W. Somerset Maugham: Novels, Short Stories, Plays & Travel Sketches (33 Titles In One Edition). Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

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       AND I 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 with terror; 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 to give shelter, the road glaring and white and dusty. I might have been riding through a furnace.

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