One does 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 Citta 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 nothing more, 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 of misery.
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 became as moody and silent as his
cousin. So passed a year, full of anxiety and heartburning for them,
full of the sweetest happiness for me.