ONEdoes not really feel much grief at other people's sorrows; one tries, and puts on a melancholy face—thinking oneself brutal for not caring more, but one cannot; and it is better, for if one grieved too deeply at other people's tears life would be unendurable; and every man has sufficient sorrows of his own without taking to heart his neighbour's. The explanation of all this is that three days after my return to Città di Castello I was married to Giulia.
Now I remember nothing more. I have a confused idea of great happiness; I lived in an intoxication, half fearing it was all a dream, enchanted when anything occurred to assure me it was true. But the details of our life I have forgotten; I remember I was happy. Is it not a curious irony that we should recall our miseries with such plainness, and that our happiness should pass over us so indistinctly, that when it has gone we can scarcely realise that it ever existed? It is as though Fortune were jealous of the little happiness she has given us, and to revenge herself blots it out of the memory, filling the mind with miseries past.
But some things I recollect about others. I came across Ercole Piacentini and his wife Claudia. Castello being his native place, he had gone there on the death of the Count; and now, although the Riarii were restored to power, he remained, presumably to watch our movements and report them at Forli. I inquired whom he was, and after some difficulty discovered that he was the bastard of a Castello nobleman and the daughter of a tradesman. I saw that he did not lie when he said he had in his veins as good blood as I. Still I did not think him a very desirable acquisition to the town, and as I was in some favour with the new Lord I determined to procure his expulsion. Matteo proposed picking a quarrel with him and killing him, but that was difficult, because the bold man had become singularly retiring, and it was almost impossible to meet him. The change was so noticeable that we could not help thinking he had received special instructions from Forli; and we determined to take care.
I invited the Moratini to live with me; but they preferred to take a house of their own. The old man, when I asked him for his daughter's hand, told me he wished no better son-in-law, and was very contented to see his daughter again settled under a man's protection. Scipione and Alessandro were both most pleased, and they redoubled the affection they had felt for me before. It all made me extremely happy; for after my long years of wandering I yearned very much for the love of others, and the various affections that surrounded me soothed and comforted me. From Giulia I could ask for nothingmore, and I thought she really loved me—of course, not as I loved her, for that would have been impossible; but I was happy. Sometimes I wondered perplexedly at the incident which had separated us, for I could understand nothing of it; but I put it away from me, I did not want to understand, I wanted only to forget.
Then there were Checco and Matteo. The Orsi family had bought a palace in Castello, and there they could have settled themselves happily enough had they not been driven on by an unextinguishable desire to regain what they had lost. Checco was rich even now, able to live as luxuriously as before, and in a little while he might have gained in Castello as much power as he had lost in Forli, for the young Vitelli had been singularly attracted by him, and was already inclined to give trust to his counsels; but the wretched man was filled with sadness. All day his thoughts were in the town he loved so well, and now his love was increased tenfold.... Sometimes he would think of Forli before the troubles, when he was living a peaceful life surrounded by his friends; and in mind, he wandered through the quiet streets, every house of which he knew. He would go from room to room in his palace, looking at the pictures, the statues, the armour; from the window at night he gazed upon the dark, silent town, with the houses rising like tall phantoms; in the morning a silver mist covered the earth, and as it rose left the air cool and fresh. But when his house appeared before him, a bare heap of ruins, with the rain beating down on the roofless stones, he would bury his face in his hands, and so remain during long hours ofmisery. Sometimes he would review the stirring events, which began with the attempted assassination of himself and ended with the ride out of the gate by the river in the cold open country beyond; and as they passed before him, he would wonder what he had done wrong, what he might have done differently. But he could alter nothing; he saw no mistake other than of trusting the populace who vowed to follow him to death, and of trusting the friends who promised to send him help. He had done his part, and what had followed was impossible to foresee. Fortune was against him and that was all....
But he did not entirely give himself over to vain regrets; he had opened up communication with Forli, and through his spies had learnt that the Countess had imprisoned and put to death all those who had been in any way connected with the rebellion, and that the town lay cowed, submissive as a whipped dog. And there was no hope for Checco from within, for his open partisans had suffered terrible punishments, and the others were few and timid. Then Checco turned his attention to the rival states; but everywhere he received rebuffs, for the power of Milan overshadowed them all, and they dared nothing while the Duke Lodovico was almighty. 'Wait,' they said, 'till he has roused the jealousy of the greater states of Florence and Venice, then will be your opportunity, and then will we willingly give you our help.' But Checco could not wait, every lost day seemed to him a year. He grew thin and haggard. Matteo tried to comfort him, but gradually Checco's troubles weighed on him too; he lost his mirth and becameas moody and silent as his cousin. So passed a year, full of anxiety and heartburning for them, full of the sweetest happiness for me.
One day Checco came to me and said,—
'Filippo, you have been very good to me; now I want you to do me one more favour, and that shall be the last I will ask you.'
'What is it?'
Then he expounded to me a scheme for interesting the Pope in his affairs. He knew how angry his Holiness had been, not only at the loss of the town, but also at the humiliation he had received through his lieutenant. There was a difficulty at the time between the Duke of Milan and Rome respecting certain rights of the former, and he did not think it unlikely that the Pope would be willing to break off negotiations and recover his advantage by making a sudden attack on Forli. Caterina's tyranny had become insupportable, and there was no doubt that at the sight of Checco leading the papal army they would open their gates and welcome him as the Pope's representative.
I did not see of what use I could be, and I was very unwilling to leave my young wife. But Checco was so anxious that I should come, seeming to think I should be of such assistance, that I felt it would be cruel to refuse. Moreover, I reckoned a month would bring me back to Castello, and if the parting was bitter, how sweet would be the return! And I had certain business of my own in Rome, which I had delayed for months because I could not bear the thought of separation from Giulia. So I decided to go.
A few days later we were riding towards Rome. I was sad, for it was the first time I had left my wife since our marriage, and the parting had been even more painful than I expected. A thousand times I had been on the verge of changing my mind and saying I would not go; but I could not, for Checco's sake. I was also a little sad because I thought Giulia was not so pained as I was, but then I chid myself for my folly. I expected too much. After all, it was only four short weeks, and she was still too great a child to feel very deeply. It is only when one is old or has greatly suffered that one's emotions are really powerful.
We reached Rome and set about soliciting an audience from the Pope. I cannot remember the countless interviews we had with minor officials, how we were driven from cardinal to cardinal, the hours we spent in ante-rooms waiting for a few words from some great man. I used to get so tired that I could have dropped off to sleep standing, but Checco was so full of eagerness that I had to accompany him from place to place. The month passed, and we had done nothing. I suggested going home, but Checco implored me to stay, assuring me that the business would be finished in a fortnight. I remained, and the negotiations dragged their weary length through weeks and weeks. Now a ray of hope lightened our struggles, and Checco would become excited and cheerful; now the hope would be dashed to the ground, and Checco begin to despair. The month had drawn itself out into three, and I saw clearly enough that nothing would come of our endeavours. The conferences with the Dukewere still going on, each party watching the other, trying by means of untruth and deceit and bribery to gain the advantage. The King of Naples was brought in; Florence and Venice began to send ambassadors to and fro, and no one knew what would be the result of it all.
At last one day Checco came to me and threw himself on my bed.
'It's no good,' he said, in a tone of despair. 'It is all up.'
'I'm very sorry, Checco.'
'You had better go home now. You can do nothing here. Why should I drag you after me in my unhappiness?'
'But you, Checco, if you can do no good, why will not you come too?'
'I am better here than at Castello. Here I am at the centre of things, and I will take heart. War may break out any day, and then the Pope will be more ready to listen to me.'
I saw it was no use that I should stay, and I saw I could not persuade him to come with me, so I packed up my things, and bidding him good-bye, started on the homeward journey.
WHATshall I say of the eagerness with which I looked forward to seeing my dear wife, the rapture with which, at last, I clasped her in my arms?
A little later I walked out to find Matteo. He was quite astonished to see me.
'We did not expect you so soon.'
'No,' I answered; 'I thought I should not arrive till after to-morrow, but I was so impatient to get home that I hurried on without stopping, and here I am.'
I shook his hand heartily, I was so pleased and happy.
'Er—have you been home?'
'Of course,' I answered, smiling; 'it was the first thing I thought of.'
I was not sure; I thought a look of relief came over Matteo's face. But why? I could not understand, but I thought it of no consequence, and it passed from my memory. I told Matteo the newsI had, and left him. I wished to get back to my wife.
On my way I happened to see Claudia Piacentini coming out of a house. I was very surprised, for I knew that my efforts had succeeded, and Ercole's banishment decreed. I supposed the order had not yet been issued. I was going to pass the lady without acknowledgment, for since my marriage she had never spoken to me, and I could well understand why she did not want to. To my astonishment she stopped me.
'Ah, Messer Filippo!'
I bowed profoundly.
'How is it that now you never speak to me? Are you so angry with me?'
'No one can be angry with so beautiful a woman.'
She flushed, and I felt I had said a stupid thing, for I had made remarks too similar on another occasion. I added, 'But I have been away.'
'I know. Will you not come in?' She pointed to the house from which she had just issued.
'But I shall be disturbing you, for you were going out.'
She smiled as she replied. 'I saw you pass my house a little while ago; I guessed you were going to Matteo d'Orsi, and I waited for you on your return.'
'You are most kind.'
I wondered why she was so anxious to see me. Perhaps she knew of her husband's approaching banishment, and the cause of it.
We went in and sat down.
'Have you been home?' she asked.
It was the same question as Matteo had asked. I gave the same answer.
'It was the first thing I thought of.'
'Your wife must have been—surprised to see you.'
'And delighted.'
'Ah!' She crossed her hands and smiled.
I wondered what she meant.
'You were not expected for two days, I think.'
'You know my movements very well. I am pleased to find you take such interest in me.'
'Oh, it is not I alone. The whole town takes interest in you. You have been a most pleasant topic of conversation.'
'Really!' I was getting a little angry. 'And what has the town to say of me?'
'Oh, I do not want to trouble your peace of mind.'
'Will you have the goodness to tell me what you mean?'
She shrugged her shoulders and smiled enigmatically.
'Well?' I said.
'If you insist, I will tell you. They say that you are a complaisant husband.'
'That is a lie!'
'You are not polite,' she answered calmly.
'How dare you say such things, you impudent woman!'
'My good sir, it is true, perfectly true. Ask Matteo.'
Suddenly I remembered Matteo's question, and his look of relief. A sudden fear ran through me. I took hold of Claudia's wrists and said,—
'What do you mean? What do you mean?'
'Leave go; you hurt me!'
'Answer, I tell you. I know you are dying to tell me. Is this why you lay in wait for me, and brought me here? Tell me.'
A sudden transformation took place in Claudia; rage and hate broke out and contorted her face, so that one would not have recognised it.
'Do you suppose you can escape the ordinary fate of husbands?' She broke into a savage laugh.
'It is a lie. You slander Giulia because you are yourself impure.'
'You were willing enough to take advantage of that impurity. Do you suppose Giulia's character has altered because you have married her? She made her first husband a cuckold, and do you suppose that she has suddenly turned virtuous? You fool!'
'It is a lie. I will not believe a word of it.'
'The whole town has been ringing with her love for Giorgio dall' Aste.'
I gave a cry; it was for him that she abandoned me before....
'Ah, you believe me now!'
'Listen!' I said. 'If this is not true, I swear by all the saints that I will kill you.'
'Good; if it is not true, kill me. But, by all the saints, I swear it is true, true, true!' She repeated the words in triumph, and each one fell like the stab of a dagger in my heart.
I left her. As I walked home, I fancied the people were looking at me, and smiling. Once I was on the verge of going up to a man, and asking him why he laughed, but I contained myself. How I was suffering!I remembered that Giulia had not seemed so pleased to see me; at the time I chid myself, and called myself exacting, but was it true? I fancied she turned away her lips when I was imprinting my passionate kisses on them. I told myself I was a fool, but was it true? I remembered a slight movement of withdrawal when I clasped her in my arms. Was it true? Oh God! was it true?
I thought of going to Matteo, but I could not. He knew her before her marriage; he would be willing to accept the worst that was said of her. How could I be so disturbed at the slanders of a wicked, jealous woman? I wished I had never known Claudia, never given her reason to take this revenge on me. Oh, it was cruel! But I would not believe it; I had such trust in Giulia, such love. She could not betray me, when she knew what passionate love was poured down upon her. It would be too ungrateful. And I had done so much for her, but I did not wish to think of that.... All that I had done had been for pure love and pleasure, and I required no thanks. But surely if she had no love, she had at least some tender feeling for me; she would not give her honour to another. Ah no, I would not believe it. But was it true, oh God! was it true?
I found myself at home, and suddenly I remembered the old steward, whom I had left in charge of my house. His name was Fabio; it was from him that I got the name when I presented myself as a serving-man to old Orso. If anything had taken place in the house he must know it; and she, Claudia, said the whole town knew it.
'Fabio!'
'My master!'
He came into my room, and I looked at him steadily.
'Fabio, have you well looked after all I left in your hands when I went to Rome?'
'Your rents are paid, your harvests taken in, the olives all gathered.'
'I left in your charge something more precious than cornfields and vineyards.'
'My lord!'
'I made you guardian of my honour. What of that?'
He hesitated, and his voice as he answered trembled.
'Your honour is—intact.'
I took him by the shoulders.
'Fabio, what is it? I beseech you by your master, my father, to tell me.'
I knew he loved my father's memory with more than human love. He looked up to heaven and clasped his hands; he could hardly speak.
'By my dear master, your father, nothing—nothing!'
'Fabio, you are lying.' I pressed his wrists which I was holding clenched in my hands.
He sank down on his knees.
'Oh, master, have mercy on me!' He buried his face in his hands. 'I cannot tell you.'
'Speak, man, speak!'
At last, with laments and groans, he uttered the words,—
'She has—oh God, she has betrayed you!'
'Oh!' I staggered back.
'Forgive me!'
'Why did you not tell me before?'
'Ah, how could I? You loved her as I have never seen man love woman.'
'Did you not think of my honour?'
'I thought of your happiness. It is better to have happiness without honour, than honour without happiness.'
'For you,' I groaned, 'but not for me.'
'You are of the same flesh and blood, and you suffer as we do. I could not destroy your happiness.'
'Oh, Giulia! Giulia!' Then, after a while, I asked again, 'But are you sure?'
'Alas, there is no doubt!'
'I cannot believe it! Oh God, help me! You don't know how I loved her! She could not! Let me see it with my own eyes, Fabio.'
We both stood silent; then a horrible thought struck me.
'Do you know—when they meet?' I whispered.
He groaned. I asked again.
'God help me!'
'You know? I command you to tell me.'
'They did not know you were coming back till after to-morrow.'
'He is coming?'
'To-day.'
'Oh!' I seized him by the hand. 'Take me, and let me see them.'
'What will you do?' he asked, horror-stricken.
'Never mind, take me!'
Trembling, he led me through ante-rooms and passages, till he brought me to a staircase. Wemounted the steps and came to a little door. He opened it very quietly, and we found ourselves behind the arras of Giulia's chamber. I had forgotten the existence of door and steps, and she knew nothing of them. There was an opening in the tapestry to give exit.
No one was in the room. We waited, holding our breath. At last Giulia entered. She walked to the window and looked out, and went back to the door. She sat down, but sprang up restlessly, and again looked out of window. Whom was she expecting?
She walked up and down the room, and her face was full of anxiety. I watched intently. At last a light knock was heard; she opened the door and a man came in. A small, slight, thin man, with a quantity of corn-coloured hair falling over his shoulders, and a pale, fair skin. He had blue eyes, and a little golden moustache. He looked hardly twenty, but I knew he was older.
He sprang forward, seizing her in his arms, and he pressed her to his heart, but she pushed him back.
'Oh, Giorgio, you must go,' she cried. 'He has come back.'
'Your husband?'
'I hoped you would not come. Go quickly. If he found you he would kill us both.'
'Tell me you love me, Giulia.'
'Oh yes, I love you with all my heart and soul.'
For a moment they stood still in one another's arms, then she tore herself away.
'But go, for God's sake!'
'I go, my love. Good-bye!'
'Good-bye, beloved!'
He took her in his arms again, and she placed hers around his neck. They kissed one another passionately on the lips; she kissed him as she had never kissed me.
'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 dutyas 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.
IWALKEDback 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 weakwill. 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 tooam 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!'
ANDI 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 withterror; 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 togive 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?
'It is, indeed, a wonderful scene.'
I looked up and saw the monk whom I had spoken with at the inn. He put down 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 must forgive me. I was not myself.'
'Do not talk of it. I saw you here, and I came down to you to offer you our hospitality.'
I looked at him questioningly; he pointed over his shoulder, and looking, I saw, perched on the top of the hill, piercing through the trees, a little monastery.
'How peaceful it looks!' I said.
'It is, indeed. St Francis himself used sometimes to come to enjoy the quiet.'
I sighed. Oh, why could not I have done with the life I hated, and also enjoy the quiet? I felt the monk was watching me, and, looking up, I met his glance. He was a tall, thin man, with deeply-sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. And he was pale and worn from prayer and fasting. But his voice was 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, I said,—
'Oh, you are right. I am so unhappy.'
He took my hands in his, and with the gentleness of the mother of God herself replied,—
'"Come unto Me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest."'
Then I could suffer my woe no longer. I buried my face in his bosom, and burst into tears.
ANDnow many years have passed, and the noble gentleman, Filippo Brandolini is the poor monk Giuliano; the gorgeous clothes, velvets and satins, have given way to the brown sackcloth of the Seraphic Father; and instead of golden belts my waist is girt with a hempen cord. And in me, what changes have taken place! The brown hair, which women kissed, is a little circlet in sign of the Redeemer's crown, and it is as white as snow. My eyes are dim and sunken, my cheeks are hollow, and the skin of my youth is ashy and wrinkled; the white teeth of my mouth have gone, but my toothless gums suffice for the monkish fare; and I am old and bent and weak.
One day in the spring I came to the terrace which overlooks the plain, and as I sat down to warm myself in the sunshine, gazing at the broad country which now I knew so well, and the distant hills, the wish came to me to write the history of my life.
And now that, too, is done. I have nothing moreto tell except that from the day when I arrived, weary of soul, to the cool shade of the fir trees, I have never gone into the world again. I gave my lands and palaces to my brother in the hope that he would make better use of his life than I, and to him I gave the charge of seeing that heirs were given to the ancient name. I knew I had failed in everything. My life had gone wrong, I know not why; and I had not the courage to adventure further. I withdrew from the battle in my unfitness, and let the world pass on and forget my poor existence.
Checco lived on, scheming and intriguing, wearing away his life in attempts to regain his fatherland, and always he was disappointed, always his hopes frustrated, till at last he despaired. And after six years, worn out with his fruitless efforts, mourning the greatness he had lost, and pining for the country he loved so well, he died of a broken heart, an exile.
Matteo went back to his arms and the reckless life of the soldier of fortune, and was killed bravely fighting against the foreign invader, and died, knowing that his efforts, too, had been in vain, and that the sweet land of Italy lay fallen and enslaved.
And I do not know whether they had not the better lot; for they are at peace, while I—I pursue my lonely pilgrimage through life, and the goal is ever far off. Now it cannot be much longer, my strength is failing, and soon I shall have the peace I wished for. Oh God, I do not ask You for crowns of gold and heavenly raiment, I do not aspire to the bliss which is the portion of the saint, but give merest. When the great Release comes, give me rest; let me sleep the long sleep without awakening, so that at last I may forget and be at peace. O God, give me rest!
Often, as I trudged along the roads barefooted to gather food and alms, have I wished to lay myself in the ditch by the wayside and die. Sometimes I have heard the beating of the wings of the Angel of Death; but he has taken the strong and the happy, and left me to wander on.
The good man told me I should receive happiness; I have not even received forgetfulness. I go along the roads thinking of my life and the love that ruined me. Ah! how weak I am; but, forgive me, I cannot help myself! Sometimes when I have been able to do good I have felt a strange delight, I have felt the blessed joy of charity. And I love my people, the poor folk of the country round. They come to me in their troubles, and when I can help them I share their pleasure. But that is all I have. Ah! mine has been a useless life, I have wasted it; and if of late I have done a little good to my fellowmen, alas! how little!
I bear my soul in patience, but sometimes I cannot help rising up against fate, and crying out that it is hard that all this should happen to me. Why? What had I done that I should be denied the little happiness of this world? Why should I be more unhappy than others? But then I chide myself, and ask whether I have indeed been less happy. Are they any of them happy? Or are those right who say that the world is misery, and that the only happiness is to die? Who knows?
Ah, Giulia, how I loved thee!
THE END
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