XI

I was so happy. The world went on; things happened in Forli, the rival

parties agitated and met together and discussed; there was a general

ferment--and to it all I was profoundly indifferent. What matter all the

petty little affairs of life? I said. People work and struggle, plot,

scheme, make money, lose it, conspire for place and honour; they have

their ambitions and hopes; but what is it all beside love? I had entered

into the excitement of politics in Forli; I was behind the veil and knew

the intricacies, the ambitions, the emotions of the actors; but now I

withdrew myself. What did I care about the prospects of Forli, whether

taxes were put on or taken off, or whether A killed B or B killed A, it

really seemed so unimportant. I looked upon them as puppets performing

on a stage, and I could not treat their acts with seriousness. Giulia!

That was the great fact in life. Nothing mattered to me but Giulia. When

I thought of Giulia my heart was filled with ecstasy, and I spat with

scorn on all the silly details of events.

I would willingly have kept myself out of the stream which was carrying

along the others; but I could not help knowing what happened. And it was

indeed ridiculous. After the great scene at the Palace people had begun

to take steps as if for big events. Checco had sent a large sum of money

to Florence for the Medici to take care of; Bartolomeo Moratini had made

preparations; there were generally a stir and unrest. Girolamo was

supposed to be going to take some step; people were prepared for

everything; when they woke up in the morning they asked if aught had

taken place in the night; and Checco wore a coat of mail. On the Count's

side people were asking what Checco meant to do, whether the ovation he

had received would encourage him to any violent step. All the world was

agog for great events--and nothing happened. It reminded me of a mystery

play in which, after great preparation of dialogue, some great stage

effect is going to be produced--a saint is going to ascend to heaven, or

a mountain is to open and the devil spring out. The spectators are

sitting open-mouthed; the moment has come, everything is ready, the

signal is given; the mob have already drawn their breath for a cry of

astonishment--and something goes wrong and nothing happens.

The good Forlivesi could not understand it: they were looking for signs

and miracles, and behold! they came not. Each day they said to

themselves that this would be one to be remembered in the history of the

town; that to-day Girolamo would surely leave his hesitations; but the

day wore on quite calmly. Everyone took his dinner and supper as usual,

the sun journeyed from east to west as it had done on the previous day,

the night came, and the worthy citizen went to his bed at his usual

hour, and slept in peace till the following sunrise. Nothing happened,

and it seemed that nothing was going to happen. The troubled spirits

gradually came to the conclusion that there was nothing to be troubled

about, and the old quiet came over the town; there was no talk of new

taxes, and the world wagged on.... Checco and Matteo and the Moratini

resigned themselves to the fact that the sky was serene, and that they

had better pursue their way without troubling their little heads about

conspiracies and midnight daggers.

Meanwhile, I laughed, and admired their folly and my own wisdom. For I

worried myself about none of these things; I lived in Giulia, for

Giulia, by Giulia.... I had never enjoyed such happiness before; she was

a little cold, perhaps, but I did not mind. I had passion that lived by

its own flame, and I cared for nothing as long as she let me love her.

And I argued with myself that it is an obvious thing that love is not

the same on both sides. There is always one who loves and one who lets

himself be loved. Perhaps it is a special decree of Nature; for the man

loves actively, caresses and is passionate; while the woman gives

herself to him, and is in his embrace like some sweet, helpless animal.

I did not ask for such love as I gave; all I asked was that my love

should let herself be loved. That was all I cared for; that was all I

wanted. My love for Giulia was wonderful even to me. I felt I had lost

myself in her. I had given my whole being into her hand. Samson and

Delilah! But this was no faithless Philistine. I would have given my

honour into her keeping and felt it as sure as in my own. In my great

love I felt such devotion, such reverence, that sometimes I hardly dared

touch her; it seemed to me I must kneel and worship at her feet. I

learnt the great delight of abasing myself to the beloved. I could make

myself so small and mean in my humility; but nothing satisfied my wish

to show my abject slavery.... Oh, Giulia! Giulia!

* * * * *

But this inaction on the part of Girolamo Riario had the effect of

persuading his subjects of his weakness. They had given over expecting

reprisals on his part, and the only conclusion they could come to was

that he dared do nothing against Checco. It was inconceivable that he

should leave unavenged the insults he had received; that he should bear

without remark the signs of popularity which greeted Checco, not only on

the day of the Council meeting, but since, every time he appeared in the

streets. They began to despise their ruler as well as hate him, and they

told one another stories of violent disputes in the Palace between the

Count and Caterina. Everyone knew the pride and passion which came to

the Countess with her Sforza blood, and they felt sure that she would

not patiently bear the insults which her husband did not seem to mind;

for the fear of the people could not stop their sarcasms, and when any

member of the household was seen he was assailed with taunts and jeers;

Caterina herself had to listen to scornful laughs as she passed by, and

the town was ringing with a song about the Count. It was whispered that

Girolamo's little son, Ottaviano, had been heard singing it in ignorance

of its meaning, and had been nearly killed by his father in a passion of

rage. Evil reports began to circulate about Caterina's virtue; it was

supposed that she would not keep faithful to such a husband, and another

song was made in praise of cuckoldry.

The Orsi would not be persuaded that this calm was to be believed in.

Checco was assured that Girolamo must have some scheme on hand, and the

quiet and silence seemed all the more ominous.

The Count very rarely appeared in Forli; but one Saint's day he went to

the Cathedral, and as he came back to the Palace, passing through the

piazza, saw Checco. At the same moment Checco saw him, and stopped,

uncertain what to do. The crowd suddenly became silent, and they stood

still like statues petrified by a magic spell. What was going to happen?

Girolamo himself hesitated a moment; a curious spasm crossed his face.

Checco made as if to walk on, pretending not to notice the Count. Matteo

and I were dumbfounded, absolutely at a loss. Then the Count stepped

forward, and held out his hand.

'Ah, my Checco! how goes it?'

He smiled and pressed warmly the hand which the Orsi gave him. Checco

was taken aback, pale as if the hand he held were the hand of death.

'You have neglected me of late, dear friend,' said the Count.

'I have not been well, my lord.'

Girolamo linked his arm in Checco's.

'Come, come,' he said, 'you must not be angry because I used sharp

words to you the other day. You know I am hot-tempered.'

'You have a right to say what you please.'

'Oh, no; I have only a right to say pleasant things.'

He smiled, but all the time the mobile eyes were shifting here and

there, scrutinising Checco's face, giving occasional quick glances to me

and Matteo. He went on,--

'You must show a forgiving spirit.' Then, to Matteo, 'We must all be

good Christians if we can, eh, Matteo?'

'Of course!'

'And yet your cousin bears malice.'

'No, my lord,' said Checco. 'I am afraid I was too outspoken.'

'Well, if you were, I have forgiven you, and you must forgive me. But we

will not talk of that. My children have been asking for you. It is

strange that this ferocious creature, who tells me I am the worst among

bad men, should be so adored by my children. Your little godson is

always crying for you.'

'Dear child!' said Checco.

'Come and see them now. There is no time like the present.'

Matteo and I looked at one another. Was all this an attempt to get him

in his hand, and this time not to let him go?

'I must pray you to excuse me, for I have some gentlemen coming to dine

with me to-day, and I fear I shall be late already.'

Girolamo gave us a rapid look, and evidently saw in our eyes something

of our thoughts, for he said good-humouredly,--

'You never will do anything for me, Checco. But I won't keep you; I

respect the duties of hospitality. However, another day you must come.'

He warmly pressed Checco's hand, and, nodding to Matteo and me, left us.

The crowd had not been able to hear what was said, but they had seen the

cordiality, and as soon as Girolamo disappeared behind the Palace doors,

broke out into murmurs of derision. The Christian sentiment clearly

gained little belief from them, and they put down the Count's act to

fear. It was clear, they said, that he found Checco too strong for him,

and dared nothing. It was a discovery that the man they had so feared

was willing to turn the other cheek when the one was smitten, and to all

their former hate they added a new hate that he had caused them terror

without being terrible. They hated him now for their own pusillanimity.

The mocking songs gained force, and Girolamo began to be known as

Cornuto, the Man of Horns.

Borne on this wave of contempt came another incident, which again showed

the Count's weakness. On the Sunday following his meeting with Checco,

it was known that Girolamo meant to hear mass at the church of San

Stefano, and Jacopo Ronchi, commander of a troop, stationed himself,

with two other soldiers, to await him. When the Count appeared,

accompanied by his wife and children and his suite, Jacopo pressed

forward and, throwing himself on his knees, presented a petition, in

which he asked for the arrears of pay of himself and his fellows. The

Count took it without speaking, and pursued his way. Then Jacopo took

hold of his legs to stop him, and said,--

'For Heaven's sake, my lord, give me a hearing. I and these others have

received nothing for months, and we are starving.'

'Let me go,' said the Count, 'your claim shall be attended to.'

'Do not dismiss me, my lord. I have presented three petitions before,

and to none of them have you paid attention. Now I am getting desperate,

and can wait no longer. Look at my tattered clothes. Give me my money!'

'Let me go, I tell you,' said Girolamo, furiously, and he gave him a

sweeping blow, so that the man fell on his back to the ground. 'How dare

you come and insult me here in the public place! By God! I cannot keep

my patience much longer.'

He brought out these words with such violence of passion that it seemed

as if in them exploded the anger which had been gathering up through

this time of humiliation. Then, turning furiously on the people, he

almost screamed,--

'Make way!'

They dared not face his anger, and with white faces, shrunk back,

leaving a path for him and his party to walk through.