well as they, and we discovered the charm of treating impropriety from a philosophic point of view. We would set ourselves some subject and all write sonnets on it, and I noticed that the productions of our ladies were always more highly spiced than our own. Sometimes we would play at being shepherds and shepherdesses, but in this I always failed lamentably, for my nymph invariably complained that I was not as enterprising as a swain should be. Then we would act pastoral plays in the shadow of the trees; Orpheus was our favourite subject, and I was always set for the title part, rather against my will, for I could never bring the proper vigour into my lament for Eurydice, since it always struck me as both unreasonable and ungallant to be so inconsolable for the loss of one love when there were all around so many to console one....
And in Forli itself there was a continuous whirl of amusement, festivities of every kind crowded on one, so that one had scarcely time to sleep; from the gravity and instructive tedium of a comedy by Terence to a drinking bout or a card party. I went everywhere, and everywhere received the heartiest of welcomes. I could sing and dance, and play the lute, and act, and I was ready to compose a sonnet or an ode at a moment's notice; in a week I could produce a five-act tragedy in the Senecan manner, or an epic on Rinaldo or Launcelot; and as I had not a care in the world and was as merry as a drunken friar, they opened their arms to me and gave me the best of all they had....
I was attentive to all the ladies, and scandalous tongues gave me half a dozen mistresses, with detailsof the siege and capture. I wondered whether the amiable Giulia heard the stories, and what she thought of them. Occasionally I saw her, but I did not trouble to speak to her; Forli was large enough for the two of us; and when people are disagreeable why should you trouble your head about them?
One afternoon I rode with Matteo a few miles out of Forli to a villa where there was to be some festivity in honour of a christening. It was a beautiful spot, with fountains and shady walks, and pleasant lawns of well-mown grass; and I set myself to the enjoyment of another day. Among the guests was Claudia Piacentini. I pretended to be very angry with her because, at a ball which she had recently given, I had not received the honour of an invitation. She came to me to ask forgiveness.
'It was my husband,' she said, which I knew perfectly well. 'He said he would not have you in his house. You've had another quarrel with him!'
'How can I help it, when I see him the possessor of the lovely Claudia!'
'He says he will never be satisfied till he has your blood.'
I was not alarmed.
'He talked of making a vow never to cut his beard or his hair till he had his revenge, but I implored him not to make himself more hideous than a merciful Providence had already made him.'
I thought of the ferocious Ercole with a long, untrimmed beard and unkempt hair falling over his face.
'He would have looked like a wild man of the woods,' I said. 'I should have had to allow myself to be massacred for the good of society. I should have been one more of the martyrs of humanity—Saint Philip Brandolini!'
I offered her my arm, suggesting a saunter through the gardens.... We wandered along cool paths bordered with myrtle and laurel and cypress trees; the air was filled with the song of birds, and a gentle breeze bore to us the scent of the spring flowers. By-and-by we came to a little lawn shut in by tall shrubs; in the middle a fountain was playing, and under the shadow of a chestnut-tree was a marble seat supported by griffins; in one corner stood a statue of Venus framed in green bushes. We had left the throng of guests far behind, and the place was very still; the birds, as if oppressed with its beauty, had ceased to sing, and only the fountain broke the silence. The unceasing fall of water was like a lullaby in its monotony, and the air was scented with lilac.
We sat down. The quiet was delightful; peace and beauty filled one, and I felt a great sense of happiness pass into me, like some subtle liquid permeating every corner of my soul. The smell of the lilac was beginning to intoxicate me; and from my happiness issued a sentiment of love towards all nature; I felt as though I could stretch out my arms and embrace its impalpable spirit. The Venus in the corner gained flesh-like tints of green and yellow, and seemed to be melting into life; the lilac came across to me in great waves, oppressive, over-powering.
I looked at Claudia. I thought she was affected as myself; she, too, was overwhelmed by the murmur of the water, the warmth, the scented air. And I was struck again with the wonderful voluptuousness of her beauty; her mouth sensual and moist, the lips deep red and heavy. Her neck was wonderfully massive, so white that the veins showed clear and blue; her clinging dress revealed the fulness of her form, its undulating curves. She seemed some goddess of Sensuality. As I looked at her I was filled with a sudden blind desire to possess her. I stretched out my arms, and she, with a cry of passion, like an animal, surrendered herself to my embrace. I drew her to me and kissed her beautiful mouth sensual and moist, her lips deep red and heavy....
We sat side by side looking at the fountain, breathing in the scented air.
'When can I see you?' I whispered.
'To-morrow.... After midnight. Come into the little street behind my house, and a door will be opened to you.'
'Claudia!'
'Good-bye. You must not come back with me now, we have been away so long, people would notice us. Wait here a while after me, and then there will be no fear. Good-bye.'
She left me, and I stretched myself on the marble seat, looking at the little rings which the drops made as they fell on the water. My love for Giulia was indeed finished now—dead, buried, and a stone Venus erected over it as only sign of its existence. I tried to think of a suitable inscription.... Time could kill the most obstinate love, and a beautiful woman,with the breezes of spring to help her, could carry away even the remembrance. I felt that my life was now complete. I had all pleasures imaginable at my beck and call: good wines to drink, good foods to eat, nice clothes; games, sports and pastimes; and, last of all, the greatest gift the gods can make, a beautiful woman to my youth and strength. I had arrived at the summit of wisdom, the point aimed at by the wise man, to take the day as it comes, seizing the pleasures, avoiding the disagreeable, enjoying the present, and giving no thought to the past or future. That, I said to myself, is the highest wisdom—never to think; for the way of happiness is to live in one's senses as the beasts, and like the ox, chewing the cud, use the mind only to consider one's superiority to the rest of mankind.
I laughed a little as I thought of my tears and cries when Giulia left me. It was not a matter worth troubling about; all I should have said to myself was that I was a fool not to abandon her before she abandoned me. Poor Giulia! I quite frightened her in the vehemence of my rage.
The following evening I would not let Matteo go to bed.
'You must keep me company,' I said, 'I am going out at one.'
'Very well,' he said, 'if you will tell me where you're going.'
'Ah, no, that is a secret; but I am willing to drink her health with you.'
'Without a name?'
'Yes!'
'To the nameless one, then; and good luck!'
Then, after a little conversation, he said,—
'I am glad you have suffered no more from Giulia dall' Aste. I was afraid—'
'Oh, these things pass off. I took your advice, and found the best way to console myself was to fall in love with somebody else.'
There was a little excitement in going to this mysterious meeting. I wondered whether it was a trap arranged by the amiable Ercole to get me in his power and rid himself of my unpleasant person. But faint heart never won fair lady; and even if he set on me with two or three others, I should be able to give a reasonable account of myself.
But there had been nothing to fear. On my way home, as the day was breaking, I smiled to myself at the matter-of-fact way in which a woman had opened the little door, and shown me into the room Claudia had told me of. She was evidently well used to her business; she did not even take the trouble to look into my face to see who was the newcomer. I wondered how many well-cloaked gallants she had let in by the same door; I did not care if they were half a hundred. I did not suppose the beautiful Claudia was more virtuous than myself. Suddenly it occurred to me that I had revenged myself on Ercole Piacentini at last; and the quaint thought, coming unexpectedly, made me stop dead and burst into a shout of laughter. The thought of that hang-dog visage, and the beautiful ornaments I had given him, was enough to make a dead man merry. Oh, it was a fairer revenge than any I could have dreamed of!
But, besides that, I was filled with a great sense of pleasure because I was at last free. I felt that if some slight chain still bound me to Giulia now, even that was broken and I had recovered my liberty. There was no love this time. There was a great desire for the magnificent sensual creature, with the lips deep red and heavy; but it left my mind free. I was now again a complete man; and this time I had no Nemesis to fear.