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diff --git a/2948-h/2948-h.htm b/2948-h/2948-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e25fe1b --- /dev/null +++ b/2948-h/2948-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7640 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Where Angels Fear to Tread, by E. M. Forster + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Where Angels Fear to Tread, by E. M. Forster + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Where Angels Fear to Tread + +Author: E. M. Forster + +Release Date: January 10, 2009 [EBook #2948] +Last Updated: October 14, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD *** + + + + +Produced by Richard Fane, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By E. M. Forster + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> Chapter 1 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> Chapter 2 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> Chapter 3 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> Chapter 4 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> Chapter 5 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> Chapter 6 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> Chapter 7 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> Chapter 8 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> Chapter 9 </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> Chapter 10 </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + Chapter 1 + </h2> + <p> + They were all at Charing Cross to see Lilia off—Philip, Harriet, + Irma, Mrs. Herriton herself. Even Mrs. Theobald, squired by Mr. Kingcroft, + had braved the journey from Yorkshire to bid her only daughter good-bye. + Miss Abbott was likewise attended by numerous relatives, and the sight of + so many people talking at once and saying such different things caused + Lilia to break into ungovernable peals of laughter. + </p> + <p> + “Quite an ovation,” she cried, sprawling out of her first-class carriage. + “They’ll take us for royalty. Oh, Mr. Kingcroft, get us foot-warmers.” + </p> + <p> + The good-natured young man hurried away, and Philip, taking his place, + flooded her with a final stream of advice and injunctions—where to + stop, how to learn Italian, when to use mosquito-nets, what pictures to + look at. “Remember,” he concluded, “that it is only by going off the track + that you get to know the country. See the little towns—Gubbio, + Pienza, Cortona, San Gemignano, Monteriano. And don’t, let me beg you, go + with that awful tourist idea that Italy’s only a museum of antiquities and + art. Love and understand the Italians, for the people are more marvellous + than the land.” + </p> + <p> + “How I wish you were coming, Philip,” she said, flattered at the unwonted + notice her brother-in-law was giving her. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I were.” He could have managed it without great difficulty, for + his career at the Bar was not so intense as to prevent occasional + holidays. But his family disliked his continual visits to the Continent, + and he himself often found pleasure in the idea that he was too busy to + leave town. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, dear every one. What a whirl!” She caught sight of her little + daughter Irma, and felt that a touch of maternal solemnity was required. + “Good-bye, darling. Mind you’re always good, and do what Granny tells + you.” + </p> + <p> + She referred not to her own mother, but to her mother-in-law, Mrs. + Herriton, who hated the title of Granny. + </p> + <p> + Irma lifted a serious face to be kissed, and said cautiously, “I’ll do my + best.” + </p> + <p> + “She is sure to be good,” said Mrs. Herriton, who was standing pensively a + little out of the hubbub. But Lilia was already calling to Miss Abbott, a + tall, grave, rather nice-looking young lady who was conducting her adieus + in a more decorous manner on the platform. + </p> + <p> + “Caroline, my Caroline! Jump in, or your chaperon will go off without + you.” + </p> + <p> + And Philip, whom the idea of Italy always intoxicated, had started again, + telling her of the supreme moments of her coming journey—the + Campanile of Airolo, which would burst on her when she emerged from the + St. Gothard tunnel, presaging the future; the view of the Ticino and Lago + Maggiore as the train climbed the slopes of Monte Cenere; the view of + Lugano, the view of Como—Italy gathering thick around her now—the + arrival at her first resting-place, when, after long driving through dark + and dirty streets, she should at last behold, amid the roar of trams and + the glare of arc lamps, the buttresses of the cathedral of Milan. + </p> + <p> + “Handkerchiefs and collars,” screamed Harriet, “in my inlaid box! I’ve + lent you my inlaid box.” + </p> + <p> + “Good old Harry!” She kissed every one again, and there was a moment’s + silence. They all smiled steadily, excepting Philip, who was choking in + the fog, and old Mrs. Theobald, who had begun to cry. Miss Abbott got into + the carriage. The guard himself shut the door, and told Lilia that she + would be all right. Then the train moved, and they all moved with it a + couple of steps, and waved their handkerchiefs, and uttered cheerful + little cries. At that moment Mr. Kingcroft reappeared, carrying a + footwarmer by both ends, as if it was a tea-tray. He was sorry that he was + too late, and called out in a quivering voice, “Good-bye, Mrs. Charles. + May you enjoy yourself, and may God bless you.” + </p> + <p> + Lilia smiled and nodded, and then the absurd position of the foot-warmer + overcame her, and she began to laugh again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am so sorry,” she cried back, “but you do look so funny. Oh, you + all look so funny waving! Oh, pray!” And laughing helplessly, she was + carried out into the fog. + </p> + <p> + “High spirits to begin so long a journey,” said Mrs. Theobald, dabbing her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kingcroft solemnly moved his head in token of agreement. “I wish,” + said he, “that Mrs. Charles had gotten the footwarmer. These London + porters won’t take heed to a country chap.” + </p> + <p> + “But you did your best,” said Mrs. Herriton. “And I think it simply noble + of you to have brought Mrs. Theobald all the way here on such a day as + this.” Then, rather hastily, she shook hands, and left him to take Mrs. + Theobald all the way back. + </p> + <p> + Sawston, her own home, was within easy reach of London, and they were not + late for tea. Tea was in the dining-room, with an egg for Irma, to keep up + the child’s spirits. The house seemed strangely quiet after a fortnight’s + bustle, and their conversation was spasmodic and subdued. They wondered + whether the travellers had got to Folkestone, whether it would be at all + rough, and if so what would happen to poor Miss Abbott. + </p> + <p> + “And, Granny, when will the old ship get to Italy?” asked Irma. + </p> + <p> + “‘Grandmother,’ dear; not ‘Granny,’” said Mrs. Herriton, giving her a + kiss. “And we say ‘a boat’ or ‘a steamer,’ not ‘a ship.’ Ships have sails. + And mother won’t go all the way by sea. You look at the map of Europe, and + you’ll see why. Harriet, take her. Go with Aunt Harriet, and she’ll show + you the map.” + </p> + <p> + “Righto!” said the little girl, and dragged the reluctant Harriet into the + library. Mrs. Herriton and her son were left alone. There was immediately + confidence between them. + </p> + <p> + “Here beginneth the New Life,” said Philip. + </p> + <p> + “Poor child, how vulgar!” murmured Mrs. Herriton. “It’s surprising that + she isn’t worse. But she has got a look of poor Charles about her.” + </p> + <p> + “And—alas, alas!—a look of old Mrs. Theobald. What appalling + apparition was that! I did think the lady was bedridden as well as + imbecile. Why ever did she come?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Kingcroft made her. I am certain of it. He wanted to see Lilia again, + and this was the only way.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope he is satisfied. I did not think my sister-in-law distinguished + herself in her farewells.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Herriton shuddered. “I mind nothing, so long as she has gone—and + gone with Miss Abbott. It is mortifying to think that a widow of + thirty-three requires a girl ten years younger to look after her.” + </p> + <p> + “I pity Miss Abbott. Fortunately one admirer is chained to England. Mr. + Kingcroft cannot leave the crops or the climate or something. I don’t + think, either, he improved his chances today. He, as well as Lilia, has + the knack of being absurd in public.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Herriton replied, “When a man is neither well bred, nor well + connected, nor handsome, nor clever, nor rich, even Lilia may discard him + in time.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I believe she would take any one. Right up to the last, when her + boxes were packed, she was ‘playing’ the chinless curate. Both the curates + are chinless, but hers had the dampest hands. I came on them in the Park. + They were speaking of the Pentateuch.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy! If possible, she has got worse and worse. It was your idea + of Italian travel that saved us!” + </p> + <p> + Philip brightened at the little compliment. “The odd part is that she was + quite eager—always asking me for information; and of course I was + very glad to give it. I admit she is a Philistine, appallingly ignorant, + and her taste in art is false. Still, to have any taste at all is + something. And I do believe that Italy really purifies and ennobles all + who visit her. She is the school as well as the playground of the world. + It is really to Lilia’s credit that she wants to go there.” + </p> + <p> + “She would go anywhere,” said his mother, who had heard enough of the + praises of Italy. “I and Caroline Abbott had the greatest difficulty in + dissuading her from the Riviera.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Mother; no. She was really keen on Italy. This travel is quite a + crisis for her.” He found the situation full of whimsical romance: there + was something half attractive, half repellent in the thought of this + vulgar woman journeying to places he loved and revered. Why should she not + be transfigured? The same had happened to the Goths. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Herriton did not believe in romance nor in transfiguration, nor in + parallels from history, nor in anything else that may disturb domestic + life. She adroitly changed the subject before Philip got excited. Soon + Harriet returned, having given her lesson in geography. Irma went to bed + early, and was tucked up by her grandmother. Then the two ladies worked + and played cards. Philip read a book. And so they all settled down to + their quiet, profitable existence, and continued it without interruption + through the winter. + </p> + <p> + It was now nearly ten years since Charles had fallen in love with Lilia + Theobald because she was pretty, and during that time Mrs. Herriton had + hardly known a moment’s rest. For six months she schemed to prevent the + match, and when it had taken place she turned to another task—the + supervision of her daughter-in-law. Lilia must be pushed through life + without bringing discredit on the family into which she had married. She + was aided by Charles, by her daughter Harriet, and, as soon as he was old + enough, by the clever one of the family, Philip. The birth of Irma made + things still more difficult. But fortunately old Mrs. Theobald, who had + attempted interference, began to break up. It was an effort to her to + leave Whitby, and Mrs. Herriton discouraged the effort as far as possible. + That curious duel which is fought over every baby was fought and decided + early. Irma belonged to her father’s family, not to her mother’s. + </p> + <p> + Charles died, and the struggle recommenced. Lilia tried to assert herself, + and said that she should go to take care of Mrs. Theobald. It required all + Mrs. Herriton’s kindness to prevent her. A house was finally taken for her + at Sawston, and there for three years she lived with Irma, continually + subject to the refining influences of her late husband’s family. + </p> + <p> + During one of her rare Yorkshire visits trouble began again. Lilia + confided to a friend that she liked a Mr. Kingcroft extremely, but that + she was not exactly engaged to him. The news came round to Mrs. Herriton, + who at once wrote, begging for information, and pointing out that Lilia + must either be engaged or not, since no intermediate state existed. It was + a good letter, and flurried Lilia extremely. She left Mr. Kingcroft + without even the pressure of a rescue-party. She cried a great deal on her + return to Sawston, and said she was very sorry. Mrs. Herriton took the + opportunity of speaking more seriously about the duties of widowhood and + motherhood than she had ever done before. But somehow things never went + easily after. Lilia would not settle down in her place among Sawston + matrons. She was a bad housekeeper, always in the throes of some domestic + crisis, which Mrs. Herriton, who kept her servants for years, had to step + across and adjust. She let Irma stop away from school for insufficient + reasons, and she allowed her to wear rings. She learnt to bicycle, for the + purpose of waking the place up, and coasted down the High Street one + Sunday evening, falling off at the turn by the church. If she had not been + a relative, it would have been entertaining. But even Philip, who in + theory loved outraging English conventions, rose to the occasion, and gave + her a talking which she remembered to her dying day. It was just then, + too, that they discovered that she still allowed Mr. Kingcroft to write to + her “as a gentleman friend,” and to send presents to Irma. + </p> + <p> + Philip thought of Italy, and the situation was saved. Caroline, charming, + sober, Caroline Abbott, who lived two turnings away, was seeking a + companion for a year’s travel. Lilia gave up her house, sold half her + furniture, left the other half and Irma with Mrs. Herriton, and had now + departed, amid universal approval, for a change of scene. + </p> + <p> + She wrote to them frequently during the winter—more frequently than + she wrote to her mother. Her letters were always prosperous. Florence she + found perfectly sweet, Naples a dream, but very whiffy. In Rome one had + simply to sit still and feel. Philip, however, declared that she was + improving. He was particularly gratified when in the early spring she + began to visit the smaller towns that he had recommended. “In a place like + this,” she wrote, “one really does feel in the heart of things, and off + the beaten track. Looking out of a Gothic window every morning, it seems + impossible that the middle ages have passed away.” The letter was from + Monteriano, and concluded with a not unsuccessful description of the + wonderful little town. + </p> + <p> + “It is something that she is contented,” said Mrs. Herriton. “But no one + could live three months with Caroline Abbott and not be the better for + it.” + </p> + <p> + Just then Irma came in from school, and she read her mother’s letter to + her, carefully correcting any grammatical errors, for she was a loyal + supporter of parental authority—Irma listened politely, but soon + changed the subject to hockey, in which her whole being was absorbed. They + were to vote for colours that afternoon—yellow and white or yellow + and green. What did her grandmother think? + </p> + <p> + Of course Mrs. Herriton had an opinion, which she sedately expounded, in + spite of Harriet, who said that colours were unnecessary for children, and + of Philip, who said that they were ugly. She was getting proud of Irma, + who had certainly greatly improved, and could no longer be called that + most appalling of things—a vulgar child. She was anxious to form her + before her mother returned. So she had no objection to the leisurely + movements of the travellers, and even suggested that they should overstay + their year if it suited them. + </p> + <p> + Lilia’s next letter was also from Monteriano, and Philip grew quite + enthusiastic. + </p> + <p> + “They’ve stopped there over a week!” he cried. “Why! I shouldn’t have done + as much myself. They must be really keen, for the hotel’s none too + comfortable.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot understand people,” said Harriet. “What can they be doing all + day? And there is no church there, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “There is Santa Deodata, one of the most beautiful churches in Italy.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I mean an English church,” said Harriet stiffly. “Lilia + promised me that she would always be in a large town on Sundays.” + </p> + <p> + “If she goes to a service at Santa Deodata’s, she will find more beauty + and sincerity than there is in all the Back Kitchens of Europe.” + </p> + <p> + The Back Kitchen was his nickname for St. James’s, a small depressing + edifice much patronized by his sister. She always resented any slight on + it, and Mrs. Herriton had to intervene. + </p> + <p> + “Now, dears, don’t. Listen to Lilia’s letter. ‘We love this place, and I + do not know how I shall ever thank Philip for telling me it. It is not + only so quaint, but one sees the Italians unspoiled in all their + simplicity and charm here. The frescoes are wonderful. Caroline, who grows + sweeter every day, is very busy sketching.’” + </p> + <p> + “Every one to his taste!” said Harriet, who always delivered a platitude + as if it was an epigram. She was curiously virulent about Italy, which she + had never visited, her only experience of the Continent being an + occasional six weeks in the Protestant parts of Switzerland. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Harriet is a bad lot!” said Philip as soon as she left the room. His + mother laughed, and told him not to be naughty; and the appearance of + Irma, just off to school, prevented further discussion. Not only in Tracts + is a child a peacemaker. + </p> + <p> + “One moment, Irma,” said her uncle. “I’m going to the station. I’ll give + you the pleasure of my company.” + </p> + <p> + They started together. Irma was gratified; but conversation flagged, for + Philip had not the art of talking to the young. Mrs. Herriton sat a little + longer at the breakfast table, re-reading Lilia’s letter. Then she helped + the cook to clear, ordered dinner, and started the housemaid turning out + the drawing-room, Tuesday being its day. The weather was lovely, and she + thought she would do a little gardening, as it was quite early. She called + Harriet, who had recovered from the insult to St. James’s, and together + they went to the kitchen garden and began to sow some early vegetables. + </p> + <p> + “We will save the peas to the last; they are the greatest fun,” said Mrs. + Herriton, who had the gift of making work a treat. She and her elderly + daughter always got on very well, though they had not a great deal in + common. Harriet’s education had been almost too successful. As Philip once + said, she had “bolted all the cardinal virtues and couldn’t digest them.” + Though pious and patriotic, and a great moral asset for the house, she + lacked that pliancy and tact which her mother so much valued, and had + expected her to pick up for herself. Harriet, if she had been allowed, + would have driven Lilia to an open rupture, and, what was worse, she would + have done the same to Philip two years before, when he returned full of + passion for Italy, and ridiculing Sawston and its ways. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a shame, Mother!” she had cried. “Philip laughs at everything—the + Book Club, the Debating Society, the Progressive Whist, the bazaars. + People won’t like it. We have our reputation. A house divided against + itself cannot stand.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Herriton replied in the memorable words, “Let Philip say what he + likes, and he will let us do what we like.” And Harriet had acquiesced. + </p> + <p> + They sowed the duller vegetables first, and a pleasant feeling of + righteous fatigue stole over them as they addressed themselves to the + peas. Harriet stretched a string to guide the row straight, and Mrs. + Herriton scratched a furrow with a pointed stick. At the end of it she + looked at her watch. + </p> + <p> + “It’s twelve! The second post’s in. Run and see if there are any letters.” + </p> + <p> + Harriet did not want to go. “Let’s finish the peas. There won’t be any + letters.” + </p> + <p> + “No, dear; please go. I’ll sow the peas, but you shall cover them up—and + mind the birds don’t see ‘em!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Herriton was very careful to let those peas trickle evenly from her + hand, and at the end of the row she was conscious that she had never sown + better. They were expensive too. + </p> + <p> + “Actually old Mrs. Theobald!” said Harriet, returning. + </p> + <p> + “Read me the letter. My hands are dirty. How intolerable the crested paper + is.” + </p> + <p> + Harriet opened the envelope. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand,” she said; “it doesn’t make sense.” + </p> + <p> + “Her letters never did.” + </p> + <p> + “But it must be sillier than usual,” said Harriet, and her voice began to + quaver. “Look here, read it, Mother; I can’t make head or tail.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Herriton took the letter indulgently. “What is the difficulty?” she + said after a long pause. “What is it that puzzles you in this letter?” + </p> + <p> + “The meaning—” faltered Harriet. The sparrows hopped nearer and + began to eye the peas. + </p> + <p> + “The meaning is quite clear—Lilia is engaged to be married. Don’t + cry, dear; please me by not crying—don’t talk at all. It’s more than + I could bear. She is going to marry some one she has met in a hotel. Take + the letter and read for yourself.” Suddenly she broke down over what might + seem a small point. “How dare she not tell me direct! How dare she write + first to Yorkshire! Pray, am I to hear through Mrs. Theobald—a + patronizing, insolent letter like this? Have I no claim at all? Bear + witness, dear”—she choked with passion—“bear witness that for + this I’ll never forgive her!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what is to be done?” moaned Harriet. “What is to be done?” + </p> + <p> + “This first!” She tore the letter into little pieces and scattered it over + the mould. “Next, a telegram for Lilia! No! a telegram for Miss Caroline + Abbott. She, too, has something to explain.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what is to be done?” repeated Harriet, as she followed her mother to + the house. She was helpless before such effrontery. What awful thing—what + awful person had come to Lilia? “Some one in the hotel.” The letter only + said that. What kind of person? A gentleman? An Englishman? The letter did + not say. + </p> + <p> + “Wire reason of stay at Monteriano. Strange rumours,” read Mrs. Herriton, + and addressed the telegram to Abbott, Stella d’Italia, Monteriano, Italy. + “If there is an office there,” she added, “we might get an answer this + evening. Since Philip is back at seven, and the eight-fifteen catches the + midnight boat at Dover—Harriet, when you go with this, get 100 + pounds in 5 pound notes at the bank.” + </p> + <p> + “Go, dear, at once; do not talk. I see Irma coming back; go quickly.... + Well, Irma dear, and whose team are you in this afternoon—Miss + Edith’s or Miss May’s?” + </p> + <p> + But as soon as she had behaved as usual to her grand-daughter, she went to + the library and took out the large atlas, for she wanted to know about + Monteriano. The name was in the smallest print, in the midst of a + woolly-brown tangle of hills which were called the “Sub-Apennines.” It was + not so very far from Siena, which she had learnt at school. Past it there + wandered a thin black line, notched at intervals like a saw, and she knew + that this was a railway. But the map left a good deal to imagination, and + she had not got any. She looked up the place in “Childe Harold,” but Byron + had not been there. Nor did Mark Twain visit it in the “Tramp Abroad.” The + resources of literature were exhausted: she must wait till Philip came + home. And the thought of Philip made her try Philip’s room, and there she + found “Central Italy,” by Baedeker, and opened it for the first time in + her life and read in it as follows:— + </p> + <p> + MONTERIANO (pop. 4800). Hotels: Stella d’Italia, moderate only; Globo, + dirty. * Caffe Garibaldi. Post and Telegraph office in Corso Vittorio + Emmanuele, next to theatre. Photographs at Seghena’s (cheaper in + Florence). Diligence (1 lira) meets principal trains. + </p> + <p> + Chief attractions (2-3 hours): Santa Deodata, Palazzo Pubblico, Sant’ + Agostino, Santa Caterina, Sant’ Ambrogio, Palazzo Capocchi. Guide (2 lire) + unnecessary. A walk round the Walls should on no account be omitted. The + view from the Rocca (small gratuity) is finest at sunset. + </p> + <p> + History: Monteriano, the Mons Rianus of Antiquity, whose Ghibelline + tendencies are noted by Dante (Purg. xx.), definitely emancipated itself + from Poggibonsi in 1261. Hence the distich, “POGGIBONIZZI, FAUI IN LA, CHE + MONTERIANO SI FA CITTA!” till recently enscribed over the Siena gate. It + remained independent till 1530, when it was sacked by the Papal troops and + became part of the Grand Duchy of Tuscany. It is now of small importance, + and seat of the district prison. The inhabitants are still noted for their + agreeable manners. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The traveller will proceed direct from the Siena gate to the Collegiate + Church of Santa Deodata, and inspect (5th chapel on right) the charming + Frescoes.... + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Herriton did not proceed. She was not one to detect the hidden charms + of Baedeker. Some of the information seemed to her unnecessary, all of it + was dull. Whereas Philip could never read “The view from the Rocca (small + gratuity) is finest at sunset” without a catching at the heart. Restoring + the book to its place, she went downstairs, and looked up and down the + asphalt paths for her daughter. She saw her at last, two turnings away, + vainly trying to shake off Mr. Abbott, Miss Caroline Abbott’s father. + Harriet was always unfortunate. At last she returned, hot, agitated, + crackling with bank-notes, and Irma bounced to greet her, and trod heavily + on her corn. + </p> + <p> + “Your feet grow larger every day,” said the agonized Harriet, and gave her + niece a violent push. Then Irma cried, and Mrs. Herriton was annoyed with + Harriet for betraying irritation. Lunch was nasty; and during pudding news + arrived that the cook, by sheer dexterity, had broken a very vital knob + off the kitchen-range. “It is too bad,” said Mrs. Herriton. Irma said it + was three bad, and was told not to be rude. After lunch Harriet would get + out Baedeker, and read in injured tones about Monteriano, the Mons Rianus + of Antiquity, till her mother stopped her. + </p> + <p> + “It’s ridiculous to read, dear. She’s not trying to marry any one in the + place. Some tourist, obviously, who’s stopping in the hotel. The place has + nothing to do with it at all.” + </p> + <p> + “But what a place to go to! What nice person, too, do you meet in a + hotel?” + </p> + <p> + “Nice or nasty, as I have told you several times before, is not the point. + Lilia has insulted our family, and she shall suffer for it. And when you + speak against hotels, I think you forget that I met your father at + Chamounix. You can contribute nothing, dear, at present, and I think you + had better hold your tongue. I am going to the kitchen, to speak about the + range.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke just too much, and the cook said that if she could not give + satisfaction—she had better leave. A small thing at hand is greater + than a great thing remote, and Lilia, misconducting herself upon a + mountain in Central Italy, was immediately hidden. Mrs. Herriton flew to a + registry office, failed; flew to another, failed again; came home, was + told by the housemaid that things seemed so unsettled that she had better + leave as well; had tea, wrote six letters, was interrupted by cook and + housemaid, both weeping, asking her pardon, and imploring to be taken + back. In the flush of victory the door-bell rang, and there was the + telegram: “Lilia engaged to Italian nobility. Writing. Abbott.” + </p> + <p> + “No answer,” said Mrs. Herriton. “Get down Mr. Philip’s Gladstone from the + attic.” + </p> + <p> + She would not allow herself to be frightened by the unknown. Indeed she + knew a little now. The man was not an Italian noble, otherwise the + telegram would have said so. It must have been written by Lilia. None but + she would have been guilty of the fatuous vulgarity of “Italian nobility.” + She recalled phrases of this morning’s letter: “We love this place—Caroline + is sweeter than ever, and busy sketching—Italians full of simplicity + and charm.” And the remark of Baedeker, “The inhabitants are still noted + for their agreeable manners,” had a baleful meaning now. If Mrs. Herriton + had no imagination, she had intuition, a more useful quality, and the + picture she made to herself of Lilia’s FIANCE did not prove altogether + wrong. + </p> + <p> + So Philip was received with the news that he must start in half an hour + for Monteriano. He was in a painful position. For three years he had sung + the praises of the Italians, but he had never contemplated having one as a + relative. He tried to soften the thing down to his mother, but in his + heart of hearts he agreed with her when she said, “The man may be a duke + or he may be an organ-grinder. That is not the point. If Lilia marries him + she insults the memory of Charles, she insults Irma, she insults us. + Therefore I forbid her, and if she disobeys we have done with her for + ever.” + </p> + <p> + “I will do all I can,” said Philip in a low voice. It was the first time + he had had anything to do. He kissed his mother and sister and puzzled + Irma. The hall was warm and attractive as he looked back into it from the + cold March night, and he departed for Italy reluctantly, as for something + commonplace and dull. + </p> + <p> + Before Mrs. Herriton went to bed she wrote to Mrs. Theobald, using plain + language about Lilia’s conduct, and hinting that it was a question on + which every one must definitely choose sides. She added, as if it was an + afterthought, that Mrs. Theobald’s letter had arrived that morning. + </p> + <p> + Just as she was going upstairs she remembered that she never covered up + those peas. It upset her more than anything, and again and again she + struck the banisters with vexation. Late as it was, she got a lantern from + the tool-shed and went down the garden to rake the earth over them. The + sparrows had taken every one. But countless fragments of the letter + remained, disfiguring the tidy ground. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter 2 + </h2> + <p> + When the bewildered tourist alights at the station of Monteriano, he finds + himself in the middle of the country. There are a few houses round the + railway, and many more dotted over the plain and the slopes of the hills, + but of a town, mediaeval or otherwise, not the slightest sign. He must + take what is suitably termed a “legno”—a piece of wood—and + drive up eight miles of excellent road into the middle ages. For it is + impossible, as well as sacrilegious, to be as quick as Baedeker. + </p> + <p> + It was three in the afternoon when Philip left the realms of commonsense. + He was so weary with travelling that he had fallen asleep in the train. + His fellow-passengers had the usual Italian gift of divination, and when + Monteriano came they knew he wanted to go there, and dropped him out. His + feet sank into the hot asphalt of the platform, and in a dream he watched + the train depart, while the porter who ought to have been carrying his + bag, ran up the line playing touch-you-last with the guard. Alas! he was + in no humour for Italy. Bargaining for a legno bored him unutterably. The + man asked six lire; and though Philip knew that for eight miles it should + scarcely be more than four, yet he was about to give what he was asked, + and so make the man discontented and unhappy for the rest of the day. He + was saved from this social blunder by loud shouts, and looking up the road + saw one cracking his whip and waving his reins and driving two horses + furiously, and behind him there appeared the swaying figure of a woman, + holding star-fish fashion on to anything she could touch. It was Miss + Abbott, who had just received his letter from Milan announcing the time of + his arrival, and had hurried down to meet him. + </p> + <p> + He had known Miss Abbott for years, and had never had much opinion about + her one way or the other. She was good, quiet, dull, and amiable, and + young only because she was twenty-three: there was nothing in her + appearance or manner to suggest the fire of youth. All her life had been + spent at Sawston with a dull and amiable father, and her pleasant, pallid + face, bent on some respectable charity, was a familiar object of the + Sawston streets. Why she had ever wished to leave them was surprising; but + as she truly said, “I am John Bull to the backbone, yet I do want to see + Italy, just once. Everybody says it is marvellous, and that one gets no + idea of it from books at all.” The curate suggested that a year was a long + time; and Miss Abbott, with decorous playfulness, answered him, “Oh, but + you must let me have my fling! I promise to have it once, and once only. + It will give me things to think about and talk about for the rest of my + life.” The curate had consented; so had Mr. Abbott. And here she was in a + legno, solitary, dusty, frightened, with as much to answer and to answer + for as the most dashing adventuress could desire. + </p> + <p> + They shook hands without speaking. She made room for Philip and his + luggage amidst the loud indignation of the unsuccessful driver, whom it + required the combined eloquence of the station-master and the station + beggar to confute. The silence was prolonged until they started. For three + days he had been considering what he should do, and still more what he + should say. He had invented a dozen imaginary conversations, in all of + which his logic and eloquence procured him certain victory. But how to + begin? He was in the enemy’s country, and everything—the hot sun, + the cold air behind the heat, the endless rows of olive-trees, regular yet + mysterious—seemed hostile to the placid atmosphere of Sawston in + which his thoughts took birth. At the outset he made one great concession. + If the match was really suitable, and Lilia were bent on it, he would give + in, and trust to his influence with his mother to set things right. He + would not have made the concession in England; but here in Italy, Lilia, + however wilful and silly, was at all events growing to be a human being. + </p> + <p> + “Are we to talk it over now?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, please,” said Miss Abbott, in great agitation. “If you will be + so very kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Then how long has she been engaged?” + </p> + <p> + Her face was that of a perfect fool—a fool in terror. + </p> + <p> + “A short time—quite a short time,” she stammered, as if the + shortness of the time would reassure him. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to know how long, if you can remember.” + </p> + <p> + She entered into elaborate calculations on her fingers. “Exactly eleven + days,” she said at last. + </p> + <p> + “How long have you been here?” + </p> + <p> + More calculations, while he tapped irritably with his foot. “Close on + three weeks.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you know him before you came?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Who is he?” + </p> + <p> + “A native of the place.” + </p> + <p> + The second silence took place. They had left the plain now and were + climbing up the outposts of the hills, the olive-trees still accompanying. + The driver, a jolly fat man, had got out to ease the horses, and was + walking by the side of the carriage. + </p> + <p> + “I understood they met at the hotel.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a mistake of Mrs. Theobald’s.” + </p> + <p> + “I also understand that he is a member of the Italian nobility.” + </p> + <p> + She did not reply. + </p> + <p> + “May I be told his name?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott whispered, “Carella.” But the driver heard her, and a grin + split over his face. The engagement must be known already. + </p> + <p> + “Carella? Conte or Marchese, or what?” + </p> + <p> + “Signor,” said Miss Abbott, and looked helplessly aside. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I bore you with these questions. If so, I will stop.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, please; not at all. I am here—my own idea—to give all + information which you very naturally—and to see if somehow—please + ask anything you like.” + </p> + <p> + “Then how old is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, quite young. Twenty-one, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + There burst from Philip the exclamation, “Good Lord!” + </p> + <p> + “One would never believe it,” said Miss Abbott, flushing. “He looks much + older.” + </p> + <p> + “And is he good-looking?” he asked, with gathering sarcasm. + </p> + <p> + She became decisive. “Very good-looking. All his features are good, and he + is well built—though I dare say English standards would find him too + short.” + </p> + <p> + Philip, whose one physical advantage was his height, felt annoyed at her + implied indifference to it. + </p> + <p> + “May I conclude that you like him?” + </p> + <p> + She replied decisively again, “As far as I have seen him, I do.” + </p> + <p> + At that moment the carriage entered a little wood, which lay brown and + sombre across the cultivated hill. The trees of the wood were small and + leafless, but noticeable for this—that their stems stood in violets + as rocks stand in the summer sea. There are such violets in England, but + not so many. Nor are there so many in Art, for no painter has the courage. + The cart-ruts were channels, the hollow lagoons; even the dry white margin + of the road was splashed, like a causeway soon to be submerged under the + advancing tide of spring. Philip paid no attention at the time: he was + thinking what to say next. But his eyes had registered the beauty, and + next March he did not forget that the road to Monteriano must traverse + innumerable flowers. + </p> + <p> + “As far as I have seen him, I do like him,” repeated Miss Abbott, after a + pause. + </p> + <p> + He thought she sounded a little defiant, and crushed her at once. + </p> + <p> + “What is he, please? You haven’t told me that. What’s his position?” + </p> + <p> + She opened her mouth to speak, and no sound came from it. Philip waited + patiently. She tried to be audacious, and failed pitiably. + </p> + <p> + “No position at all. He is kicking his heels, as my father would say. You + see, he has only just finished his military service.” + </p> + <p> + “As a private?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so. There is general conscription. He was in the Bersaglieri, I + think. Isn’t that the crack regiment?” + </p> + <p> + “The men in it must be short and broad. They must also be able to walk six + miles an hour.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him wildly, not understanding all that he said, but feeling + that he was very clever. Then she continued her defence of Signor Carella. + </p> + <p> + “And now, like most young men, he is looking out for something to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Meanwhile?” + </p> + <p> + “Meanwhile, like most young men, he lives with his people—father, + mother, two sisters, and a tiny tot of a brother.” + </p> + <p> + There was a grating sprightliness about her that drove him nearly mad. He + determined to silence her at last. + </p> + <p> + “One more question, and only one more. What is his father?” + </p> + <p> + “His father,” said Miss Abbott. “Well, I don’t suppose you’ll think it a + good match. But that’s not the point. I mean the point is not—I mean + that social differences—love, after all—not but what—I—” + </p> + <p> + Philip ground his teeth together and said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen sometimes judge hardly. But I feel that you, and at all events + your mother—so really good in every sense, so really unworldly—after + all, love-marriages are made in heaven.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Miss Abbott, I know. But I am anxious to hear heaven’s choice. You + arouse my curiosity. Is my sister-in-law to marry an angel?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Herriton, don’t—please, Mr. Herriton—a dentist. His + father’s a dentist.” + </p> + <p> + Philip gave a cry of personal disgust and pain. He shuddered all over, and + edged away from his companion. A dentist! A dentist at Monteriano. A + dentist in fairyland! False teeth and laughing gas and the tilting chair + at a place which knew the Etruscan League, and the Pax Romana, and Alaric + himself, and the Countess Matilda, and the Middle Ages, all fighting and + holiness, and the Renaissance, all fighting and beauty! He thought of + Lilia no longer. He was anxious for himself: he feared that Romance might + die. + </p> + <p> + Romance only dies with life. No pair of pincers will ever pull it out of + us. But there is a spurious sentiment which cannot resist the unexpected + and the incongruous and the grotesque. A touch will loosen it, and the + sooner it goes from us the better. It was going from Philip now, and + therefore he gave the cry of pain. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot think what is in the air,” he began. “If Lilia was determined to + disgrace us, she might have found a less repulsive way. A boy of medium + height with a pretty face, the son of a dentist at Monteriano. Have I put + it correctly? May I surmise that he has not got one penny? May I also + surmise that his social position is nil? Furthermore—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop! I’ll tell you no more.” + </p> + <p> + “Really, Miss Abbott, it is a little late for reticence. You have equipped + me admirably!” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you not another word!” she cried, with a spasm of terror. Then + she got out her handkerchief, and seemed as if she would shed tears. After + a silence, which he intended to symbolize to her the dropping of a curtain + on the scene, he began to talk of other subjects. + </p> + <p> + They were among olives again, and the wood with its beauty and wildness + had passed away. But as they climbed higher the country opened out, and + there appeared, high on a hill to the right, Monteriano. The hazy green of + the olives rose up to its walls, and it seemed to float in isolation + between trees and sky, like some fantastic ship city of a dream. Its + colour was brown, and it revealed not a single house—nothing but the + narrow circle of the walls, and behind them seventeen towers—all + that was left of the fifty-two that had filled the city in her prime. Some + were only stumps, some were inclining stiffly to their fall, some were + still erect, piercing like masts into the blue. It was impossible to + praise it as beautiful, but it was also impossible to damn it as quaint. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Philip talked continually, thinking this to be great evidence of + resource and tact. It showed Miss Abbott that he had probed her to the + bottom, but was able to conquer his disgust, and by sheer force of + intellect continue to be as agreeable and amusing as ever. He did not know + that he talked a good deal of nonsense, and that the sheer force of his + intellect was weakened by the sight of Monteriano, and by the thought of + dentistry within those walls. + </p> + <p> + The town above them swung to the left, to the right, to the left again, as + the road wound upward through the trees, and the towers began to glow in + the descending sun. As they drew near, Philip saw the heads of people + gathering black upon the walls, and he knew well what was happening—how + the news was spreading that a stranger was in sight, and the beggars were + aroused from their content and bid to adjust their deformities; how the + alabaster man was running for his wares, and the Authorized Guide running + for his peaked cap and his two cards of recommendation—one from Miss + M’Gee, Maida Vale, the other, less valuable, from an Equerry to the Queen + of Peru; how some one else was running to tell the landlady of the Stella + d’Italia to put on her pearl necklace and brown boots and empty the slops + from the spare bedroom; and how the landlady was running to tell Lilia and + her boy that their fate was at hand. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it was a pity Philip had talked so profusely. He had driven Miss + Abbott half demented, but he had given himself no time to concert a plan. + The end came so suddenly. They emerged from the trees on to the terrace + before the walk, with the vision of half Tuscany radiant in the sun behind + them, and then they turned in through the Siena gate, and their journey + was over. The Dogana men admitted them with an air of gracious welcome, + and they clattered up the narrow dark street, greeted by that mixture of + curiosity and kindness which makes each Italian arrival so wonderful. + </p> + <p> + He was stunned and knew not what to do. At the hotel he received no + ordinary reception. The landlady wrung him by the hand; one person + snatched his umbrella, another his bag; people pushed each other out of + his way. The entrance seemed blocked with a crowd. Dogs were barking, + bladder whistles being blown, women waving their handkerchiefs, excited + children screaming on the stairs, and at the top of the stairs was Lilia + herself, very radiant, with her best blouse on. + </p> + <p> + “Welcome!” she cried. “Welcome to Monteriano!” He greeted her, for he did + not know what else to do, and a sympathetic murmur rose from the crowd + below. + </p> + <p> + “You told me to come here,” she continued, “and I don’t forget it. Let me + introduce Signor Carella!” + </p> + <p> + Philip discerned in the corner behind her a young man who might eventually + prove handsome and well-made, but certainly did not seem so then. He was + half enveloped in the drapery of a cold dirty curtain, and nervously stuck + out a hand, which Philip took and found thick and damp. There were more + murmurs of approval from the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Well, din-din’s nearly ready,” said Lilia. “Your room’s down the passage, + Philip. You needn’t go changing.” + </p> + <p> + He stumbled away to wash his hands, utterly crushed by her effrontery. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Caroline!” whispered Lilia as soon as he had gone. “What an angel + you’ve been to tell him! He takes it so well. But you must have had a + MAUVAIS QUART D’HEURE.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott’s long terror suddenly turned into acidity. “I’ve told + nothing,” she snapped. “It’s all for you—and if it only takes a + quarter of an hour you’ll be lucky!” + </p> + <p> + Dinner was a nightmare. They had the smelly dining-room to themselves. + Lilia, very smart and vociferous, was at the head of the table; Miss + Abbott, also in her best, sat by Philip, looking, to his irritated nerves, + more like the tragedy confidante every moment. That scion of the Italian + nobility, Signor Carella, sat opposite. Behind him loomed a bowl of + goldfish, who swam round and round, gaping at the guests. + </p> + <p> + The face of Signor Carella was twitching too much for Philip to study it. + But he could see the hands, which were not particularly clean, and did not + get cleaner by fidgeting amongst the shining slabs of hair. His starched + cuffs were not clean either, and as for his suit, it had obviously been + bought for the occasion as something really English—a gigantic + check, which did not even fit. His handkerchief he had forgotten, but + never missed it. Altogether, he was quite unpresentable, and very lucky to + have a father who was a dentist in Monteriano. And why, even Lilia—But + as soon as the meal began it furnished Philip with an explanation. + </p> + <p> + For the youth was hungry, and his lady filled his plate with spaghetti, + and when those delicious slippery worms were flying down his throat, his + face relaxed and became for a moment unconscious and calm. And Philip had + seen that face before in Italy a hundred times—seen it and loved it, + for it was not merely beautiful, but had the charm which is the rightful + heritage of all who are born on that soil. But he did not want to see it + opposite him at dinner. It was not the face of a gentleman. + </p> + <p> + Conversation, to give it that name, was carried on in a mixture of English + and Italian. Lilia had picked up hardly any of the latter language, and + Signor Carella had not yet learnt any of the former. Occasionally Miss + Abbott had to act as interpreter between the lovers, and the situation + became uncouth and revolting in the extreme. Yet Philip was too cowardly + to break forth and denounce the engagement. He thought he should be more + effective with Lilia if he had her alone, and pretended to himself that he + must hear her defence before giving judgment. + </p> + <p> + Signor Carella, heartened by the spaghetti and the throat-rasping wine, + attempted to talk, and, looking politely towards Philip, said, “England is + a great country. The Italians love England and the English.” + </p> + <p> + Philip, in no mood for international amenities, merely bowed. + </p> + <p> + “Italy too,” the other continued a little resentfully, “is a great + country. She has produced many famous men—for example Garibaldi and + Dante. The latter wrote the ‘Inferno,’ the ‘Purgatorio,’ the ‘Paradiso.’ + The ‘Inferno’ is the most beautiful.” And with the complacent tone of one + who has received a solid education, he quoted the opening lines— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita + Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura + Che la diritta via era smarrita— +</pre> + <p> + a quotation which was more apt than he supposed. + </p> + <p> + Lilia glanced at Philip to see whether he noticed that she was marrying no + ignoramus. Anxious to exhibit all the good qualities of her betrothed, she + abruptly introduced the subject of pallone, in which, it appeared, he was + a proficient player. He suddenly became shy and developed a conceited grin—the + grin of the village yokel whose cricket score is mentioned before a + stranger. Philip himself had loved to watch pallone, that entrancing + combination of lawn-tennis and fives. But he did not expect to love it + quite so much again. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, look!” exclaimed Lilia, “the poor wee fish!” + </p> + <p> + A starved cat had been worrying them all for pieces of the purple + quivering beef they were trying to swallow. Signor Carella, with the + brutality so common in Italians, had caught her by the paw and flung her + away from him. Now she had climbed up to the bowl and was trying to hook + out the fish. He got up, drove her off, and finding a large glass stopper + by the bowl, entirely plugged up the aperture with it. + </p> + <p> + “But may not the fish die?” said Miss Abbott. “They have no air.” + </p> + <p> + “Fish live on water, not on air,” he replied in a knowing voice, and sat + down. Apparently he was at his ease again, for he took to spitting on the + floor. Philip glanced at Lilia but did not detect her wincing. She talked + bravely till the end of the disgusting meal, and then got up saying, + “Well, Philip, I am sure you are ready for by-bye. We shall meet at twelve + o’clock lunch tomorrow, if we don’t meet before. They give us caffe later + in our rooms.” + </p> + <p> + It was a little too impudent. Philip replied, “I should like to see you + now, please, in my room, as I have come all the way on business.” He heard + Miss Abbott gasp. Signor Carella, who was lighting a rank cigar, had not + understood. + </p> + <p> + It was as he expected. When he was alone with Lilia he lost all + nervousness. The remembrance of his long intellectual supremacy + strengthened him, and he began volubly— + </p> + <p> + “My dear Lilia, don’t let’s have a scene. Before I arrived I thought I + might have to question you. It is unnecessary. I know everything. Miss + Abbott has told me a certain amount, and the rest I see for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “See for yourself?” she exclaimed, and he remembered afterwards that she + had flushed crimson. + </p> + <p> + “That he is probably a ruffian and certainly a cad.” + </p> + <p> + “There are no cads in Italy,” she said quickly. + </p> + <p> + He was taken aback. It was one of his own remarks. And she further upset + him by adding, “He is the son of a dentist. Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for the information. I know everything, as I told you before. I + am also aware of the social position of an Italian who pulls teeth in a + minute provincial town.” + </p> + <p> + He was not aware of it, but he ventured to conclude that it was pretty, + low. Nor did Lilia contradict him. But she was sharp enough to say, + “Indeed, Philip, you surprise me. I understood you went in for equality + and so on.” + </p> + <p> + “And I understood that Signor Carella was a member of the Italian + nobility.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we put it like that in the telegram so as not to shock dear Mrs. + Herriton. But it is true. He is a younger branch. Of course families + ramify—just as in yours there is your cousin Joseph.” She adroitly + picked out the only undesirable member of the Herriton clan. “Gino’s + father is courtesy itself, and rising rapidly in his profession. This very + month he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi. And for my own poor + part, I think what people are is what matters, but I don’t suppose you’ll + agree. And I should like you to know that Gino’s uncle is a priest—the + same as a clergyman at home.” + </p> + <p> + Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian priest, and said so + much about it that Lilia interrupted him with, “Well, his cousin’s a + lawyer at Rome.” + </p> + <p> + “What kind of ‘lawyer’?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, a lawyer just like you are—except that he has lots to do and + can never get away.” + </p> + <p> + The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed his method, and in + a gentle, conciliating tone delivered the following speech:— + </p> + <p> + “The whole thing is like a bad dream—so bad that it cannot go on. If + there was one redeeming feature about the man I might be uneasy. As it is + I can trust to time. For the moment, Lilia, he has taken you in, but you + will find him out soon. It is not possible that you, a lady, accustomed to + ladies and gentlemen, will tolerate a man whose position is—well, + not equal to the son of the servants’ dentist in Coronation Place. I am + not blaming you now. But I blame the glamour of Italy—I have felt it + myself, you know—and I greatly blame Miss Abbott.” + </p> + <p> + “Caroline! Why blame her? What’s all this to do with Caroline?” + </p> + <p> + “Because we expected her to—” He saw that the answer would involve + him in difficulties, and, waving his hand, continued, “So I am confident, + and you in your heart agree, that this engagement will not last. Think of + your life at home—think of Irma! And I’ll also say think of us; for + you know, Lilia, that we count you more than a relation. I should feel I + was losing my own sister if you did this, and my mother would lose a + daughter.” + </p> + <p> + She seemed touched at last, for she turned away her face and said, “I + can’t break it off now!” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Lilia,” said he, genuinely moved. “I know it may be painful. But I + have come to rescue you, and, book-worm though I may be, I am not + frightened to stand up to a bully. He’s merely an insolent boy. He thinks + he can keep you to your word by threats. He will be different when he sees + he has a man to deal with.” + </p> + <p> + What follows should be prefaced with some simile—the simile of a + powder-mine, a thunderbolt, an earthquake—for it blew Philip up in + the air and flattened him on the ground and swallowed him up in the + depths. Lilia turned on her gallant defender and said— + </p> + <p> + “For once in my life I’ll thank you to leave me alone. I’ll thank your + mother too. For twelve years you’ve trained me and tortured me, and I’ll + stand it no more. Do you think I’m a fool? Do you think I never felt? Ah! + when I came to your house a poor young bride, how you all looked me over—never + a kind word—and discussed me, and thought I might just do; and your + mother corrected me, and your sister snubbed me, and you said funny things + about me to show how clever you were! And when Charles died I was still to + run in strings for the honour of your beastly family, and I was to be + cooped up at Sawston and learn to keep house, and all my chances spoilt of + marrying again. No, thank you! No, thank you! ‘Bully?’ ‘Insolent boy?’ + Who’s that, pray, but you? But, thank goodness, I can stand up against the + world now, for I’ve found Gino, and this time I marry for love!” + </p> + <p> + The coarseness and truth of her attack alike overwhelmed him. But her + supreme insolence found him words, and he too burst forth. + </p> + <p> + “Yes! and I forbid you to do it! You despise me, perhaps, and think I’m + feeble. But you’re mistaken. You are ungrateful and impertinent and + contemptible, but I will save you in order to save Irma and our name. + There is going to be such a row in this town that you and he’ll be sorry + you came to it. I shall shrink from nothing, for my blood is up. It is + unwise of you to laugh. I forbid you to marry Carella, and I shall tell + him so now.” + </p> + <p> + “Do,” she cried. “Tell him so now. Have it out with him. Gino! Gino! Come + in! Avanti! Fra Filippo forbids the banns!” + </p> + <p> + Gino appeared so quickly that he must have been listening outside the + door. + </p> + <p> + “Fra Filippo’s blood’s up. He shrinks from nothing. Oh, take care he + doesn’t hurt you!” She swayed about in vulgar imitation of Philip’s walk, + and then, with a proud glance at the square shoulders of her betrothed, + flounced out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Did she intend them to fight? Philip had no intention of doing so; and no + more, it seemed, had Gino, who stood nervously in the middle of the room + with twitching lips and eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Please sit down, Signor Carella,” said Philip in Italian. “Mrs. Herriton + is rather agitated, but there is no reason we should not be calm. Might I + offer you a cigarette? Please sit down.” + </p> + <p> + He refused the cigarette and the chair, and remained standing in the full + glare of the lamp. Philip, not averse to such assistance, got his own face + into shadow. + </p> + <p> + For a long time he was silent. It might impress Gino, and it also gave him + time to collect himself. He would not this time fall into the error of + blustering, which he had caught so unaccountably from Lilia. He would make + his power felt by restraint. + </p> + <p> + Why, when he looked up to begin, was Gino convulsed with silent laughter? + It vanished immediately; but he became nervous, and was even more pompous + than he intended. + </p> + <p> + “Signor Carella, I will be frank with you. I have come to prevent you + marrying Mrs. Herriton, because I see you will both be unhappy together. + She is English, you are Italian; she is accustomed to one thing, you to + another. And—pardon me if I say it—she is rich and you are + poor.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not marrying her because she is rich,” was the sulky reply. + </p> + <p> + “I never suggested that for a moment,” said Philip courteously. “You are + honourable, I am sure; but are you wise? And let me remind you that we + want her with us at home. Her little daughter will be motherless, our home + will be broken up. If you grant my request you will earn our thanks—and + you will not be without a reward for your disappointment.” + </p> + <p> + “Reward—what reward?” He bent over the back of a chair and looked + earnestly at Philip. They were coming to terms pretty quickly. Poor Lilia! + </p> + <p> + Philip said slowly, “What about a thousand lire?” + </p> + <p> + His soul went forth into one exclamation, and then he was silent, with + gaping lips. Philip would have given double: he had expected a bargain. + </p> + <p> + “You can have them tonight.” + </p> + <p> + He found words, and said, “It is too late.” + </p> + <p> + “But why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because—” His voice broke. Philip watched his face,—a face + without refinement perhaps, but not without expression,—watched it + quiver and re-form and dissolve from emotion into emotion. There was + avarice at one moment, and insolence, and politeness, and stupidity, and + cunning—and let us hope that sometimes there was love. But gradually + one emotion dominated, the most unexpected of all; for his chest began to + heave and his eyes to wink and his mouth to twitch, and suddenly he stood + erect and roared forth his whole being in one tremendous laugh. + </p> + <p> + Philip sprang up, and Gino, who had flung wide his arms to let the + glorious creature go, took him by the shoulders and shook him, and said, + “Because we are married—married—married as soon as I knew you + were, coming. There was no time to tell you. Oh. oh! You have come all the + way for nothing. Oh! And oh, your generosity!” Suddenly he became grave, + and said, “Please pardon me; I am rude. I am no better than a peasant, and + I—” Here he saw Philip’s face, and it was too much for him. He + gasped and exploded and crammed his hands into his mouth and spat them out + in another explosion, and gave Philip an aimless push, which toppled him + on to the bed. He uttered a horrified Oh! and then gave up, and bolted + away down the passage, shrieking like a child, to tell the joke to his + wife. + </p> + <p> + For a time Philip lay on the bed, pretending to himself that he was hurt + grievously. He could scarcely see for temper, and in the passage he ran + against Miss Abbott, who promptly burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “I sleep at the Globo,” he told her, “and start for Sawston tomorrow + morning early. He has assaulted me. I could prosecute him. But shall not.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t stop here,” she sobbed. “I daren’t stop here. You will have to + take me with you!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter 3 + </h2> + <p> + Opposite the Volterra gate of Monteriano, outside the city, is a very + respectable white-washed mud wall, with a coping of red crinkled tiles to + keep it from dissolution. It would suggest a gentleman’s garden if there + was not in its middle a large hole, which grows larger with every + rain-storm. Through the hole is visible, firstly, the iron gate that is + intended to close it; secondly, a square piece of ground which, though not + quite, mud, is at the same time not exactly grass; and finally, another + wall, stone this time, which has a wooden door in the middle and two + wooden-shuttered windows each side, and apparently forms the facade of a + one-storey house. + </p> + <p> + This house is bigger than it looks, for it slides for two storeys down the + hill behind, and the wooden door, which is always locked, really leads + into the attic. The knowing person prefers to follow the precipitous + mule-track round the turn of the mud wall till he can take the edifice in + the rear. Then—being now on a level with the cellars—he lifts + up his head and shouts. If his voice sounds like something light—a + letter, for example, or some vegetables, or a bunch of flowers—a + basket is let out of the first-floor windows by a string, into which he + puts his burdens and departs. But if he sounds like something heavy, such + as a log of wood, or a piece of meat, or a visitor, he is interrogated, + and then bidden or forbidden to ascend. The ground floor and the upper + floor of that battered house are alike deserted, and the inmates keep the + central portion, just as in a dying body all life retires to the heart. + There is a door at the top of the first flight of stairs, and if the + visitor is admitted he will find a welcome which is not necessarily cold. + There are several rooms, some dark and mostly stuffy—a + reception-room adorned with horsehair chairs, wool-work stools, and a + stove that is never lit—German bad taste without German domesticity + broods over that room; also a living-room, which insensibly glides into a + bedroom when the refining influence of hospitality is absent, and real + bedrooms; and last, but not least, the loggia, where you can live day and + night if you feel inclined, drinking vermouth and smoking cigarettes, with + leagues of olive-trees and vineyards and blue-green hills to watch you. + </p> + <p> + It was in this house that the brief and inevitable tragedy of Lilia’s + married life took place. She made Gino buy it for her, because it was + there she had first seen him sitting on the mud wall that faced the + Volterra gate. She remembered how the evening sun had struck his hair, and + how he had smiled down at her, and being both sentimental and unrefined, + was determined to have the man and the place together. Things in Italy are + cheap for an Italian, and, though he would have preferred a house in the + piazza, or better still a house at Siena, or, bliss above bliss, a house + at Leghorn, he did as she asked, thinking that perhaps she showed her good + taste in preferring so retired an abode. + </p> + <p> + The house was far too big for them, and there was a general concourse of + his relatives to fill it up. His father wished to make it a patriarchal + concern, where all the family should have their rooms and meet together + for meals, and was perfectly willing to give up the new practice at + Poggibonsi and preside. Gino was quite willing too, for he was an + affectionate youth who liked a large home-circle, and he told it as a + pleasant bit of news to Lilia, who did not attempt to conceal her horror. + </p> + <p> + At once he was horrified too; saw that the idea was monstrous; abused + himself to her for having suggested it; rushed off to tell his father that + it was impossible. His father complained that prosperity was already + corrupting him and making him unsympathetic and hard; his mother cried; + his sisters accused him of blocking their social advance. He was + apologetic, and even cringing, until they turned on Lilia. Then he turned + on them, saying that they could not understand, much less associate with, + the English lady who was his wife; that there should be one master in that + house—himself. + </p> + <p> + Lilia praised and petted him on his return, calling him brave and a hero + and other endearing epithets. But he was rather blue when his clan left + Monteriano in much dignity—a dignity which was not at all impaired + by the acceptance of a cheque. They took the cheque not to Poggibonsi, + after all, but to Empoli—a lively, dusty town some twenty miles off. + There they settled down in comfort, and the sisters said they had been + driven to it by Gino. + </p> + <p> + The cheque was, of course, Lilia’s, who was extremely generous, and was + quite willing to know anybody so long as she had not to live with them, + relations-in-law being on her nerves. She liked nothing better than + finding out some obscure and distant connection—there were several + of them—and acting the lady bountiful, leaving behind her + bewilderment, and too often discontent. Gino wondered how it was that all + his people, who had formerly seemed so pleasant, had suddenly become + plaintive and disagreeable. He put it down to his lady wife’s + magnificence, in comparison with which all seemed common. Her money flew + apace, in spite of the cheap living. She was even richer than he expected; + and he remembered with shame how he had once regretted his inability to + accept the thousand lire that Philip Herriton offered him in exchange for + her. It would have been a shortsighted bargain. + </p> + <p> + Lilia enjoyed settling into the house, with nothing to do except give + orders to smiling workpeople, and a devoted husband as interpreter. She + wrote a jaunty account of her happiness to Mrs. Herriton, and Harriet + answered the letter, saying (1) that all future communications should be + addressed to the solicitors; (2) would Lilia return an inlaid box which + Harriet had lent her—but not given—to keep handkerchiefs and + collars in? + </p> + <p> + “Look what I am giving up to live with you!” she said to Gino, never + omitting to lay stress on her condescension. He took her to mean the + inlaid box, and said that she need not give it up at all. + </p> + <p> + “Silly fellow, no! I mean the life. Those Herritons are very well + connected. They lead Sawston society. But what do I care, so long as I + have my silly fellow!” She always treated him as a boy, which he was, and + as a fool, which he was not, thinking herself so immeasurably superior to + him that she neglected opportunity after opportunity of establishing her + rule. He was good-looking and indolent; therefore he must be stupid. He + was poor; therefore he would never dare to criticize his benefactress. He + was passionately in love with her; therefore she could do exactly as she + liked. + </p> + <p> + “It mayn’t be heaven below,” she thought, “but it’s better than Charles.” + </p> + <p> + And all the time the boy was watching her, and growing up. + </p> + <p> + She was reminded of Charles by a disagreeable letter from the solicitors, + bidding her disgorge a large sum of money for Irma, in accordance with her + late husband’s will. It was just like Charles’s suspicious nature to have + provided against a second marriage. Gino was equally indignant, and + between them they composed a stinging reply, which had no effect. He then + said that Irma had better come out and live with them. “The air is good, + so is the food; she will be happy here, and we shall not have to part with + the money.” But Lilia had not the courage even to suggest this to the + Herritons, and an unexpected terror seized her at the thought of Irma or + any English child being educated at Monteriano. + </p> + <p> + Gino became terribly depressed over the solicitors’ letter, more depressed + than she thought necessary. There was no more to do in the house, and he + spent whole days in the loggia leaning over the parapet or sitting astride + it disconsolately. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you idle boy!” she cried, pinching his muscles. “Go and play + pallone.” + </p> + <p> + “I am a married man,” he answered, without raising his head. “I do not + play games any more.” + </p> + <p> + “Go and see your friends then.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no friends now.” + </p> + <p> + “Silly, silly, silly! You can’t stop indoors all day!” + </p> + <p> + “I want to see no one but you.” He spat on to an olive-tree. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Gino, don’t be silly. Go and see your friends, and bring them to see + me. We both of us like society.” + </p> + <p> + He looked puzzled, but allowed himself to be persuaded, went out, found + that he was not as friendless as he supposed, and returned after several + hours in altered spirits. Lilia congratulated herself on her good + management. + </p> + <p> + “I’m ready, too, for people now,” she said. “I mean to wake you all up, + just as I woke up Sawston. Let’s have plenty of men—and make them + bring their womenkind. I mean to have real English tea-parties.” + </p> + <p> + “There is my aunt and her husband; but I thought you did not want to + receive my relatives.” + </p> + <p> + “I never said such a—” + </p> + <p> + “But you would be right,” he said earnestly. “They are not for you. Many + of them are in trade, and even we are little more; you should have + gentlefolk and nobility for your friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor fellow,” thought Lilia. “It is sad for him to discover that his + people are vulgar.” She began to tell him that she loved him just for his + silly self, and he flushed and began tugging at his moustache. + </p> + <p> + “But besides your relatives I must have other people here. Your friends + have wives and sisters, haven’t they?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; but of course I scarcely know them.” + </p> + <p> + “Not know your friends’ people?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, no. If they are poor and have to work for their living I may see + them—but not otherwise. Except—” He stopped. The chief + exception was a young lady, to whom he had once been introduced for + matrimonial purposes. But the dowry had proved inadequate, and the + acquaintance terminated. + </p> + <p> + “How funny! But I mean to change all that. Bring your friends to see me, + and I will make them bring their people.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her rather hopelessly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, who are the principal people here? Who leads society?” + </p> + <p> + The governor of the prison, he supposed, and the officers who assisted + him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, are they married?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “There we are. Do you know them?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—in a way.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” she exclaimed angrily. “They look down on you, do they, poor boy? + Wait!” He assented. “Wait! I’ll soon stop that. Now, who else is there?” + </p> + <p> + “The marchese, sometimes, and the canons of the Collegiate Church.” + </p> + <p> + “Married?” + </p> + <p> + “The canons—” he began with twinkling eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I forgot your horrid celibacy. In England they would be the centre of + everything. But why shouldn’t I know them? Would it make it easier if I + called all round? Isn’t that your foreign way?” + </p> + <p> + He did not think it would make it easier. + </p> + <p> + “But I must know some one! Who were the men you were talking to this + afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + Low-class men. He could scarcely recollect their names. + </p> + <p> + “But, Gino dear, if they’re low class, why did you talk to them? Don’t you + care about your position?” + </p> + <p> + All Gino cared about at present was idleness and pocket-money, and his way + of expressing it was to exclaim, “Ouf-pouf! How hot it is in here. No air; + I sweat all over. I expire. I must cool myself, or I shall never get to + sleep.” In his funny abrupt way he ran out on to the loggia, where he lay + full length on the parapet, and began to smoke and spit under the silence + of the stars. + </p> + <p> + Lilia gathered somehow from this conversation that Continental society was + not the go-as-you-please thing she had expected. Indeed she could not see + where Continental society was. Italy is such a delightful place to live in + if you happen to be a man. There one may enjoy that exquisite luxury of + Socialism—that true Socialism which is based not on equality of + income or character, but on the equality of manners. In the democracy of + the caffe or the street the great question of our life has been solved, + and the brotherhood of man is a reality. But is accomplished at the + expense of the sisterhood of women. Why should you not make friends with + your neighbour at the theatre or in the train, when you know and he knows + that feminine criticism and feminine insight and feminine prejudice will + never come between you? Though you become as David and Jonathan, you need + never enter his home, nor he yours. All your lives you will meet under the + open air, the only roof-tree of the South, under which he will spit and + swear, and you will drop your h’s, and nobody will think the worse of + either. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the women—they have, of course, their house and their + church, with its admirable and frequent services, to which they are + escorted by the maid. Otherwise they do not go out much, for it is not + genteel to walk, and you are too poor to keep a carriage. Occasionally you + will take them to the caffe or theatre, and immediately all your wonted + acquaintance there desert you, except those few who are expecting and + expected to marry into your family. It is all very sad. But one + consolation emerges—life is very pleasant in Italy if you are a man. + </p> + <p> + Hitherto Gino had not interfered with Lilia. She was so much older than he + was, and so much richer, that he regarded her as a superior being who + answered to other laws. He was not wholly surprised, for strange rumours + were always blowing over the Alps of lands where men and women had the + same amusements and interests, and he had often met that privileged + maniac, the lady tourist, on her solitary walks. Lilia took solitary walks + too, and only that week a tramp had grabbed at her watch—an episode + which is supposed to be indigenous in Italy, though really less frequent + there than in Bond Street. Now that he knew her better, he was inevitably + losing his awe: no one could live with her and keep it, especially when + she had been so silly as to lose a gold watch and chain. As he lay + thoughtful along the parapet, he realized for the first time the + responsibilities of monied life. He must save her from dangers, physical + and social, for after all she was a woman. “And I,” he reflected, “though + I am young, am at all events a man, and know what is right.” + </p> + <p> + He found her still in the living-room, combing her hair, for she had + something of the slattern in her nature, and there was no need to keep up + appearances. + </p> + <p> + “You must not go out alone,” he said gently. “It is not safe. If you want + to walk, Perfetta shall accompany you.” Perfetta was a widowed cousin, too + humble for social aspirations, who was living with them as factotum. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” smiled Lilia, “very well”—as if she were addressing a + solicitous kitten. But for all that she never took a solitary walk again, + with one exception, till the day of her death. + </p> + <p> + Days passed, and no one called except poor relatives. She began to feel + dull. Didn’t he know the Sindaco or the bank manager? Even the landlady of + the Stella d’Italia would be better than no one. She, when she went into + the town, was pleasantly received; but people naturally found a difficulty + in getting on with a lady who could not learn their language. And the + tea-party, under Gino’s adroit management, receded ever and ever before + her. + </p> + <p> + He had a good deal of anxiety over her welfare, for she did not settle + down in the house at all. But he was comforted by a welcome and unexpected + visitor. As he was going one afternoon for the letters—they were + delivered at the door, but it took longer to get them at the office—some + one humorously threw a cloak over his head, and when he disengaged himself + he saw his very dear friend Spiridione Tesi of the custom-house at + Chiasso, whom he had not met for two years. What joy! what salutations! so + that all the passersby smiled with approval on the amiable scene. + Spiridione’s brother was now station-master at Bologna, and thus he + himself could spend his holiday travelling over Italy at the public + expense. Hearing of Gino’s marriage, he had come to see him on his way to + Siena, where lived his own uncle, lately monied too. + </p> + <p> + “They all do it,” he exclaimed, “myself excepted.” He was not quite + twenty-three. “But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. + An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?” + </p> + <p> + “Immensely rich.” + </p> + <p> + “Blonde or dark?” + </p> + <p> + “Blonde.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible!” + </p> + <p> + “It pleases me very much,” said Gino simply. “If you remember, I always + desired a blonde.” Three or four men had collected, and were listening. + </p> + <p> + “We all desire one,” said Spiridione. “But you, Gino, deserve your good + fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from + the very first moment I saw you I wished you well.” + </p> + <p> + “No compliments, I beg,” said Gino, standing with his hands crossed on his + chest and a smile of pleasure on his face. + </p> + <p> + Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had ever seen before. + “Is it not true? Does not he deserve this wealthy blonde?” + </p> + <p> + “He does deserve her,” said all the men. + </p> + <p> + It is a marvellous land, where you love it or hate it. + </p> + <p> + There were no letters, and of course they sat down at the Caffe Garibaldi, + by the Collegiate Church—quite a good caffe that for so small a + city. There were marble-topped tables, and pillars terra-cotta below and + gold above, and on the ceiling was a fresco of the battle of Solferino. + One could not have desired a prettier room. They had vermouth and little + cakes with sugar on the top, which they chose gravely at the counter, + pinching them first to be sure they were fresh. And though vermouth is + barely alcoholic, Spiridione drenched his with soda-water to be sure that + it should not get into his head. + </p> + <p> + They were in high spirits, and elaborate compliments alternated curiously + with gentle horseplay. But soon they put up their legs on a pair of chairs + and began to smoke. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” said Spiridione—“I forgot to ask—is she young?” + </p> + <p> + “Thirty-three.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well, we cannot have everything.” + </p> + <p> + “But you would be surprised. Had she told me twenty-eight, I should not + have disbelieved her.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she SIMPATICA?” (Nothing will translate that word.) + </p> + <p> + Gino dabbed at the sugar and said after a silence, “Sufficiently so.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a most important thing.” + </p> + <p> + “She is rich, she is generous, she is affable, she addresses her inferiors + without haughtiness.” + </p> + <p> + There was another silence. “It is not sufficient,” said the other. “One + does not define it thus.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Last month a + German was smuggling cigars. The custom-house was dark. Yet I refused + because I did not like him. The gifts of such men do not bring happiness. + NON ERA SIMPATICO. He paid for every one, and the fine for deception + besides.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you gain much beyond your pay?” asked Gino, diverted for an instant. + </p> + <p> + “I do not accept small sums now. It is not worth the risk. But the German + was another matter. But listen, my Gino, for I am older than you and more + full of experience. The person who understands us at first sight, who + never irritates us, who never bores, to whom we can pour forth every + thought and wish, not only in speech but in silence—that is what I + mean by SIMPATICO.” + </p> + <p> + “There are such men, I know,” said Gino. “And I have heard it said of + children. But where will you find such a woman?” + </p> + <p> + “That is true. Here you are wiser than I. SONO POCO SIMPATICHE LE DONNE. + And the time we waste over them is much.” He sighed dolefully, as if he + found the nobility of his sex a burden. + </p> + <p> + “One I have seen who may be so. She spoke very little, but she was a young + lady—different to most. She, too, was English, the companion of my + wife here. But Fra Filippo, the brother-in-law, took her back with him. I + saw them start. He was very angry.” + </p> + <p> + Then he spoke of his exciting and secret marriage, and they made fun of + the unfortunate Philip, who had travelled over Europe to stop it. + </p> + <p> + “I regret though,” said Gino, when they had finished laughing, “that I + toppled him on to the bed. A great tall man! And when I am really amused I + am often impolite.” + </p> + <p> + “You will never see him again,” said Spiridione, who carried plenty of + philosophy about him. “And by now the scene will have passed from his + mind.” + </p> + <p> + “It sometimes happens that such things are recollected longest. I shall + never see him again, of course; but it is no benefit to me that he should + wish me ill. And even if he has forgotten, I am still sorry that I toppled + him on to the bed.” + </p> + <p> + So their talk continued, at one moment full of childishness and tender + wisdom, the next moment scandalously gross. The shadows of the terra-cotta + pillars lengthened, and tourists, flying through the Palazzo Pubblico + opposite, could observe how the Italians wasted time. + </p> + <p> + The sight of tourists reminded Gino of something he might say. “I want to + consult you since you are so kind as to take an interest in my affairs. My + wife wishes to take solitary walks.” + </p> + <p> + Spiridione was shocked. + </p> + <p> + “But I have forbidden her.” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally.” + </p> + <p> + “She does not yet understand. She asked me to accompany her sometimes—to + walk without object! You know, she would like me to be with her all day.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. I see.” He knitted his brows and tried to think how he could help + his friend. “She needs employment. Is she a Catholic?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “That is a pity. She must be persuaded. It will be a great solace to her + when she is alone.” + </p> + <p> + “I am a Catholic, but of course I never go to church.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. Still, you might take her at first. That is what my + brother has done with his wife at Bologna and he has joined the Free + Thinkers. He took her once or twice himself, and now she has acquired the + habit and continues to go without him.” + </p> + <p> + “Most excellent advice, and I thank you for it. But she wishes to give + tea-parties—men and women together whom she has never seen.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the English! they are always thinking of tea. They carry it by the + kilogramme in their trunks, and they are so clumsy that they always pack + it at the top. But it is absurd!” + </p> + <p> + “What am I to do about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Do nothing. Or ask me!” + </p> + <p> + “Come!” cried Gino, springing up. “She will be quite pleased.” + </p> + <p> + The dashing young fellow coloured crimson. “Of course I was only joking.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. But she wants me to take my friends. Come now! Waiter!” + </p> + <p> + “If I do come,” cried the other, “and take tea with you, this bill must be + my affair.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not; you are in my country!” + </p> + <p> + A long argument ensued, in which the waiter took part, suggesting various + solutions. At last Gino triumphed. The bill came to eightpence-halfpenny, + and a halfpenny for the waiter brought it up to ninepence. Then there was + a shower of gratitude on one side and of deprecation on the other, and + when courtesies were at their height they suddenly linked arms and swung + down the street, tickling each other with lemonade straws as they went. + </p> + <p> + Lilia was delighted to see them, and became more animated than Gino had + known her for a long time. The tea tasted of chopped hay, and they asked + to be allowed to drink it out of a wine-glass, and refused milk; but, as + she repeatedly observed, this was something like. Spiridione’s manners + were very agreeable. He kissed her hand on introduction, and as his + profession had taught him a little English, conversation did not flag. + </p> + <p> + “Do you like music?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Passionately,” he replied. “I have not studied scientific music, but the + music of the heart, yes.” + </p> + <p> + So she played on the humming piano very badly, and he sang, not so badly. + Gino got out a guitar and sang too, sitting out on the loggia. It was a + most agreeable visit. + </p> + <p> + Gino said he would just walk his friend back to his lodgings. As they went + he said, without the least trace of malice or satire in his voice, “I + think you are quite right. I shall not bring people to the house any more. + I do not see why an English wife should be treated differently. This is + Italy.” + </p> + <p> + “You are very wise,” exclaimed the other; “very wise indeed. The more + precious a possession the more carefully it should be guarded.” + </p> + <p> + They had reached the lodging, but went on as far as the Caffe Garibaldi, + where they spent a long and most delightful evening. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter 4 + </h2> + <p> + The advance of regret can be so gradual that it is impossible to say + “yesterday I was happy, today I am not.” At no one moment did Lilia + realize that her marriage was a failure; yet during the summer and autumn + she became as unhappy as it was possible for her nature to be. She had no + unkind treatment, and few unkind words, from her husband. He simply left + her alone. In the morning he went out to do “business,” which, as far as + she could discover, meant sitting in the Farmacia. He usually returned to + lunch, after which he retired to another room and slept. In the evening he + grew vigorous again, and took the air on the ramparts, often having his + dinner out, and seldom returning till midnight or later. There were, of + course, the times when he was away altogether—at Empoli, Siena, + Florence, Bologna—for he delighted in travel, and seemed to pick up + friends all over the country. Lilia often heard what a favorite he was. + </p> + <p> + She began to see that she must assert herself, but she could not see how. + Her self-confidence, which had overthrown Philip, had gradually oozed + away. If she left the strange house there was the strange little town. If + she were to disobey her husband and walk in the country, that would be + stranger still—vast slopes of olives and vineyards, with chalk-white + farms, and in the distance other slopes, with more olives and more farms, + and more little towns outlined against the cloudless sky. “I don’t call + this country,” she would say. “Why, it’s not as wild as Sawston Park!” + And, indeed, there was scarcely a touch of wildness in it—some of + those slopes had been under cultivation for two thousand years. But it was + terrible and mysterious all the same, and its continued presence made + Lilia so uncomfortable that she forgot her nature and began to reflect. + </p> + <p> + She reflected chiefly about her marriage. The ceremony had been hasty and + expensive, and the rites, whatever they were, were not those of the Church + of England. Lilia had no religion in her; but for hours at a time she + would be seized with a vulgar fear that she was not “married properly,” + and that her social position in the next world might be as obscure as it + was in this. It might be safer to do the thing thoroughly, and one day she + took the advice of Spiridione and joined the Roman Catholic Church, or as + she called it, “Santa Deodata’s.” Gino approved; he, too, thought it + safer, and it was fun confessing, though the priest was a stupid old man, + and the whole thing was a good slap in the face for the people at home. + </p> + <p> + The people at home took the slap very soberly; indeed, there were few left + for her to give it to. The Herritons were out of the question; they would + not even let her write to Irma, though Irma was occasionally allowed to + write to her. Mrs. Theobald was rapidly subsiding into dotage, and, as far + as she could be definite about anything, had definitely sided with the + Herritons. And Miss Abbott did likewise. Night after night did Lilia curse + this false friend, who had agreed with her that the marriage would “do,” + and that the Herritons would come round to it, and then, at the first hint + of opposition, had fled back to England shrieking and distraught. Miss + Abbott headed the long list of those who should never be written to, and + who should never be forgiven. Almost the only person who was not on that + list was Mr. Kingcroft, who had unexpectedly sent an affectionate and + inquiring letter. He was quite sure never to cross the Channel, and Lilia + drew freely on her fancy in the reply. + </p> + <p> + At first she had seen a few English people, for Monteriano was not the end + of the earth. One or two inquisitive ladies, who had heard at home of her + quarrel with the Herritons, came to call. She was very sprightly, and they + thought her quite unconventional, and Gino a charming boy, so all that was + to the good. But by May the season, such as it was, had finished, and + there would be no one till next spring. As Mrs. Herriton had often + observed, Lilia had no resources. She did not like music, or reading, or + work. Her one qualification for life was rather blowsy high spirits, which + turned querulous or boisterous according to circumstances. She was not + obedient, but she was cowardly, and in the most gentle way, which Mrs. + Herriton might have envied, Gino made her do what he wanted. At first it + had been rather fun to let him get the upper hand. But it was galling to + discover that he could not do otherwise. He had a good strong will when he + chose to use it, and would not have had the least scruple in using bolts + and locks to put it into effect. There was plenty of brutality deep down + in him, and one day Lilia nearly touched it. + </p> + <p> + It was the old question of going out alone. + </p> + <p> + “I always do it in England.” + </p> + <p> + “This is Italy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I’m older than you, and I’ll settle.” + </p> + <p> + “I am your husband,” he said, smiling. They had finished their mid-day + meal, and he wanted to go and sleep. Nothing would rouse him up, until at + last Lilia, getting more and more angry, said, “And I’ve got the money.” + </p> + <p> + He looked horrified. + </p> + <p> + Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. He got + up from his chair. + </p> + <p> + “And you’d better mend your manners,” she continued, “for you’d find it + awkward if I stopped drawing cheques.” + </p> + <p> + She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she + said to Perfetta afterwards, “None of his clothes seemed to fit—too + big in one place, too small in another.” His figure rather than his face + altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the + back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round + the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair + between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her with + round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand. + </p> + <p> + Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, + and he turned away and went to his room without a word. + </p> + <p> + “What has happened?” cried Lilia, nearly fainting. “He is ill—ill.” + </p> + <p> + Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. “What did you say + to him?” She crossed herself. + </p> + <p> + “Hardly anything,” said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the two + women pay homage to their outraged male. + </p> + <p> + It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. But he + had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His return + was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon, lying at + her feet, embracing her, murmuring “It was not I,” striving to define + things which he did not understand. He stopped in the house for three + days, positively ill with physical collapse. But for all his suffering he + had tamed her, and she never threatened to cut off supplies again. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps he kept her even closer than convention demanded. But he was very + young, and he could not bear it to be said of him that he did not know how + to treat a lady—or to manage a wife. And his own social position was + uncertain. Even in England a dentist is a troublesome creature, whom + careful people find difficult to class. He hovers between the professions + and the trades; he may be only a little lower than the doctors, or he may + be down among the chemists, or even beneath them. The son of the Italian + dentist felt this too. For himself nothing mattered; he made friends with + the people he liked, for he was that glorious invariable creature, a man. + But his wife should visit nowhere rather than visit wrongly: seclusion was + both decent and safe. The social ideals of North and South had had their + brief contention, and this time the South had won. + </p> + <p> + It would have been well if he had been as strict over his own behaviour as + he was over hers. But the incongruity never occurred to him for a moment. + His morality was that of the average Latin, and as he was suddenly placed + in the position of a gentleman, he did not see why he should not behave as + such. Of course, had Lilia been different—had she asserted herself + and got a grip on his character—he might possibly—though not + probably—have been made a better husband as well as a better man, + and at all events he could have adopted the attitude of the Englishman, + whose standard is higher even when his practice is the same. But had Lilia + been different she might not have married him. + </p> + <p> + The discovery of his infidelity—which she made by accident—destroyed + such remnants of self-satisfaction as her life might yet possess. She + broke down utterly and sobbed and cried in Perfetta’s arms. Perfetta was + kind and even sympathetic, but cautioned her on no account to speak to + Gino, who would be furious if he was suspected. And Lilia agreed, partly + because she was afraid of him, partly because it was, after all, the best + and most dignified thing to do. She had given up everything for him—her + daughter, her relatives, her friends, all the little comforts and luxuries + of a civilized life—and even if she had the courage to break away, + there was no one who would receive her now. The Herritons had been almost + malignant in their efforts against her, and all her friends had one by one + fallen off. So it was better to live on humbly, trying not to feel, + endeavouring by a cheerful demeanour to put things right. “Perhaps,” she + thought, “if I have a child he will be different. I know he wants a son.” + </p> + <p> + Lilia had achieved pathos despite herself, for there are some situations + in which vulgarity counts no longer. Not Cordelia nor Imogen more deserves + our tears. + </p> + <p> + She herself cried frequently, making herself look plain and old, which + distressed her husband. He was particularly kind to her when he hardly + ever saw her, and she accepted his kindness without resentment, even with + gratitude, so docile had she become. She did not hate him, even as she had + never loved him; with her it was only when she was excited that the + semblance of either passion arose. People said she was headstrong, but + really her weak brain left her cold. + </p> + <p> + Suffering, however, is more independent of temperament, and the wisest of + women could hardly have suffered more. + </p> + <p> + As for Gino, he was quite as boyish as ever, and carried his iniquities + like a feather. A favourite speech of his was, “Ah, one ought to marry! + Spiridione is wrong; I must persuade him. Not till marriage does one + realize the pleasures and the possibilities of life.” So saying, he would + take down his felt hat, strike it in the right place as infallibly as a + German strikes his in the wrong place, and leave her. + </p> + <p> + One evening, when he had gone out thus, Lilia could stand it no longer. It + was September. Sawston would be just filling up after the summer holidays. + People would be running in and out of each other’s houses all along the + road. There were bicycle gymkhanas, and on the 30th Mrs. Herriton would be + holding the annual bazaar in her garden for the C.M.S. It seemed + impossible that such a free, happy life could exist. She walked out on to + the loggia. Moonlight and stars in a soft purple sky. The walls of + Monteriano should be glorious on such a night as this. But the house faced + away from them. + </p> + <p> + Perfetta was banging in the kitchen, and the stairs down led past the + kitchen door. But the stairs up to the attic—the stairs no one ever + used—opened out of the living-room, and by unlocking the door at the + top one might slip out to the square terrace above the house, and thus for + ten minutes walk in freedom and peace. + </p> + <p> + The key was in the pocket of Gino’s best suit—the English check—which + he never wore. The stairs creaked and the key-hole screamed; but Perfetta + was growing deaf. The walls were beautiful, but as they faced west they + were in shadow. To see the light upon them she must walk round the town a + little, till they were caught by the beams of the rising moon. She looked + anxiously at the house, and started. + </p> + <p> + It was easy walking, for a little path ran all outside the ramparts. The + few people she met wished her a civil good-night, taking her, in her + hatless condition, for a peasant. The walls trended round towards the + moon; and presently she came into its light, and saw all the rough towers + turn into pillars of silver and black, and the ramparts into cliffs of + pearl. She had no great sense of beauty, but she was sentimental, and she + began to cry; for here, where a great cypress interrupted the monotony of + the girdle of olives, she had sat with Gino one afternoon in March, her + head upon his shoulder, while Caroline was looking at the view and + sketching. Round the corner was the Siena gate, from which the road to + England started, and she could hear the rumble of the diligence which was + going down to catch the night train to Empoli. The next moment it was upon + her, for the highroad came towards her a little before it began its long + zigzag down the hill. + </p> + <p> + The driver slackened, and called to her to get in. He did not know who she + was. He hoped she might be coming to the station. + </p> + <p> + “Non vengo!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + He wished her good-night, and turned his horses down the corner. As the + diligence came round she saw that it was empty. + </p> + <p> + “Vengo...” + </p> + <p> + Her voice was tremulous, and did not carry. The horses swung off. + </p> + <p> + “Vengo! Vengo!” + </p> + <p> + He had begun to sing, and heard nothing. She ran down the road screaming + to him to stop—that she was coming; while the distance grew greater + and the noise of the diligence increased. The man’s back was black and + square against the moon, and if he would but turn for an instant she would + be saved. She tried to cut off the corner of the zigzag, stumbling over + the great clods of earth, large and hard as rocks, which lay between the + eternal olives. She was too late; for, just before she regained the road, + the thing swept past her, thunderous, ploughing up choking clouds of + moonlit dust. + </p> + <p> + She did not call any more, for she felt very ill, and fainted; and when + she revived she was lying in the road, with dust in her eyes, and dust in + her mouth, and dust down her ears. There is something very terrible in + dust at night-time. + </p> + <p> + “What shall I do?” she moaned. “He will be so angry.” + </p> + <p> + And without further effort she slowly climbed back to captivity, shaking + her garments as she went. + </p> + <p> + Ill luck pursued her to the end. It was one of the nights when Gino + happened to come in. He was in the kitchen, swearing and smashing plates, + while Perfetta, her apron over her head, was weeping violently. At the + sight of Lilia he turned upon her and poured forth a flood of + miscellaneous abuse. He was far more angry but much less alarming than he + had been that day when he edged after her round the table. And Lilia + gained more courage from her bad conscience than she ever had from her + good one, for as he spoke she was seized with indignation and feared him + no longer, and saw him for a cruel, worthless, hypocritical, dissolute + upstart, and spoke in return. + </p> + <p> + Perfetta screamed for she told him everything—all she knew and all + she thought. He stood with open mouth, all the anger gone out of him, + feeling ashamed, and an utter fool. He was fairly and rightfully cornered. + When had a husband so given himself away before? She finished; and he was + dumb, for she had spoken truly. Then, alas! the absurdity of his own + position grew upon him, and he laughed—as he would have laughed at + the same situation on the stage. + </p> + <p> + “You laugh?” stammered Lilia. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he cried, “who could help it? I, who thought you knew and saw + nothing—I am tricked—I am conquered. I give in. Let us talk of + it no more.” + </p> + <p> + He touched her on the shoulder like a good comrade, half amused and half + penitent, and then, murmuring and smiling to himself, ran quietly out of + the room. + </p> + <p> + Perfetta burst into congratulations. “What courage you have!” she cried; + “and what good fortune! He is angry no longer! He has forgiven you!” + </p> + <p> + Neither Perfetta, nor Gino, nor Lilia herself knew the true reason of all + the misery that followed. To the end he thought that kindness and a little + attention would be enough to set things straight. His wife was a very + ordinary woman, and why should her ideas differ from his own? No one + realized that more than personalities were engaged; that the struggle was + national; that generations of ancestors, good, bad, or indifferent, forbad + the Latin man to be chivalrous to the northern woman, the northern woman + to forgive the Latin man. All this might have been foreseen: Mrs. Herriton + foresaw it from the first. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Lilia prided herself on her high personal standard, and Gino + simply wondered why she did not come round. He hated discomfort and + yearned for sympathy, but shrank from mentioning his difficulties in the + town in case they were put down to his own incompetence. Spiridione was + told, and replied in a philosophical but not very helpful letter. His + other great friend, whom he trusted more, was still serving in Eritrea or + some other desolate outpost. And, besides, what was the good of letters? + Friends cannot travel through the post. + </p> + <p> + Lilia, so similar to her husband in many ways, yearned for comfort and + sympathy too. The night he laughed at her she wildly took up paper and pen + and wrote page after page, analysing his character, enumerating his + iniquities, reporting whole conversations, tracing all the causes and the + growth of her misery. She was beside herself with passion, and though she + could hardly think or see, she suddenly attained to magnificence and + pathos which a practised stylist might have envied. It was written like a + diary, and not till its conclusion did she realize for whom it was meant. + </p> + <p> + “Irma, darling Irma, this letter is for you. I almost forgot I have a + daughter. It will make you unhappy, but I want you to know everything, and + you cannot learn things too soon. God bless you, my dearest, and save you. + God bless your miserable mother.” + </p> + <p> + Fortunately Mrs. Herriton was in when the letter arrived. She seized it + and opened it in her bedroom. Another moment, and Irma’s placid childhood + would have been destroyed for ever. + </p> + <p> + Lilia received a brief note from Harriet, again forbidding direct + communication between mother and daughter, and concluding with formal + condolences. It nearly drove her mad. + </p> + <p> + “Gently! gently!” said her husband. They were sitting together on the + loggia when the letter arrived. He often sat with her now, watching her + for hours, puzzled and anxious, but not contrite. + </p> + <p> + “It’s nothing.” She went in and tore it up, and then began to write—a + very short letter, whose gist was “Come and save me.” + </p> + <p> + It is not good to see your wife crying when she writes—especially if + you are conscious that, on the whole, your treatment of her has been + reasonable and kind. It is not good, when you accidentally look over her + shoulder, to see that she is writing to a man. Nor should she shake her + fist at you when she leaves the room, under the impression that you are + engaged in lighting a cigar and cannot see her. + </p> + <p> + Lilia went to the post herself. But in Italy so many things can be + arranged. The postman was a friend of Gino’s, and Mr. Kingcroft never got + his letter. + </p> + <p> + So she gave up hope, became ill, and all through the autumn lay in bed. + Gino was distracted. She knew why; he wanted a son. He could talk and + think of nothing else. His one desire was to become the father of a man + like himself, and it held him with a grip he only partially understood, + for it was the first great desire, the first great passion of his life. + Falling in love was a mere physical triviality, like warm sun or cool + water, beside this divine hope of immortality: “I continue.” He gave + candles to Santa Deodata, for he was always religious at a crisis, and + sometimes he went to her himself and prayed the crude uncouth demands of + the simple. Impetuously he summoned all his relatives back to bear him + company in his time of need, and Lilia saw strange faces flitting past her + in the darkened room. + </p> + <p> + “My love!” he would say, “my dearest Lilia! Be calm. I have never loved + any one but you.” + </p> + <p> + She, knowing everything, would only smile gently, too broken by suffering + to make sarcastic repartees. + </p> + <p> + Before the child was born he gave her a kiss, and said, “I have prayed all + night for a boy.” + </p> + <p> + Some strangely tender impulse moved her, and she said faintly, “You are a + boy yourself, Gino.” + </p> + <p> + He answered, “Then we shall be brothers.” + </p> + <p> + He lay outside the room with his head against the door like a dog. When + they came to tell him the glad news they found him half unconscious, and + his face was wet with tears. + </p> + <p> + As for Lilia, some one said to her, “It is a beautiful boy!” But she had + died in giving birth to him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter 5 + </h2> + <p> + At the time of Lilia’s death Philip Herriton was just twenty-four years of + age—indeed the news reached Sawston on his birthday. He was a tall, + weakly-built young man, whose clothes had to be judiciously padded on the + shoulders in order to make him pass muster. His face was plain rather than + not, and there was a curious mixture in it of good and bad. He had a fine + forehead and a good large nose, and both observation and sympathy were in + his eyes. But below the nose and eyes all was confusion, and those people + who believe that destiny resides in the mouth and chin shook their heads + when they looked at him. + </p> + <p> + Philip himself, as a boy, had been keenly conscious of these defects. + Sometimes when he had been bullied or hustled about at school he would + retire to his cubicle and examine his features in a looking-glass, and he + would sigh and say, “It is a weak face. I shall never carve a place for + myself in the world.” But as years went on he became either less + self-conscious or more self-satisfied. The world, he found, made a niche + for him as it did for every one. Decision of character might come later—or + he might have it without knowing. At all events he had got a sense of + beauty and a sense of humour, two most desirable gifts. The sense of + beauty developed first. It caused him at the age of twenty to wear + parti-coloured ties and a squashy hat, to be late for dinner on account of + the sunset, and to catch art from Burne-Jones to Praxiteles. At twenty-two + he went to Italy with some cousins, and there he absorbed into one + aesthetic whole olive-trees, blue sky, frescoes, country inns, saints, + peasants, mosaics, statues, beggars. He came back with the air of a + prophet who would either remodel Sawston or reject it. All the energies + and enthusiasms of a rather friendless life had passed into the + championship of beauty. + </p> + <p> + In a short time it was over. Nothing had happened either in Sawston or + within himself. He had shocked half-a-dozen people, squabbled with his + sister, and bickered with his mother. He concluded that nothing could + happen, not knowing that human love and love of truth sometimes conquer + where love of beauty fails. + </p> + <p> + A little disenchanted, a little tired, but aesthetically intact, he + resumed his placid life, relying more and more on his second gift, the + gift of humour. If he could not reform the world, he could at all events + laugh at it, thus attaining at least an intellectual superiority. + Laughter, he read and believed, was a sign of good moral health, and he + laughed on contentedly, till Lilia’s marriage toppled contentment down for + ever. Italy, the land of beauty, was ruined for him. She had no power to + change men and things who dwelt in her. She, too, could produce avarice, + brutality, stupidity—and, what was worse, vulgarity. It was on her + soil and through her influence that a silly woman had married a cad. He + hated Gino, the betrayer of his life’s ideal, and now that the sordid + tragedy had come, it filled him with pangs, not of sympathy, but of final + disillusion. + </p> + <p> + The disillusion was convenient for Mrs. Herriton, who saw a trying little + period ahead of her, and was glad to have her family united. + </p> + <p> + “Are we to go into mourning, do you think?” She always asked her + children’s advice where possible. + </p> + <p> + Harriet thought that they should. She had been detestable to Lilia while + she lived, but she always felt that the dead deserve attention and + sympathy. “After all she has suffered. That letter kept me awake for + nights. The whole thing is like one of those horrible modern plays where + no one is in ‘the right.’ But if we have mourning, it will mean telling + Irma.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course we must tell Irma!” said Philip. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said his mother. “But I think we can still not tell her about + Lilia’s marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think that. And she must have suspected something by now.” + </p> + <p> + “So one would have supposed. But she never cared for her mother, and + little girls of nine don’t reason clearly. She looks on it as a long + visit. And it is important, most important, that she should not receive a + shock. All a child’s life depends on the ideal it has of its parents. + Destroy that and everything goes—morals, behaviour, everything. + Absolute trust in some one else is the essence of education. That is why I + have been so careful about talking of poor Lilia before her.” + </p> + <p> + “But you forget this wretched baby. Waters and Adamson write that there is + a baby.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Theobald must be told. But she doesn’t count. She is breaking up + very quickly. She doesn’t even see Mr. Kingcroft now. He, thank goodness, + I hear, has at last consoled himself with someone else.” + </p> + <p> + “The child must know some time,” persisted Philip, who felt a little + displeased, though he could not tell with what. + </p> + <p> + “The later the better. Every moment she is developing.” + </p> + <p> + “I must say it seems rather hard luck, doesn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “On Irma? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “On us, perhaps. We have morals and behaviour also, and I don’t think this + continual secrecy improves them.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no need to twist the thing round to that,” said Harriet, rather + disturbed. + </p> + <p> + “Of course there isn’t,” said her mother. “Let’s keep to the main issue. + This baby’s quite beside the point. Mrs. Theobald will do nothing, and + it’s no concern of ours.” + </p> + <p> + “It will make a difference in the money, surely,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “No, dear; very little. Poor Charles provided for every kind of + contingency in his will. The money will come to you and Harriet, as Irma’s + guardians.” + </p> + <p> + “Good. Does the Italian get anything?” + </p> + <p> + “He will get all hers. But you know what that is.” + </p> + <p> + “Good. So those are our tactics—to tell no one about the baby, not + even Miss Abbott.” + </p> + <p> + “Most certainly this is the proper course,” said Mrs. Herriton, preferring + “course” to “tactics” for Harriet’s sake. “And why ever should we tell + Caroline?” + </p> + <p> + “She was so mixed up in the affair.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor silly creature. The less she hears about it the better she will be + pleased. I have come to be very sorry for Caroline. She, if any one, has + suffered and been penitent. She burst into tears when I told her a little, + only a little, of that terrible letter. I never saw such genuine remorse. + We must forgive her and forget. Let the dead bury their dead. We will not + trouble her with them.” + </p> + <p> + Philip saw that his mother was scarcely logical. But there was no + advantage in saying so. “Here beginneth the New Life, then. Do you + remember, mother, that was what we said when we saw Lilia off?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear; but now it is really a New Life, because we are all at accord. + Then you were still infatuated with Italy. It may be full of beautiful + pictures and churches, but we cannot judge a country by anything but its + men.” + </p> + <p> + “That is quite true,” he said sadly. And as the tactics were now settled, + he went out and took an aimless and solitary walk. + </p> + <p> + By the time he came back two important things had happened. Irma had been + told of her mother’s death, and Miss Abbott, who had called for a + subscription, had been told also. + </p> + <p> + Irma had wept loudly, had asked a few sensible questions and a good many + silly ones, and had been content with evasive answers. Fortunately the + school prize-giving was at hand, and that, together with the prospect of + new black clothes, kept her from meditating on the fact that Lilia, who + had been absent so long, would now be absent for ever. + </p> + <p> + “As for Caroline,” said Mrs. Herriton, “I was almost frightened. She broke + down utterly. She cried even when she left the house. I comforted her as + best I could, and I kissed her. It is something that the breach between + her and ourselves is now entirely healed.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she ask no questions—as to the nature of Lilia’s death, I + mean?” + </p> + <p> + “She did. But she has a mind of extraordinary delicacy. She saw that I was + reticent, and she did not press me. You see, Philip, I can say to you what + I could not say before Harriet. Her ideas are so crude. Really we do not + want it known in Sawston that there is a baby. All peace and comfort would + be lost if people came inquiring after it.” + </p> + <p> + His mother knew how to manage him. He agreed enthusiastically. And a few + days later, when he chanced to travel up to London with Miss Abbott, he + had all the time the pleasant thrill of one who is better informed. Their + last journey together had been from Monteriano back across Europe. It had + been a ghastly journey, and Philip, from the force of association, rather + expected something ghastly now. + </p> + <p> + He was surprised. Miss Abbott, between Sawston and Charing Cross, revealed + qualities which he had never guessed her to possess. Without being exactly + original, she did show a commendable intelligence, and though at times she + was gauche and even uncourtly, he felt that here was a person whom it + might be well to cultivate. + </p> + <p> + At first she annoyed him. They were talking, of course, about Lilia, when + she broke the thread of vague commiseration and said abruptly, “It is all + so strange as well as so tragic. And what I did was as strange as + anything.” + </p> + <p> + It was the first reference she had ever made to her contemptible + behaviour. “Never mind,” he said. “It’s all over now. Let the dead bury + their dead. It’s fallen out of our lives.” + </p> + <p> + “But that’s why I can talk about it and tell you everything I have always + wanted to. You thought me stupid and sentimental and wicked and mad, but + you never really knew how much I was to blame.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I never think about it now,” said Philip gently. He knew that her + nature was in the main generous and upright: it was unnecessary for her to + reveal her thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “The first evening we got to Monteriano,” she persisted, “Lilia went out + for a walk alone, saw that Italian in a picturesque position on a wall, + and fell in love. He was shabbily dressed, and she did not even know he + was the son of a dentist. I must tell you I was used to this sort of + thing. Once or twice before I had had to send people about their + business.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; we counted on you,” said Philip, with sudden sharpness. After all, + if she would reveal her thoughts, she must take the consequences. + </p> + <p> + “I know you did,” she retorted with equal sharpness. “Lilia saw him + several times again, and I knew I ought to interfere. I called her to my + bedroom one night. She was very frightened, for she knew what it was about + and how severe I could be. ‘Do you love this man?’ I asked. ‘Yes or no?’ + She said ‘Yes.’ And I said, ‘Why don’t you marry him if you think you’ll + be happy?’” + </p> + <p> + “Really—really,” exploded Philip, as exasperated as if the thing had + happened yesterday. “You knew Lilia all your life. Apart from everything + else—as if she could choose what could make her happy!” + </p> + <p> + “Had you ever let her choose?” she flashed out. “I’m afraid that’s rude,” + she added, trying to calm herself. + </p> + <p> + “Let us rather say unhappily expressed,” said Philip, who always adopted a + dry satirical manner when he was puzzled. + </p> + <p> + “I want to finish. Next morning I found Signor Carella and said the same + to him. He—well, he was willing. That’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “And the telegram?” He looked scornfully out of the window. + </p> + <p> + Hitherto her voice had been hard, possibly in self-accusation, possibly in + defiance. Now it became unmistakably sad. “Ah, the telegram! That was + wrong. Lilia there was more cowardly than I was. We should have told the + truth. It lost me my nerve, at all events. I came to the station meaning + to tell you everything then. But we had started with a lie, and I got + frightened. And at the end, when you left, I got frightened again and came + with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you really mean to stop?” + </p> + <p> + “For a time, at all events.” + </p> + <p> + “Would that have suited a newly married pair?” + </p> + <p> + “It would have suited them. Lilia needed me. And as for him—I can’t + help feeling I might have got influence over him.” + </p> + <p> + “I am ignorant of these matters,” said Philip; “but I should have thought + that would have increased the difficulty of the situation.” + </p> + <p> + The crisp remark was wasted on her. She looked hopelessly at the raw + over-built country, and said, “Well, I have explained.” + </p> + <p> + “But pardon me, Miss Abbott; of most of your conduct you have given a + description rather than an explanation.” + </p> + <p> + He had fairly caught her, and expected that she would gape and collapse. + To his surprise she answered with some spirit, “An explanation may bore + you, Mr. Herriton: it drags in other topics.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, never mind.” + </p> + <p> + “I hated Sawston, you see.” + </p> + <p> + He was delighted. “So did and do I. That’s splendid. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “I hated the idleness, the stupidity, the respectability, the petty + unselfishness.” + </p> + <p> + “Petty selfishness,” he corrected. Sawston psychology had long been his + specialty. + </p> + <p> + “Petty unselfishness,” she repeated. “I had got an idea that every one + here spent their lives in making little sacrifices for objects they didn’t + care for, to please people they didn’t love; that they never learnt to be + sincere—and, what’s as bad, never learnt how to enjoy themselves. + That’s what I thought—what I thought at Monteriano.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Miss Abbott,” he cried, “you should have told me this before! Think + it still! I agree with lots of it. Magnificent!” + </p> + <p> + “Now Lilia,” she went on, “though there were things about her I didn’t + like, had somehow kept the power of enjoying herself with sincerity. And + Gino, I thought, was splendid, and young, and strong not only in body, and + sincere as the day. If they wanted to marry, why shouldn’t they do so? Why + shouldn’t she break with the deadening life where she had got into a + groove, and would go on in it, getting more and more—worse than + unhappy—apathetic till she died? Of course I was wrong. She only + changed one groove for another—a worse groove. And as for him—well, + you know more about him than I do. I can never trust myself to judge + characters again. But I still feel he cannot have been quite bad when we + first met him. Lilia—that I should dare to say it!—must have + been cowardly. He was only a boy—just going to turn into something + fine, I thought—and she must have mismanaged him. So that is the one + time I have gone against what is proper, and there are the results. You + have an explanation now.” + </p> + <p> + “And much of it has been most interesting, though I don’t understand + everything. Did you never think of the disparity of their social + position?” + </p> + <p> + “We were mad—drunk with rebellion. We had no common-sense. As soon + as you came, you saw and foresaw everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t think that.” He was vaguely displeased at being credited with + common-sense. For a moment Miss Abbott had seemed to him more + unconventional than himself. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you see,” she concluded, “why I have troubled you with this long + story. Women—I heard you say the other day—are never at ease + till they tell their faults out loud. Lilia is dead and her husband gone + to the bad—all through me. You see, Mr. Herriton, it makes me + specially unhappy; it’s the only time I’ve ever gone into what my father + calls ‘real life’—and look what I’ve made of it! All that winter I + seemed to be waking up to beauty and splendour and I don’t know what; and + when the spring came, I wanted to fight against the things I hated—mediocrity + and dulness and spitefulness and society. I actually hated society for a + day or two at Monteriano. I didn’t see that all these things are + invincible, and that if we go against them they will break us to pieces. + Thank you for listening to so much nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I quite sympathize with what you say,” said Philip encouragingly; “it + isn’t nonsense, and a year or two ago I should have been saying it too. + But I feel differently now, and I hope that you also will change. Society + is invincible—to a certain degree. But your real life is your own, + and nothing can touch it. There is no power on earth that can prevent your + criticizing and despising mediocrity—nothing that can stop you + retreating into splendour and beauty—into the thoughts and beliefs + that make the real life—the real you.” + </p> + <p> + “I have never had that experience yet. Surely I and my life must be where + I live.” + </p> + <p> + Evidently she had the usual feminine incapacity for grasping philosophy. + But she had developed quite a personality, and he must see more of her. + “There is another great consolation against invincible mediocrity,” he + said—“the meeting a fellow-victim. I hope that this is only the + first of many discussions that we shall have together.” + </p> + <p> + She made a suitable reply. The train reached Charing Cross, and they + parted,—he to go to a matinee, she to buy petticoats for the + corpulent poor. Her thoughts wandered as she bought them: the gulf between + herself and Mr. Herriton, which she had always known to be great, now + seemed to her immeasurable. + </p> + <p> + These events and conversations took place at Christmas-time. The New Life + initiated by them lasted some seven months. Then a little incident—a + mere little vexatious incident—brought it to its close. + </p> + <p> + Irma collected picture post-cards, and Mrs. Herriton or Harriet always + glanced first at all that came, lest the child should get hold of + something vulgar. On this occasion the subject seemed perfectly + inoffensive—a lot of ruined factory chimneys—and Harriet was + about to hand it to her niece when her eye was caught by the words on the + margin. She gave a shriek and flung the card into the grate. Of course no + fire was alight in July, and Irma only had to run and pick it out again. + </p> + <p> + “How dare you!” screamed her aunt. “You wicked girl! Give it here!” + </p> + <p> + Unfortunately Mrs. Herriton was out of the room. Irma, who was not in awe + of Harriet, danced round the table, reading as she did so, “View of the + superb city of Monteriano—from your lital brother.” + </p> + <p> + Stupid Harriet caught her, boxed her ears, and tore the post-card into + fragments. Irma howled with pain, and began shouting indignantly, “Who is + my little brother? Why have I never heard of him before? Grandmamma! + Grandmamma! Who is my little brother? Who is my—” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Herriton swept into the room, saying, “Come with me, dear, and I will + tell you. Now it is time for you to know.” + </p> + <p> + Irma returned from the interview sobbing, though, as a matter of fact, she + had learnt very little. But that little took hold of her imagination. She + had promised secrecy—she knew not why. But what harm in talking of + the little brother to those who had heard of him already? + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Harriet!” she would say. “Uncle Phil! Grandmamma! What do you + suppose my little brother is doing now? Has he begun to play? Do Italian + babies talk sooner than us, or would he be an English baby born abroad? + Oh, I do long to see him, and be the first to teach him the Ten + Commandments and the Catechism.” + </p> + <p> + The last remark always made Harriet look grave. + </p> + <p> + “Really,” exclaimed Mrs. Herriton, “Irma is getting too tiresome. She + forgot poor Lilia soon enough.” + </p> + <p> + “A living brother is more to her than a dead mother,” said Philip + dreamily. “She can knit him socks.” + </p> + <p> + “I stopped that. She is bringing him in everywhere. It is most vexatious. + The other night she asked if she might include him in the people she + mentions specially in her prayers.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you say?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I allowed her,” she replied coldly. “She has a right to mention + any one she chooses. But I was annoyed with her this morning, and I fear + that I showed it.” + </p> + <p> + “And what happened this morning?” + </p> + <p> + “She asked if she could pray for her ‘new father’—for the Italian!” + </p> + <p> + “Did you let her?” + </p> + <p> + “I got up without saying anything.” + </p> + <p> + “You must have felt just as you did when I wanted to pray for the devil.” + </p> + <p> + “He is the devil,” cried Harriet. + </p> + <p> + “No, Harriet; he is too vulgar.” + </p> + <p> + “I will thank you not to scoff against religion!” was Harriet’s retort. + “Think of that poor baby. Irma is right to pray for him. What an entrance + into life for an English child!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear sister, I can reassure you. Firstly, the beastly baby is Italian. + Secondly, it was promptly christened at Santa Deodata’s, and a powerful + combination of saints watch over—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t, dear. And, Harriet, don’t be so serious—I mean not so + serious when you are with Irma. She will be worse than ever if she thinks + we have something to hide.” + </p> + <p> + Harriet’s conscience could be quite as tiresome as Philip’s + unconventionality. Mrs. Herriton soon made it easy for her daughter to go + for six weeks to the Tirol. Then she and Philip began to grapple with Irma + alone. + </p> + <p> + Just as they had got things a little quiet the beastly baby sent another + picture post-card—a comic one, not particularly proper. Irma + received it while they were out, and all the trouble began again. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot think,” said Mrs. Herriton, “what his motive is in sending + them.” + </p> + <p> + Two years before, Philip would have said that the motive was to give + pleasure. Now he, like his mother, tried to think of something sinister + and subtle. + </p> + <p> + “Do you suppose that he guesses the situation—how anxious we are to + hush the scandal up?” + </p> + <p> + “That is quite possible. He knows that Irma will worry us about the baby. + Perhaps he hopes that we shall adopt it to quiet her.” + </p> + <p> + “Hopeful indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “At the same time he has the chance of corrupting the child’s morals.” She + unlocked a drawer, took out the post-card, and regarded it gravely. “He + entreats her to send the baby one,” was her next remark. + </p> + <p> + “She might do it too!” + </p> + <p> + “I told her not to; but we must watch her carefully, without, of course, + appearing to be suspicious.” + </p> + <p> + Philip was getting to enjoy his mother’s diplomacy. He did not think of + his own morals and behaviour any more. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s to watch her at school, though? She may bubble out any moment.” + </p> + <p> + “We can but trust to our influence,” said Mrs. Herriton. + </p> + <p> + Irma did bubble out, that very day. She was proof against a single + post-card, not against two. A new little brother is a valuable sentimental + asset to a school-girl, and her school was then passing through an acute + phase of baby-worship. Happy the girl who had her quiver full of them, who + kissed them when she left home in the morning, who had the right to + extricate them from mail-carts in the interval, who dangled them at tea + ere they retired to rest! That one might sing the unwritten song of + Miriam, blessed above all school-girls, who was allowed to hide her baby + brother in a squashy place, where none but herself could find him! + </p> + <p> + How could Irma keep silent when pretentious girls spoke of baby cousins + and baby visitors—she who had a baby brother, who wrote her + post-cards through his dear papa? She had promised not to tell about him—she + knew not why—and she told. And one girl told another, and one girl + told her mother, and the thing was out. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is all very sad,” Mrs. Herriton kept saying. “My daughter-in-law + made a very unhappy marriage, as I dare say you know. I suppose that the + child will be educated in Italy. Possibly his grandmother may be doing + something, but I have not heard of it. I do not expect that she will have + him over. She disapproves of the father. It is altogether a painful + business for her.” + </p> + <p> + She was careful only to scold Irma for disobedience—that eighth + deadly sin, so convenient to parents and guardians. Harriet would have + plunged into needless explanations and abuse. The child was ashamed, and + talked about the baby less. The end of the school year was at hand, and + she hoped to get another prize. But she also had put her hand to the + wheel. + </p> + <p> + It was several days before they saw Miss Abbott. Mrs. Herriton had not + come across her much since the kiss of reconciliation, nor Philip since + the journey to London. She had, indeed, been rather a disappointment to + him. Her creditable display of originality had never been repeated: he + feared she was slipping back. Now she came about the Cottage Hospital—her + life was devoted to dull acts of charity—and though she got money + out of him and out of his mother, she still sat tight in her chair, + looking graver and more wooden than ever. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say you have heard,” said Mrs. Herriton, well knowing what the + matter was. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I have. I came to ask you; have any steps been taken?” + </p> + <p> + Philip was astonished. The question was impertinent in the extreme. He had + a regard for Miss Abbott, and regretted that she had been guilty of it. + </p> + <p> + “About the baby?” asked Mrs. Herriton pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “As far as I know, no steps. Mrs. Theobald may have decided on something, + but I have not heard of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I was meaning, had you decided on anything?” + </p> + <p> + “The child is no relation of ours,” said Philip. “It is therefore scarcely + for us to interfere.” + </p> + <p> + His mother glanced at him nervously. “Poor Lilia was almost a daughter to + me once. I know what Miss Abbott means. But now things have altered. Any + initiative would naturally come from Mrs. Theobald.” + </p> + <p> + “But does not Mrs. Theobald always take any initiative from you?” asked + Miss Abbott. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Herriton could not help colouring. “I sometimes have given her advice + in the past. I should not presume to do so now.” + </p> + <p> + “Then is nothing to be done for the child at all?” + </p> + <p> + “It is extraordinarily good of you to take this unexpected interest,” said + Philip. + </p> + <p> + “The child came into the world through my negligence,” replied Miss + Abbott. “It is natural I should take an interest in it.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Caroline,” said Mrs. Herriton, “you must not brood over the + thing. Let bygones be bygones. The child should worry you even less than + it worries us. We never even mention it. It belongs to another world.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott got up without replying and turned to go. Her extreme gravity + made Mrs. Herriton uneasy. “Of course,” she added, “if Mrs. Theobald + decides on any plan that seems at all practicable—I must say I don’t + see any such—I shall ask if I may join her in it, for Irma’s sake, + and share in any possible expenses.” + </p> + <p> + “Please would you let me know if she decides on anything. I should like to + join as well.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, how you throw about your money! We would never allow it.” + </p> + <p> + “And if she decides on nothing, please also let me know. Let me know in + any case.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Herriton made a point of kissing her. + </p> + <p> + “Is the young person mad?” burst out Philip as soon as she had departed. + “Never in my life have I seen such colossal impertinence. She ought to be + well smacked, and sent back to Sunday-school.” + </p> + <p> + His mother said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “But don’t you see—she is practically threatening us? You can’t put + her off with Mrs. Theobald; she knows as well as we do that she is a + nonentity. If we don’t do anything she’s going to raise a scandal—that + we neglect our relatives, &c., which is, of course, a lie. Still + she’ll say it. Oh, dear, sweet, sober Caroline Abbott has a screw loose! + We knew it at Monteriano. I had my suspicions last year one day in the + train; and here it is again. The young person is mad.” + </p> + <p> + She still said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go round at once and give it her well? I’d really enjoy it.” + </p> + <p> + In a low, serious voice—such a voice as she had not used to him for + months—Mrs. Herriton said, “Caroline has been extremely impertinent. + Yet there may be something in what she says after all. Ought the child to + grow up in that place—and with that father?” + </p> + <p> + Philip started and shuddered. He saw that his mother was not sincere. Her + insincerity to others had amused him, but it was disheartening when used + against himself. + </p> + <p> + “Let us admit frankly,” she continued, “that after all we may have + responsibilities.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand you, Mother. You are turning absolutely round. What + are you up to?” + </p> + <p> + In one moment an impenetrable barrier had been erected between them. They + were no longer in smiling confidence. Mrs. Herriton was off on tactics of + her own—tactics which might be beyond or beneath him. + </p> + <p> + His remark offended her. “Up to? I am wondering whether I ought not to + adopt the child. Is that sufficiently plain?” + </p> + <p> + “And this is the result of half-a-dozen idiocies of Miss Abbott?” + </p> + <p> + “It is. I repeat, she has been extremely impertinent. None the less she is + showing me my duty. If I can rescue poor Lilia’s baby from that horrible + man, who will bring it up either as Papist or infidel—who will + certainly bring it up to be vicious—I shall do it.” + </p> + <p> + “You talk like Harriet.” + </p> + <p> + “And why not?” said she, flushing at what she knew to be an insult. “Say, + if you choose, that I talk like Irma. That child has seen the thing more + clearly than any of us. She longs for her little brother. She shall have + him. I don’t care if I am impulsive.” + </p> + <p> + He was sure that she was not impulsive, but did not dare to say so. Her + ability frightened him. All his life he had been her puppet. She let him + worship Italy, and reform Sawston—just as she had let Harriet be Low + Church. She had let him talk as much as he liked. But when she wanted a + thing she always got it. + </p> + <p> + And though she was frightening him, she did not inspire him with + reverence. Her life, he saw, was without meaning. To what purpose was her + diplomacy, her insincerity, her continued repression of vigour? Did they + make any one better or happier? Did they even bring happiness to herself? + Harriet with her gloomy peevish creed, Lilia with her clutches after + pleasure, were after all more divine than this well-ordered, active, + useless machine. + </p> + <p> + Now that his mother had wounded his vanity he could criticize her thus. + But he could not rebel. To the end of his days he could probably go on + doing what she wanted. He watched with a cold interest the duel between + her and Miss Abbott. Mrs. Herriton’s policy only appeared gradually. It + was to prevent Miss Abbott interfering with the child at all costs, and if + possible to prevent her at a small cost. Pride was the only solid element + in her disposition. She could not bear to seem less charitable than + others. + </p> + <p> + “I am planning what can be done,” she would tell people, “and that kind + Caroline Abbott is helping me. It is no business of either of us, but we + are getting to feel that the baby must not be left entirely to that + horrible man. It would be unfair to little Irma; after all, he is her + half-brother. No, we have come to nothing definite.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott was equally civil, but not to be appeased by good intentions. + The child’s welfare was a sacred duty to her, not a matter of pride or + even of sentiment. By it alone, she felt, could she undo a little of the + evil that she had permitted to come into the world. To her imagination + Monteriano had become a magic city of vice, beneath whose towers no person + could grow up happy or pure. Sawston, with its semi-detached houses and + snobby schools, its book teas and bazaars, was certainly petty and dull; + at times she found it even contemptible. But it was not a place of sin, + and at Sawston, either with the Herritons or with herself, the baby should + grow up. + </p> + <p> + As soon as it was inevitable, Mrs. Herriton wrote a letter for Waters and + Adamson to send to Gino—the oddest letter; Philip saw a copy of it + afterwards. Its ostensible purpose was to complain of the picture + postcards. Right at the end, in a few nonchalant sentences, she offered to + adopt the child, provided that Gino would undertake never to come near it, + and would surrender some of Lilia’s money for its education. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of it?” she asked her son. “It would not do to let him + know that we are anxious for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly he will never suppose that.” + </p> + <p> + “But what effect will the letter have on him?” + </p> + <p> + “When he gets it he will do a sum. If it is less expensive in the long run + to part with a little money and to be clear of the baby, he will part with + it. If he would lose, he will adopt the tone of the loving father.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear, you’re shockingly cynical.” After a pause she added, “How would the + sum work out?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, I’m sure. But if you wanted to ensure the baby being posted + by return, you should have sent a little sum to HIM. Oh, I’m not cynical—at + least I only go by what I know of him. But I am weary of the whole show. + Weary of Italy. Weary, weary, weary. Sawston’s a kind, pitiful place, + isn’t it? I will go walk in it and seek comfort.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled as he spoke, for the sake of not appearing serious. When he had + left her she began to smile also. + </p> + <p> + It was to the Abbotts’ that he walked. Mr. Abbott offered him tea, and + Caroline, who was keeping up her Italian in the next room, came in to pour + it out. He told them that his mother had written to Signor Carella, and + they both uttered fervent wishes for her success. + </p> + <p> + “Very fine of Mrs. Herriton, very fine indeed,” said Mr. Abbott, who, like + every one else, knew nothing of his daughter’s exasperating behaviour. + “I’m afraid it will mean a lot of expense. She will get nothing out of + Italy without paying.” + </p> + <p> + “There are sure to be incidental expenses,” said Philip cautiously. Then + he turned to Miss Abbott and said, “Do you suppose we shall have + difficulty with the man?” + </p> + <p> + “It depends,” she replied, with equal caution. + </p> + <p> + “From what you saw of him, should you conclude that he would make an + affectionate parent?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what do you conclude from that?” + </p> + <p> + “That he is a thoroughly wicked man.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at Rodrigo + Borgia, for example.” + </p> + <p> + “I have also seen examples of that in my district.” + </p> + <p> + With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up + her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, + but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure + cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was + deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had + she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, + that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at + another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. + Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, + whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. + </p> + <p> + “She fences well,” he said to his mother afterwards. + </p> + <p> + “What had you to fence about?” she said suavely. Her son might know her + tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him + that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and + that Miss Abbott was her valued ally. + </p> + <p> + And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of + triumph. “Read the letters,” she said. “We have failed.” + </p> + <p> + Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious + English translation, where “Preghiatissima Signora” was rendered as “Most + Praiseworthy Madam,” and every delicate compliment and superlative—superlatives + are delicate in Italian—would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip + forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he + had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these + lumbering phrases; he also had sent “sincere auguries”; he also had + addressed letters—who writes at home?—from the Caffe + Garibaldi. “I didn’t know I was still such an ass,” he thought. “Why can’t + I realize that it’s merely tricks of expression? A bounder’s a bounder, + whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it disheartening?” said his mother. + </p> + <p> + He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal + heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. + As for the picture post-cards, it displeased him greatly that they had + been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her + notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which + Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him? + </p> + <p> + “The sum works out against us,” said Philip. “Or perhaps he is putting up + the price.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. “It is not that. For some perverse + reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. + She will be equally distressed.” + </p> + <p> + She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face + was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “The impudence!” she shouted. “The cursed impudence! Oh, I’m swearing. I + don’t care. That beastly woman—how dare she interfere—I’ll—Philip, + dear, I’m sorry. It’s no good. You must go.” + </p> + <p> + “Go where? Do sit down. What’s happened?” This outburst of violence from + his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that + it was in her. + </p> + <p> + “She won’t accept—won’t accept the letter as final. You must go to + Monteriano!” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t!” he shouted back. “I’ve been and I’ve failed. I’ll never see the + place again. I hate Italy.” + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t go, she will.” + </p> + <p> + “Abbott?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said + it was ‘too late!’ Too late! The child, if you please—Irma’s brother—to + live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at our very gates, + to go to school like a gentleman, she paying. Oh, you’re a man! It doesn’t + matter for you. You can laugh. But I know what people say; and that woman + goes to Italy this evening.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to be inspired. “Then let her go! Let her mess with Italy by + herself. She’ll come to grief somehow. Italy’s too dangerous, too—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop that nonsense, Philip. I will not be disgraced by her. I WILL have + the child. Pay all we’ve got for it. I will have it.” + </p> + <p> + “Let her go to Italy!” he cried. “Let her meddle with what she doesn’t + understand! Look at this letter! The man who wrote it will marry her, or + murder her, or do for her somehow. He’s a bounder, but he’s not an English + bounder. He’s mysterious and terrible. He’s got a country behind him + that’s upset people from the beginning of the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Harriet!” exclaimed his mother. “Harriet shall go too. Harriet, now, will + be invaluable!” And before Philip had stopped talking nonsense, she had + planned the whole thing and was looking out the trains. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter 6 + </h2> + <p> + Italy, Philip had always maintained, is only her true self in the height + of the summer, when the tourists have left her, and her soul awakes under + the beams of a vertical sun. He now had every opportunity of seeing her at + her best, for it was nearly the middle of August before he went out to + meet Harriet in the Tirol. + </p> + <p> + He found his sister in a dense cloud five thousand feet above the sea, + chilled to the bone, overfed, bored, and not at all unwilling to be + fetched away. + </p> + <p> + “It upsets one’s plans terribly,” she remarked, as she squeezed out her + sponges, “but obviously it is my duty.” + </p> + <p> + “Did mother explain it all to you?” asked Philip. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed! Mother has written me a really beautiful letter. She + describes how it was that she gradually got to feel that we must rescue + the poor baby from its terrible surroundings, how she has tried by letter, + and it is no good—nothing but insincere compliments and hypocrisy + came back. Then she says, ‘There is nothing like personal influence; you + and Philip will succeed where I have failed.’ She says, too, that Caroline + Abbott has been wonderful.” + </p> + <p> + Philip assented. + </p> + <p> + “Caroline feels it as keenly almost as us. That is because she knows the + man. Oh, he must be loathsome! Goodness me! I’ve forgotten to pack the + ammonia!... It has been a terrible lesson for Caroline, but I fancy it is + her turning-point. I can’t help liking to think that out of all this evil + good will come.” + </p> + <p> + Philip saw no prospect of good, nor of beauty either. But the expedition + promised to be highly comic. He was not averse to it any longer; he was + simply indifferent to all in it except the humours. These would be + wonderful. Harriet, worked by her mother; Mrs. Herriton, worked by Miss + Abbott; Gino, worked by a cheque—what better entertainment could he + desire? There was nothing to distract him this time; his sentimentality + had died, so had his anxiety for the family honour. He might be a puppet’s + puppet, but he knew exactly the disposition of the strings. + </p> + <p> + They travelled for thirteen hours down-hill, whilst the streams broadened + and the mountains shrank, and the vegetation changed, and the people + ceased being ugly and drinking beer, and began instead to drink wine and + to be beautiful. And the train which had picked them at sunrise out of a + waste of glaciers and hotels was waltzing at sunset round the walls of + Verona. + </p> + <p> + “Absurd nonsense they talk about the heat,” said Philip, as they drove + from the station. “Supposing we were here for pleasure, what could be more + pleasurable than this?” + </p> + <p> + “Did you hear, though, they are remarking on the cold?” said Harriet + nervously. “I should never have thought it cold.” + </p> + <p> + And on the second day the heat struck them, like a hand laid over the + mouth, just as they were walking to see the tomb of Juliet. From that + moment everything went wrong. They fled from Verona. Harriet’s sketch-book + was stolen, and the bottle of ammonia in her trunk burst over her + prayer-book, so that purple patches appeared on all her clothes. Then, as + she was going through Mantua at four in the morning, Philip made her look + out of the window because it was Virgil’s birthplace, and a smut flew in + her eye, and Harriet with a smut in her eye was notorious. At Bologna they + stopped twenty-four hours to rest. It was a FESTA, and children blew + bladder whistles night and day. “What a religion!” said Harriet. The hotel + smelt, two puppies were asleep on her bed, and her bedroom window looked + into a belfry, which saluted her slumbering form every quarter of an hour. + Philip left his walking-stick, his socks, and the Baedeker at Bologna; she + only left her sponge-bag. Next day they crossed the Apennines with a + train-sick child and a hot lady, who told them that never, never before + had she sweated so profusely. “Foreigners are a filthy nation,” said + Harriet. “I don’t care if there are tunnels; open the windows.” He obeyed, + and she got another smut in her eye. Nor did Florence improve matters. + Eating, walking, even a cross word would bathe them both in boiling water. + Philip, who was slighter of build, and less conscientious, suffered less. + But Harriet had never been to Florence, and between the hours of eight and + eleven she crawled like a wounded creature through the streets, and + swooned before various masterpieces of art. It was an irritable couple who + took tickets to Monteriano. + </p> + <p> + “Singles or returns?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “A single for me,” said Harriet peevishly; “I shall never get back alive.” + </p> + <p> + “Sweet creature!” said her brother, suddenly breaking down. “How helpful + you will be when we come to Signor Carella!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you suppose,” said Harriet, standing still among a whirl of porters—“do + you suppose I am going to enter that man’s house?” + </p> + <p> + “Then what have you come for, pray? For ornament?” + </p> + <p> + “To see that you do your duty.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thanks!” + </p> + <p> + “So mother told me. For goodness sake get the tickets; here comes that hot + woman again! She has the impudence to bow.” + </p> + <p> + “Mother told you, did she?” said Philip wrathfully, as he went to struggle + for tickets at a slit so narrow that they were handed to him edgeways. + Italy was beastly, and Florence station is the centre of beastly Italy. + But he had a strange feeling that he was to blame for it all; that a + little influx into him of virtue would make the whole land not beastly but + amusing. For there was enchantment, he was sure of that; solid + enchantment, which lay behind the porters and the screaming and the dust. + He could see it in the terrific blue sky beneath which they travelled, in + the whitened plain which gripped life tighter than a frost, in the + exhausted reaches of the Arno, in the ruins of brown castles which stood + quivering upon the hills. He could see it, though his head ached and his + skin was twitching, though he was here as a puppet, and though his sister + knew how he was here. There was nothing pleasant in that journey to + Monteriano station. But nothing—not even the discomfort—was + commonplace. + </p> + <p> + “But do people live inside?” asked Harriet. They had exchanged + railway-carriage for the legno, and the legno had emerged from the + withered trees, and had revealed to them their destination. Philip, to be + annoying, answered “No.” + </p> + <p> + “What do they do there?” continued Harriet, with a frown. + </p> + <p> + “There is a caffe. A prison. A theatre. A church. Walls. A view.” + </p> + <p> + “Not for me, thank you,” said Harriet, after a weighty pause. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody asked you, Miss, you see. Now Lilia was asked by such a nice young + gentleman, with curls all over his forehead, and teeth just as white as + father makes them.” Then his manner changed. “But, Harriet, do you see + nothing wonderful or attractive in that place—nothing at all?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at all. It’s frightful.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it is. But it’s old—awfully old.” + </p> + <p> + “Beauty is the only test,” said Harriet. “At least so you told me when I + sketched old buildings—for the sake, I suppose, of making yourself + unpleasant.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m perfectly right. But at the same time—I don’t know—so + many things have happened here—people have lived so hard and so + splendidly—I can’t explain.” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t think you could. It doesn’t seem the best moment to begin + your Italy mania. I thought you were cured of it by now. Instead, will you + kindly tell me what you are going to do when you arrive. I do beg you will + not be taken unawares this time.” + </p> + <p> + “First, Harriet, I shall settle you at the Stella d’Italia, in the comfort + that befits your sex and disposition. Then I shall make myself some tea. + After tea I shall take a book into Santa Deodata’s, and read there. It is + always fresh and cool.” + </p> + <p> + The martyred Harriet exclaimed, “I’m not clever, Philip. I don’t go in for + it, as you know. But I know what’s rude. And I know what’s wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Meaning—?” + </p> + <p> + “You!” she shouted, bouncing on the cushions of the legno and startling + all the fleas. “What’s the good of cleverness if a man’s murdered a + woman?” + </p> + <p> + “Harriet, I am hot. To whom do you refer?” + </p> + <p> + “He. Her. If you don’t look out he’ll murder you. I wish he would.” + </p> + <p> + “Tut tut, tutlet! You’d find a corpse extraordinarily inconvenient.” Then + he tried to be less aggravating. “I heartily dislike the fellow, but we + know he didn’t murder her. In that letter, though she said a lot, she + never said he was physically cruel.” + </p> + <p> + “He has murdered her. The things he did—things one can’t even + mention—” + </p> + <p> + “Things which one must mention if one’s to talk at all. And things which + one must keep in their proper place. Because he was unfaithful to his + wife, it doesn’t follow that in every way he’s absolutely vile.” He looked + at the city. It seemed to approve his remark. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the supreme test. The man who is unchivalrous to a woman—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, stow it! Take it to the Back Kitchen. It’s no more a supreme test + than anything else. The Italians never were chivalrous from the first. If + you condemn him for that, you’ll condemn the whole lot.” + </p> + <p> + “I condemn the whole lot.” + </p> + <p> + “And the French as well?” + </p> + <p> + “And the French as well.” + </p> + <p> + “Things aren’t so jolly easy,” said Philip, more to himself than to her. + </p> + <p> + But for Harriet things were easy, though not jolly, and she turned upon + her brother yet again. “What about the baby, pray? You’ve said a lot of + smart things and whittled away morality and religion and I don’t know + what; but what about the baby? You think me a fool, but I’ve been noticing + you all today, and you haven’t mentioned the baby once. You haven’t + thought about it, even. You don’t care. Philip! I shall not speak to you. + You are intolerable.” + </p> + <p> + She kept her promise, and never opened her lips all the rest of the way. + But her eyes glowed with anger and resolution. For she was a straight, + brave woman, as well as a peevish one. + </p> + <p> + Philip acknowledged her reproof to be true. He did not care about the baby + one straw. Nevertheless, he meant to do his duty, and he was fairly + confident of success. If Gino would have sold his wife for a thousand + lire, for how much less would he not sell his child? It was just a + commercial transaction. Why should it interfere with other things? His + eyes were fixed on the towers again, just as they had been fixed when he + drove with Miss Abbott. But this time his thoughts were pleasanter, for he + had no such grave business on his mind. It was in the spirit of the + cultivated tourist that he approached his destination. + </p> + <p> + One of the towers, rough as any other, was topped by a cross—the + tower of the Collegiate Church of Santa Deodata. She was a holy maiden of + the Dark Ages, the city’s patron saint, and sweetness and barbarity mingle + strangely in her story. So holy was she that all her life she lay upon her + back in the house of her mother, refusing to eat, refusing to play, + refusing to work. The devil, envious of such sanctity, tempted her in + various ways. He dangled grapes above her, he showed her fascinating toys, + he pushed soft pillows beneath her aching head. When all proved vain he + tripped up the mother and flung her downstairs before her very eyes. But + so holy was the saint that she never picked her mother up, but lay upon + her back through all, and thus assured her throne in Paradise. She was + only fifteen when she died, which shows how much is within the reach of + any school-girl. Those who think her life was unpractical need only think + of the victories upon Poggibonsi, San Gemignano, Volterra, Siena itself—all + gained through the invocation of her name; they need only look at the + church which rose over her grave. The grand schemes for a marble facade + were never carried out, and it is brown unfinished stone until this day. + But for the inside Giotto was summoned to decorate the walls of the nave. + Giotto came—that is to say, he did not come, German research having + decisively proved—but at all events the nave is covered with + frescoes, and so are two chapels in the left transept, and the arch into + the choir, and there are scraps in the choir itself. There the decoration + stopped, till in the full spring of the Renaissance a great painter came + to pay a few weeks’ visit to his friend the Lord of Monteriano. In the + intervals between the banquets and the discussions on Latin etymology and + the dancing, he would stroll over to the church, and there in the fifth + chapel to the right he has painted two frescoes of the death and burial of + Santa Deodata. That is why Baedeker gives the place a star. + </p> + <p> + Santa Deodata was better company than Harriet, and she kept Philip in a + pleasant dream until the legno drew up at the hotel. Every one there was + asleep, for it was still the hour when only idiots were moving. There were + not even any beggars about. The cabman put their bags down in the passage—they + had left heavy luggage at the station—and strolled about till he + came on the landlady’s room and woke her, and sent her to them. + </p> + <p> + Then Harriet pronounced the monosyllable “Go!” + </p> + <p> + “Go where?” asked Philip, bowing to the landlady, who was swimming down + the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “To the Italian. Go.” + </p> + <p> + “Buona sera, signora padrona. Si ritorna volontieri a Monteriano!” (Don’t + be a goose. I’m not going now. You’re in the way, too.) “Vorrei due camere—” + </p> + <p> + “Go. This instant. Now. I’ll stand it no longer. Go!” + </p> + <p> + “I’m damned if I’ll go. I want my tea.” + </p> + <p> + “Swear if you like!” she cried. “Blaspheme! Abuse me! But understand, I’m + in earnest.” + </p> + <p> + “Harriet, don’t act. Or act better.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ve come here to get the baby back, and for nothing else. I’ll not have + this levity and slackness, and talk about pictures and churches. Think of + mother; did she send you out for THEM?” + </p> + <p> + “Think of mother and don’t straddle across the stairs. Let the cabman and + the landlady come down, and let me go up and choose rooms.” + </p> + <p> + “I shan’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Harriet, are you mad?” + </p> + <p> + “If you like. But you will not come up till you have seen the Italian.” + </p> + <p> + “La signorina si sente male,” said Philip, “C’ e il sole.” + </p> + <p> + “Poveretta!” cried the landlady and the cabman. + </p> + <p> + “Leave me alone!” said Harriet, snarling round at them. “I don’t care for + the lot of you. I’m English, and neither you’ll come down nor he up till + he goes for the baby.” + </p> + <p> + “La prego-piano-piano-c e un’ altra signorina che dorme—” + </p> + <p> + “We shall probably be arrested for brawling, Harriet. Have you the very + slightest sense of the ludicrous?” + </p> + <p> + Harriet had not; that was why she could be so powerful. She had concocted + this scene in the carriage, and nothing should baulk her of it. To the + abuse in front and the coaxing behind she was equally indifferent. How + long she would have stood like a glorified Horatius, keeping the staircase + at both ends, was never to be known. For the young lady, whose sleep they + were disturbing, awoke and opened her bedroom door, and came out on to the + landing. She was Miss Abbott. + </p> + <p> + Philip’s first coherent feeling was one of indignation. To be run by his + mother and hectored by his sister was as much as he could stand. The + intervention of a third female drove him suddenly beyond politeness. He + was about to say exactly what he thought about the thing from beginning to + end. But before he could do so Harriet also had seen Miss Abbott. She + uttered a shrill cry of joy. + </p> + <p> + “You, Caroline, here of all people!” And in spite of the heat she darted + up the stairs and imprinted an affectionate kiss upon her friend. + </p> + <p> + Philip had an inspiration. “You will have a lot to tell Miss Abbott, + Harriet, and she may have as much to tell you. So I’ll pay my call on + Signor Carella, as you suggested, and see how things stand.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott uttered some noise of greeting or alarm. He did not reply to + it or approach nearer to her. Without even paying the cabman, he escaped + into the street. + </p> + <p> + “Tear each other’s eyes out!” he cried, gesticulating at the facade of the + hotel. “Give it to her, Harriet! Teach her to leave us alone. Give it to + her, Caroline! Teach her to be grateful to you. Go it, ladies; go it!” + </p> + <p> + Such people as observed him were interested, but did not conclude that he + was mad. This aftermath of conversation is not unknown in Italy. + </p> + <p> + He tried to think how amusing it was; but it would not do—Miss + Abbott’s presence affected him too personally. Either she suspected him of + dishonesty, or else she was being dishonest herself. He preferred to + suppose the latter. Perhaps she had seen Gino, and they had prepared some + elaborate mortification for the Herritons. Perhaps Gino had sold the baby + cheap to her for a joke: it was just the kind of joke that would appeal to + him. Philip still remembered the laughter that had greeted his fruitless + journey, and the uncouth push that had toppled him on to the bed. And + whatever it might mean, Miss Abbott’s presence spoilt the comedy: she + would do nothing funny. + </p> + <p> + During this short meditation he had walked through the city, and was out + on the other side. “Where does Signor Carella live?” he asked the men at + the Dogana. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll show you,” said a little girl, springing out of the ground as + Italian children will. + </p> + <p> + “She will show you,” said the Dogana men, nodding reassuringly. “Follow + her always, always, and you will come to no harm. She is a trustworthy + guide. She is my + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + daughter.” + cousin.” + sister.” + </pre> + <p> + Philip knew these relatives well: they ramify, if need be, all over the + peninsula. + </p> + <p> + “Do you chance to know whether Signor Carella is in?” he asked her. + </p> + <p> + She had just seen him go in. Philip nodded. He was looking forward to the + interview this time: it would be an intellectual duet with a man of no + great intellect. What was Miss Abbott up to? That was one of the things he + was going to discover. While she had it out with Harriet, he would have it + out with Gino. He followed the Dogana’s relative softly, like a + diplomatist. + </p> + <p> + He did not follow her long, for this was the Volterra gate, and the house + was exactly opposite to it. In half a minute they had scrambled down the + mule-track and reached the only practicable entrance. Philip laughed, + partly at the thought of Lilia in such a building, partly in the + confidence of victory. Meanwhile the Dogana’s relative lifted up her voice + and gave a shout. + </p> + <p> + For an impressive interval there was no reply. Then the figure of a woman + appeared high up on the loggia. + </p> + <p> + “That is Perfetta,” said the girl. + </p> + <p> + “I want to see Signor Carella,” cried Philip. + </p> + <p> + “Out!” + </p> + <p> + “Out,” echoed the girl complacently. + </p> + <p> + “Why on earth did you say he was in?” He could have strangled her for + temper. He had been just ripe for an interview—just the right + combination of indignation and acuteness: blood hot, brain cool. But + nothing ever did go right in Monteriano. “When will he be back?” he called + to Perfetta. It really was too bad. + </p> + <p> + She did not know. He was away on business. He might be back this evening, + he might not. He had gone to Poggibonsi. + </p> + <p> + At the sound of this word the little girl put her fingers to her nose and + swept them at the plain. She sang as she did so, even as her foremothers + had sung seven hundred years back— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Poggibonizzi, fatti in la, + Che Monteriano si fa citta! +</pre> + <p> + Then she asked Philip for a halfpenny. A German lady, friendly to the + Past, had given her one that very spring. + </p> + <p> + “I shall have to leave a message,” he called. + </p> + <p> + “Now Perfetta has gone for her basket,” said the little girl. “When she + returns she will lower it—so. Then you will put your card into it. + Then she will raise it—thus. By this means—” + </p> + <p> + When Perfetta returned, Philip remembered to ask after the baby. It took + longer to find than the basket, and he stood perspiring in the evening + sun, trying to avoid the smell of the drains and to prevent the little + girl from singing against Poggibonsi. The olive-trees beside him were + draped with the weekly—or more probably the monthly—wash. What + a frightful spotty blouse! He could not think where he had seen it. Then + he remembered that it was Lilia’s. She had brought it “to hack about in” + at Sawston, and had taken it to Italy because “in Italy anything does.” He + had rebuked her for the sentiment. + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful as an angel!” bellowed Perfetta, holding out something which + must be Lilia’s baby. “But who am I addressing?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you—here is my card.” He had written on it a civil request to + Gino for an interview next morning. But before he placed it in the basket + and revealed his identity, he wished to find something out. “Has a young + lady happened to call here lately—a young English lady?” + </p> + <p> + Perfetta begged his pardon: she was a little deaf. + </p> + <p> + “A young lady—pale, large, tall.” + </p> + <p> + She did not quite catch. + </p> + <p> + “A YOUNG LADY!” + </p> + <p> + “Perfetta is deaf when she chooses,” said the Dogana’s relative. At last + Philip admitted the peculiarity and strode away. He paid off the + detestable child at the Volterra gate. She got two nickel pieces and was + not pleased, partly because it was too much, partly because he did not + look pleased when he gave it to her. He caught her fathers and cousins + winking at each other as he walked past them. Monteriano seemed in one + conspiracy to make him look a fool. He felt tired and anxious and muddled, + and not sure of anything except that his temper was lost. In this mood he + returned to the Stella d’Italia, and there, as he was ascending the + stairs, Miss Abbott popped out of the dining-room on the first floor and + beckoned to him mysteriously. + </p> + <p> + “I was going to make myself some tea,” he said, with his hand still on the + banisters. + </p> + <p> + “I should be grateful—” + </p> + <p> + So he followed her into the dining-room and shut the door. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” she began, “Harriet knows nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “No more do I. He was out.” + </p> + <p> + “But what’s that to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + He presented her with an unpleasant smile. She fenced well, as he had + noticed before. “He was out. You find me as ignorant as you have left + Harriet.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean? Please, please Mr. Herriton, don’t be mysterious: there + isn’t the time. Any moment Harriet may be down, and we shan’t have decided + how to behave to her. Sawston was different: we had to keep up + appearances. But here we must speak out, and I think I can trust you to do + it. Otherwise we’ll never start clear.” + </p> + <p> + “Pray let us start clear,” said Philip, pacing up and down the room. + “Permit me to begin by asking you a question. In which capacity have you + come to Monteriano—spy or traitor?” + </p> + <p> + “Spy!” she answered, without a moment’s hesitation. She was standing by + the little Gothic window as she spoke—the hotel had been a palace + once—and with her finger she was following the curves of the + moulding as if they might feel beautiful and strange. “Spy,” she repeated, + for Philip was bewildered at learning her guilt so easily, and could not + answer a word. “Your mother has behaved dishonourably all through. She + never wanted the child; no harm in that; but she is too proud to let it + come to me. She has done all she could to wreck things; she did not tell + you everything; she has told Harriet nothing at all; she has lied or acted + lies everywhere. I cannot trust your mother. So I have come here alone—all + across Europe; no one knows it; my father thinks I am in Normandy—to + spy on Mrs. Herriton. Don’t let’s argue!” for he had begun, almost + mechanically, to rebuke her for impertinence. “If you are here to get the + child, I will help you; if you are here to fail, I shall get it instead of + you.” + </p> + <p> + “It is hopeless to expect you to believe me,” he stammered. “But I can + assert that we are here to get the child, even if it costs us all we’ve + got. My mother has fixed no money limit whatever. I am here to carry out + her instructions. I think that you will approve of them, as you have + practically dictated them. I do not approve of them. They are absurd.” + </p> + <p> + She nodded carelessly. She did not mind what he said. All she wanted was + to get the baby out of Monteriano. + </p> + <p> + “Harriet also carries out your instructions,” he continued. “She, however, + approves of them, and does not know that they proceed from you. I think, + Miss Abbott, you had better take entire charge of the rescue party. I have + asked for an interview with Signor Carella tomorrow morning. Do you + acquiesce?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded again. + </p> + <p> + “Might I ask for details of your interview with him? They might be helpful + to me.” + </p> + <p> + He had spoken at random. To his delight she suddenly collapsed. Her hand + fell from the window. Her face was red with more than the reflection of + evening. + </p> + <p> + “My interview—how do you know of it?” + </p> + <p> + “From Perfetta, if it interests you.” + </p> + <p> + “Who ever is Perfetta?” + </p> + <p> + “The woman who must have let you in.” + </p> + <p> + “In where?” + </p> + <p> + “Into Signor Carella’s house.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Herriton!” she exclaimed. “How could you believe her? Do you suppose + that I would have entered that man’s house, knowing about him all that I + do? I think you have very odd ideas of what is possible for a lady. I hear + you wanted Harriet to go. Very properly she refused. Eighteen months ago I + might have done such a thing. But I trust I have learnt how to behave by + now.” + </p> + <p> + Philip began to see that there were two Miss Abbotts—the Miss Abbott + who could travel alone to Monteriano, and the Miss Abbott who could not + enter Gino’s house when she got there. It was an amusing discovery. Which + of them would respond to his next move? + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I misunderstood Perfetta. Where did you have your interview, + then?” + </p> + <p> + “Not an interview—an accident—I am very sorry—I meant + you to have the chance of seeing him first. Though it is your fault. You + are a day late. You were due here yesterday. So I came yesterday, and, not + finding you, went up to the Rocca—you know that kitchen-garden where + they let you in, and there is a ladder up to a broken tower, where you can + stand and see all the other towers below you and the plain and all the + other hills?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes. I know the Rocca; I told you of it.” + </p> + <p> + “So I went up in the evening for the sunset: I had nothing to do. He was + in the garden: it belongs to a friend of his.” + </p> + <p> + “And you talked.” + </p> + <p> + “It was very awkward for me. But I had to talk: he seemed to make me. You + see he thought I was here as a tourist; he thinks so still. He intended to + be civil, and I judged it better to be civil also.” + </p> + <p> + “And of what did you talk?” + </p> + <p> + “The weather—there will be rain, he says, by tomorrow evening—the + other towns, England, myself, about you a little, and he actually + mentioned Lilia. He was perfectly disgusting; he pretended he loved her; + he offered to show me her grave—the grave of the woman he has + murdered!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Miss Abbott, he is not a murderer. I have just been driving that + into Harriet. And when you know the Italians as well as I do, you will + realize that in all that he said to you he was perfectly sincere. The + Italians are essentially dramatic; they look on death and love as + spectacles. I don’t doubt that he persuaded himself, for the moment, that + he had behaved admirably, both as husband and widower.” + </p> + <p> + “You may be right,” said Miss Abbott, impressed for the first time. “When + I tried to pave the way, so to speak—to hint that he had not behaved + as he ought—well, it was no good at all. He couldn’t or wouldn’t + understand.” + </p> + <p> + There was something very humorous in the idea of Miss Abbott approaching + Gino, on the Rocca, in the spirit of a district visitor. Philip, whose + temper was returning, laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Harriet would say he has no sense of sin.” + </p> + <p> + “Harriet may be right, I am afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “If so, perhaps he isn’t sinful!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott was not one to encourage levity. “I know what he has done,” + she said. “What he says and what he thinks is of very little importance.” + </p> + <p> + Philip smiled at her crudity. “I should like to hear, though, what he said + about me. Is he preparing a warm reception?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, not that. I never told him that you and Harriet were coming. You + could have taken him by surprise if you liked. He only asked for you, and + wished he hadn’t been so rude to you eighteen months ago.” + </p> + <p> + “What a memory the fellow has for little things!” He turned away as he + spoke, for he did not want her to see his face. It was suffused with + pleasure. For an apology, which would have been intolerable eighteen + months ago, was gracious and agreeable now. + </p> + <p> + She would not let this pass. “You did not think it a little thing at the + time. You told me he had assaulted you.” + </p> + <p> + “I lost my temper,” said Philip lightly. His vanity had been appeased, and + he knew it. This tiny piece of civility had changed his mood. “Did he + really—what exactly did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “He said he was sorry—pleasantly, as Italians do say such things. + But he never mentioned the baby once.” + </p> + <p> + What did the baby matter when the world was suddenly right way up? Philip + smiled, and was shocked at himself for smiling, and smiled again. For + romance had come back to Italy; there were no cads in her; she was + beautiful, courteous, lovable, as of old. And Miss Abbott—she, too, + was beautiful in her way, for all her gaucheness and conventionality. She + really cared about life, and tried to live it properly. And Harriet—even + Harriet tried. + </p> + <p> + This admirable change in Philip proceeds from nothing admirable, and may + therefore provoke the gibes of the cynical. But angels and other practical + people will accept it reverently, and write it down as good. + </p> + <p> + “The view from the Rocca (small gratuity) is finest at sunset,” he + murmured, more to himself than to her. + </p> + <p> + “And he never mentioned the baby once,” Miss Abbott repeated. But she had + returned to the window, and again her finger pursued the delicate curves. + He watched her in silence, and was more attracted to her than he had ever + been before. She really was the strangest mixture. + </p> + <p> + “The view from the Rocca—wasn’t it fine?” + </p> + <p> + “What isn’t fine here?” she answered gently, and then added, “I wish I was + Harriet,” throwing an extraordinary meaning into the words. + </p> + <p> + “Because Harriet—?” + </p> + <p> + She would not go further, but he believed that she had paid homage to the + complexity of life. For her, at all events, the expedition was neither + easy nor jolly. Beauty, evil, charm, vulgarity, mystery—she also + acknowledged this tangle, in spite of herself. And her voice thrilled him + when she broke silence with “Mr. Herriton—come here—look at + this!” + </p> + <p> + She removed a pile of plates from the Gothic window, and they leant out of + it. Close opposite, wedged between mean houses, there rose up one of the + great towers. It is your tower: you stretch a barricade between it and the + hotel, and the traffic is blocked in a moment. Farther up, where the + street empties out by the church, your connections, the Merli and the + Capocchi, do likewise. They command the Piazza, you the Siena gate. No one + can move in either but he shall be instantly slain, either by bows or by + crossbows, or by Greek fire. Beware, however, of the back bedroom windows. + For they are menaced by the tower of the Aldobrandeschi, and before now + arrows have stuck quivering over the washstand. Guard these windows well, + lest there be a repetition of the events of February 1338, when the hotel + was surprised from the rear, and your dearest friend—you could just + make out that it was he—was thrown at you over the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “It reaches up to heaven,” said Philip, “and down to the other place.” The + summit of the tower was radiant in the sun, while its base was in shadow + and pasted over with advertisements. “Is it to be a symbol of the town?” + </p> + <p> + She gave no hint that she understood him. But they remained together at + the window because it was a little cooler and so pleasant. Philip found a + certain grace and lightness in his companion which he had never noticed in + England. She was appallingly narrow, but her consciousness of wider things + gave to her narrowness a pathetic charm. He did not suspect that he was + more graceful too. For our vanity is such that we hold our own characters + immutable, and we are slow to acknowledge that they have changed, even for + the better. + </p> + <p> + Citizens came out for a little stroll before dinner. Some of them stood + and gazed at the advertisements on the tower. + </p> + <p> + “Surely that isn’t an opera-bill?” said Miss Abbott. + </p> + <p> + Philip put on his pince-nez. “‘Lucia di Lammermoor. By the Master + Donizetti. Unique representation. This evening.’ + </p> + <p> + “But is there an opera? Right up here?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes. These people know how to live. They would sooner have a thing + bad than not have it at all. That is why they have got to have so much + that is good. However bad the performance is tonight, it will be alive. + Italians don’t love music silently, like the beastly Germans. The audience + takes its share—sometimes more.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t we go?” + </p> + <p> + He turned on her, but not unkindly. “But we’re here to rescue a child!” + </p> + <p> + He cursed himself for the remark. All the pleasure and the light went out + of her face, and she became again Miss Abbott of Sawston—good, oh, + most undoubtedly good, but most appallingly dull. Dull and remorseful: it + is a deadly combination, and he strove against it in vain till he was + interrupted by the opening of the dining-room door. + </p> + <p> + They started as guiltily as if they had been flirting. Their interview had + taken such an unexpected course. Anger, cynicism, stubborn morality—all + had ended in a feeling of good-will towards each other and towards the + city which had received them. And now Harriet was here—acrid, + indissoluble, large; the same in Italy as in England—changing her + disposition never, and her atmosphere under protest. + </p> + <p> + Yet even Harriet was human, and the better for a little tea. She did not + scold Philip for finding Gino out, as she might reasonably have done. She + showered civilities on Miss Abbott, exclaiming again and again that + Caroline’s visit was one of the most fortunate coincidences in the world. + Caroline did not contradict her. + </p> + <p> + “You see him tomorrow at ten, Philip. Well, don’t forget the blank cheque. + Say an hour for the business. No, Italians are so slow; say two. Twelve + o’clock. Lunch. Well—then it’s no good going till the evening train. + I can manage the baby as far as Florence—” + </p> + <p> + “My dear sister, you can’t run on like that. You don’t buy a pair of + gloves in two hours, much less a baby.” + </p> + <p> + “Three hours, then, or four; or make him learn English ways. At Florence + we get a nurse—” + </p> + <p> + “But, Harriet,” said Miss Abbott, “what if at first he was to refuse?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know the meaning of the word,” said Harriet impressively. “I’ve + told the landlady that Philip and I only want our rooms one night, and we + shall keep to it.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say it will be all right. But, as I told you, I thought the man I + met on the Rocca a strange, difficult man.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s insolent to ladies, we know. But my brother can be trusted to bring + him to his senses. That woman, Philip, whom you saw will carry the baby to + the hotel. Of course you must tip her for it. And try, if you can, to get + poor Lilia’s silver bangles. They were nice quiet things, and will do for + Irma. And there is an inlaid box I lent her—lent, not gave—to + keep her handkerchiefs in. It’s of no real value; but this is our only + chance. Don’t ask for it; but if you see it lying about, just say—” + </p> + <p> + “No, Harriet; I’ll try for the baby, but for nothing else. I promise to do + that tomorrow, and to do it in the way you wish. But tonight, as we’re all + tired, we want a change of topic. We want relaxation. We want to go to the + theatre.” + </p> + <p> + “Theatres here? And at such a moment?” + </p> + <p> + “We should hardly enjoy it, with the great interview impending,” said Miss + Abbott, with an anxious glance at Philip. + </p> + <p> + He did not betray her, but said, “Don’t you think it’s better than sitting + in all the evening and getting nervous?” + </p> + <p> + His sister shook her head. “Mother wouldn’t like it. It would be most + unsuitable—almost irreverent. Besides all that, foreign theatres are + notorious. Don’t you remember those letters in the ‘Church Family + Newspaper’?” + </p> + <p> + “But this is an opera—‘Lucia di Lammermoor’—Sir Walter Scott—classical, + you know.” + </p> + <p> + Harriet’s face grew resigned. “Certainly one has so few opportunities of + hearing music. It is sure to be very bad. But it might be better than + sitting idle all the evening. We have no book, and I lost my crochet at + Florence.” + </p> + <p> + “Good. Miss Abbott, you are coming too?” + </p> + <p> + “It is very kind of you, Mr. Herriton. In some ways I should enjoy it; but—excuse + the suggestion—I don’t think we ought to go to cheap seats.” + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious me!” cried Harriet, “I should never have thought of that. + As likely as not, we should have tried to save money and sat among the + most awful people. One keeps on forgetting this is Italy.” + </p> + <p> + “Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’ll be all right,” said Philip, smiling at his timorous, + scrupulous women-kind. “We’ll go as we are, and buy the best we can get. + Monteriano is not formal.” + </p> + <p> + So this strenuous day of resolutions, plans, alarms, battles, victories, + defeats, truces, ended at the opera. Miss Abbott and Harriet were both a + little shame-faced. They thought of their friends at Sawston, who were + supposing them to be now tilting against the powers of evil. What would + Mrs. Herriton, or Irma, or the curates at the Back Kitchen say if they + could see the rescue party at a place of amusement on the very first day + of its mission? Philip, too, marvelled at his wish to go. He began to see + that he was enjoying his time in Monteriano, in spite of the tiresomeness + of his companions and the occasional contrariness of himself. + </p> + <p> + He had been to this theatre many years before, on the occasion of a + performance of “La Zia di Carlo.” Since then it had been thoroughly done + up, in the tints of the beet-root and the tomato, and was in many other + ways a credit to the little town. The orchestra had been enlarged, some of + the boxes had terra-cotta draperies, and over each box was now suspended + an enormous tablet, neatly framed, bearing upon it the number of that box. + There was also a drop-scene, representing a pink and purple landscape, + wherein sported many a lady lightly clad, and two more ladies lay along + the top of the proscenium to steady a large and pallid clock. So rich and + so appalling was the effect, that Philip could scarcely suppress a cry. + There is something majestic in the bad taste of Italy; it is not the bad + taste of a country which knows no better; it has not the nervous vulgarity + of England, or the blinded vulgarity of Germany. It observes beauty, and + chooses to pass it by. But it attains to beauty’s confidence. This tiny + theatre of Monteriano spraddled and swaggered with the best of them, and + these ladies with their clock would have nodded to the young men on the + ceiling of the Sistine. + </p> + <p> + Philip had tried for a box, but all the best were taken: it was rather a + grand performance, and he had to be content with stalls. Harriet was + fretful and insular. Miss Abbott was pleasant, and insisted on praising + everything: her only regret was that she had no pretty clothes with her. + </p> + <p> + “We do all right,” said Philip, amused at her unwonted vanity. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know; but pretty things pack as easily as ugly ones. We had no + need to come to Italy like guys.” + </p> + <p> + This time he did not reply, “But we’re here to rescue a baby.” For he saw + a charming picture, as charming a picture as he had seen for years—the + hot red theatre; outside the theatre, towers and dark gates and mediaeval + walls; beyond the walls olive-trees in the starlight and white winding + roads and fireflies and untroubled dust; and here in the middle of it all, + Miss Abbott, wishing she had not come looking like a guy. She had made the + right remark. Most undoubtedly she had made the right remark. This stiff + suburban woman was unbending before the shrine. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you like it at all?” he asked her. + </p> + <p> + “Most awfully.” And by this bald interchange they convinced each other + that Romance was here. + </p> + <p> + Harriet, meanwhile, had been coughing ominously at the drop-scene, which + presently rose on the grounds of Ravenswood, and the chorus of Scotch + retainers burst into cry. The audience accompanied with tappings and + drummings, swaying in the melody like corn in the wind. Harriet, though + she did not care for music, knew how to listen to it. She uttered an acid + “Shish!” + </p> + <p> + “Shut it,” whispered her brother. + </p> + <p> + “We must make a stand from the beginning. They’re talking.” + </p> + <p> + “It is tiresome,” murmured Miss Abbott; “but perhaps it isn’t for us to + interfere.” + </p> + <p> + Harriet shook her head and shished again. The people were quiet, not + because it is wrong to talk during a chorus, but because it is natural to + be civil to a visitor. For a little time she kept the whole house in + order, and could smile at her brother complacently. + </p> + <p> + Her success annoyed him. He had grasped the principle of opera in Italy—it + aims not at illusion but at entertainment—and he did not want this + great evening-party to turn into a prayer-meeting. But soon the boxes + began to fill, and Harriet’s power was over. Families greeted each other + across the auditorium. People in the pit hailed their brothers and sons in + the chorus, and told them how well they were singing. When Lucia appeared + by the fountain there was loud applause, and cries of “Welcome to + Monteriano!” + </p> + <p> + “Ridiculous babies!” said Harriet, settling down in her stall. + </p> + <p> + “Why, it is the famous hot lady of the Apennines,” cried Philip; “the one + who had never, never before—” + </p> + <p> + “Ugh! Don’t. She will be very vulgar. And I’m sure it’s even worse here + than in the tunnel. I wish we’d never—” + </p> + <p> + Lucia began to sing, and there was a moment’s silence. She was stout and + ugly; but her voice was still beautiful, and as she sang the theatre + murmured like a hive of happy bees. All through the coloratura she was + accompanied by sighs, and its top note was drowned in a shout of universal + joy. + </p> + <p> + So the opera proceeded. The singers drew inspiration from the audience, + and the two great sextettes were rendered not unworthily. Miss Abbott fell + into the spirit of the thing. She, too, chatted and laughed and applauded + and encored, and rejoiced in the existence of beauty. As for Philip, he + forgot himself as well as his mission. He was not even an enthusiastic + visitor. For he had been in this place always. It was his home. + </p> + <p> + Harriet, like M. Bovary on a more famous occasion, was trying to follow + the plot. Occasionally she nudged her companions, and asked them what had + become of Walter Scott. She looked round grimly. The audience sounded + drunk, and even Caroline, who never took a drop, was swaying oddly. + Violent waves of excitement, all arising from very little, went sweeping + round the theatre. The climax was reached in the mad scene. Lucia, clad in + white, as befitted her malady, suddenly gathered up her streaming hair and + bowed her acknowledgment to the audience. Then from the back of the stage—she + feigned not to see it—there advanced a kind of bamboo clothes-horse, + stuck all over with bouquets. It was very ugly, and most of the flowers in + it were false. Lucia knew this, and so did the audience; and they all knew + that the clothes-horse was a piece of stage property, brought in to make + the performance go year after year. None the less did it unloose the great + deeps. With a scream of amazement and joy she embraced the animal, pulled + out one or two practicable blossoms, pressed them to her lips, and flung + them into her admirers. They flung them back, with loud melodious cries, + and a little boy in one of the stageboxes snatched up his sister’s + carnations and offered them. “Che carino!” exclaimed the singer. She + darted at the little boy and kissed him. Now the noise became tremendous. + “Silence! silence!” shouted many old gentlemen behind. “Let the divine + creature continue!” But the young men in the adjacent box were imploring + Lucia to extend her civility to them. She refused, with a humorous, + expressive gesture. One of them hurled a bouquet at her. She spurned it + with her foot. Then, encouraged by the roars of the audience, she picked + it up and tossed it to them. Harriet was always unfortunate. The bouquet + struck her full in the chest, and a little billet-doux fell out of it into + her lap. + </p> + <p> + “Call this classical!” she cried, rising from her seat. “It’s not even + respectable! Philip! take me out at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Whose is it?” shouted her brother, holding up the bouquet in one hand and + the billet-doux in the other. “Whose is it?” + </p> + <p> + The house exploded, and one of the boxes was violently agitated, as if + some one was being hauled to the front. Harriet moved down the gangway, + and compelled Miss Abbott to follow her. Philip, still laughing and + calling “Whose is it?” brought up the rear. He was drunk with excitement. + The heat, the fatigue, and the enjoyment had mounted into his head. + </p> + <p> + “To the left!” the people cried. “The innamorato is to the left.” + </p> + <p> + He deserted his ladies and plunged towards the box. A young man was flung + stomach downwards across the balustrade. Philip handed him up the bouquet + and the note. Then his own hands were seized affectionately. It all seemed + quite natural. + </p> + <p> + “Why have you not written?” cried the young man. “Why do you take me by + surprise?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ve written,” said Philip hilariously. “I left a note this + afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Silence! silence!” cried the audience, who were beginning to have enough. + “Let the divine creature continue.” Miss Abbott and Harriet had + disappeared. + </p> + <p> + “No! no!” cried the young man. “You don’t escape me now.” For Philip was + trying feebly to disengage his hands. Amiable youths bent out of the box + and invited him to enter it. + </p> + <p> + “Gino’s friends are ours—” + </p> + <p> + “Friends?” cried Gino. “A relative! A brother! Fra Filippo, who has come + all the way from England and never written.” + </p> + <p> + “I left a message.” + </p> + <p> + The audience began to hiss. + </p> + <p> + “Come in to us.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you—ladies—there is not time—” + </p> + <p> + The next moment he was swinging by his arms. The moment after he shot over + the balustrade into the box. Then the conductor, seeing that the incident + was over, raised his baton. The house was hushed, and Lucia di Lammermoor + resumed her song of madness and death. + </p> + <p> + Philip had whispered introductions to the pleasant people who had pulled + him in—tradesmen’s sons perhaps they were, or medical students, or + solicitors’ clerks, or sons of other dentists. There is no knowing who is + who in Italy. The guest of the evening was a private soldier. He shared + the honour now with Philip. The two had to stand side by side in the + front, and exchange compliments, whilst Gino presided, courteous, but + delightfully familiar. Philip would have a spasm of horror at the muddle + he had made. But the spasm would pass, and again he would be enchanted by + the kind, cheerful voices, the laughter that was never vapid, and the + light caress of the arm across his back. + </p> + <p> + He could not get away till the play was nearly finished, and Edgardo was + singing amongst the tombs of ancestors. His new friends hoped to see him + at the Garibaldi tomorrow evening. He promised; then he remembered that if + they kept to Harriet’s plan he would have left Monteriano. “At ten + o’clock, then,” he said to Gino. “I want to speak to you alone. At ten.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” laughed the other. + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott was sitting up for him when he got back. Harriet, it seemed, + had gone straight to bed. + </p> + <p> + “That was he, wasn’t it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, rather.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you didn’t settle anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, no; how could I? The fact is—well, I got taken by surprise, + but after all, what does it matter? There’s no earthly reason why we + shouldn’t do the business pleasantly. He’s a perfectly charming person, + and so are his friends. I’m his friend now—his long-lost brother. + What’s the harm? I tell you, Miss Abbott, it’s one thing for England and + another for Italy. There we plan and get on high moral horses. Here we + find what asses we are, for things go off quite easily, all by themselves. + My hat, what a night! Did you ever see a really purple sky and really + silver stars before? Well, as I was saying, it’s absurd to worry; he’s not + a porky father. He wants that baby as little as I do. He’s been ragging my + dear mother—just as he ragged me eighteen months ago, and I’ve + forgiven him. Oh, but he has a sense of humour!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott, too, had a wonderful evening, nor did she ever remember such + stars or such a sky. Her head, too, was full of music, and that night when + she opened the window her room was filled with warm, sweet air. She was + bathed in beauty within and without; she could not go to bed for + happiness. Had she ever been so happy before? Yes, once before, and here, + a night in March, the night Gino and Lilia had told her of their love—the + night whose evil she had come now to undo. + </p> + <p> + She gave a sudden cry of shame. “This time—the same place—the + same thing”—and she began to beat down her happiness, knowing it to + be sinful. She was here to fight against this place, to rescue a little + soul—who was innocent as yet. She was here to champion morality and + purity, and the holy life of an English home. In the spring she had sinned + through ignorance; she was not ignorant now. “Help me!” she cried, and + shut the window as if there was magic in the encircling air. But the tunes + would not go out of her head, and all night long she was troubled by + torrents of music, and by applause and laughter, and angry young men who + shouted the distich out of Baedeker:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Poggibonizzi fatti in la, + Che Monteriano si fa citta! +</pre> + <p> + Poggibonsi was revealed to her as they sang—a joyless, straggling + place, full of people who pretended. When she woke up she knew that it had + been Sawston. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter 7 + </h2> + <p> + At about nine o’clock next morning Perfetta went out on to the loggia, not + to look at the view, but to throw some dirty water at it. “Scusi tanto!” + she wailed, for the water spattered a tall young lady who had for some + time been tapping at the lower door. + </p> + <p> + “Is Signor Carella in?” the young lady asked. It was no business of + Perfetta’s to be shocked, and the style of the visitor seemed to demand + the reception-room. Accordingly she opened its shutters, dusted a round + patch on one of the horsehair chairs, and bade the lady do herself the + inconvenience of sitting down. Then she ran into Monteriano and shouted up + and down its streets until such time as her young master should hear her. + </p> + <p> + The reception-room was sacred to the dead wife. Her shiny portrait hung + upon the wall—similar, doubtless, in all respects to the one which + would be pasted on her tombstone. A little piece of black drapery had been + tacked above the frame to lend a dignity to woe. But two of the tacks had + fallen out, and the effect was now rakish, as of a drunkard’s bonnet. A + coon song lay open on the piano, and of the two tables one supported + Baedeker’s “Central Italy,” the other Harriet’s inlaid box. And over + everything there lay a deposit of heavy white dust, which was only blown + off one moment to thicken on another. It is well to be remembered with + love. It is not so very dreadful to be forgotten entirely. But if we shall + resent anything on earth at all, we shall resent the consecration of a + deserted room. + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott did not sit down, partly because the antimacassars might + harbour fleas, partly because she had suddenly felt faint, and was glad to + cling on to the funnel of the stove. She struggled with herself, for she + had need to be very calm; only if she was very calm might her behaviour be + justified. She had broken faith with Philip and Harriet: she was going to + try for the baby before they did. If she failed she could scarcely look + them in the face again. + </p> + <p> + “Harriet and her brother,” she reasoned, “don’t realize what is before + them. She would bluster and be rude; he would be pleasant and take it as a + joke. Both of them—even if they offered money—would fail. But + I begin to understand the man’s nature; he does not love the child, but he + will be touchy about it—and that is quite as bad for us. He’s + charming, but he’s no fool; he conquered me last year; he conquered Mr. + Herriton yesterday, and if I am not careful he will conquer us all today, + and the baby will grow up in Monteriano. He is terribly strong; Lilia + found that out, but only I remember it now.” + </p> + <p> + This attempt, and this justification of it, were the results of the long + and restless night. Miss Abbott had come to believe that she alone could + do battle with Gino, because she alone understood him; and she had put + this, as nicely as she could, in a note which she had left for Philip. It + distressed her to write such a note, partly because her education inclined + her to reverence the male, partly because she had got to like Philip a + good deal after their last strange interview. His pettiness would be + dispersed, and as for his “unconventionality,” which was so much gossiped + about at Sawston, she began to see that it did not differ greatly from + certain familiar notions of her own. If only he would forgive her for what + she was doing now, there might perhaps be before them a long and + profitable friendship. But she must succeed. No one would forgive her if + she did not succeed. She prepared to do battle with the powers of evil. + </p> + <p> + The voice of her adversary was heard at last, singing fearlessly from his + expanded lungs, like a professional. Herein he differed from Englishmen, + who always have a little feeling against music, and sing only from the + throat, apologetically. He padded upstairs, and looked in at the open door + of the reception-room without seeing her. Her heart leapt and her throat + was dry when he turned away and passed, still singing, into the room + opposite. It is alarming not to be seen. + </p> + <p> + He had left the door of this room open, and she could see into it, right + across the landing. It was in a shocking mess. Food, bedclothes, + patent-leather boots, dirty plates, and knives lay strewn over a large + table and on the floor. But it was the mess that comes of life, not of + desolation. It was preferable to the charnel-chamber in which she was + standing now, and the light in it was soft and large, as from some + gracious, noble opening. + </p> + <p> + He stopped singing, and cried “Where is Perfetta?” + </p> + <p> + His back was turned, and he was lighting a cigar. He was not speaking to + Miss Abbott. He could not even be expecting her. The vista of the landing + and the two open doors made him both remote and significant, like an actor + on the stage, intimate and unapproachable at the same time. She could no + more call out to him than if he was Hamlet. + </p> + <p> + “You know!” he continued, “but you will not tell me. Exactly like you.” He + reclined on the table and blew a fat smoke-ring. “And why won’t you tell + me the numbers? I have dreamt of a red hen—that is two hundred and + five, and a friend unexpected—he means eighty-two. But I try for the + Terno this week. So tell me another number.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. She + felt those subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. Had she + slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was + impossible. He had got into another world. + </p> + <p> + She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him, + and brought it out intact upon the landing. + </p> + <p> + “Two hundred and five—eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on + Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week + for Bari.” Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It had + become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! you don’t care if you get the profits. You won’t even say ‘Thank you, + Gino.’ Say it, or I’ll drop hot, red-hot ashes on you. ‘Thank you, Gino—‘” + </p> + <p> + The ring had extended its pale blue coils towards her. She lost + self-control. It enveloped her. As if it was a breath from the pit, she + screamed. + </p> + <p> + There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got + here, why she had never spoken. He made her sit down. He brought her wine, + which she refused. She had not one word to say to him. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” he repeated. “What has frightened you?” + </p> + <p> + He, too, was frightened, and perspiration came starting through the tan. + For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something + curiously intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone. + </p> + <p> + “Business—” she said at last. + </p> + <p> + “Business with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Most important business.” She was lying, white and limp, in the dusty + chair. + </p> + <p> + “Before business you must get well; this is the best wine.” + </p> + <p> + She refused it feebly. He poured out a glass. She drank it. As she did so + she became self-conscious. However important the business, it was not + proper of her to have called on him, or to accept his hospitality. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you are engaged,” she said. “And as I am not very well—” + </p> + <p> + “You are not well enough to go back. And I am not engaged.” + </p> + <p> + She looked nervously at the other room. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, now I understand,” he exclaimed. “Now I see what frightened you. But + why did you never speak?” And taking her into the room where he lived, he + pointed to—the baby. + </p> + <p> + She had thought so much about this baby, of its welfare, its soul, its + morals, its probable defects. But, like most unmarried people, she had + only thought of it as a word—just as the healthy man only thinks of + the word death, not of death itself. The real thing, lying asleep on a + dirty rug, disconcerted her. It did not stand for a principle any longer. + It was so much flesh and blood, so many inches and ounces of life—a + glorious, unquestionable fact, which a man and another woman had given to + the world. You could talk to it; in time it would answer you; in time it + would not answer you unless it chose, but would secrete, within the + compass of its body, thoughts and wonderful passions of its own. And this + was the machine on which she and Mrs. Herriton and Philip and Harriet had + for the last month been exercising their various ideals—had + determined that in time it should move this way or that way, should + accomplish this and not that. It was to be Low Church, it was to be + high-principled, it was to be tactful, gentlemanly, artistic—excellent + things all. Yet now that she saw this baby, lying asleep on a dirty rug, + she had a great disposition not to dictate one of them, and to exert no + more influence than there may be in a kiss or in the vaguest of the + heartfelt prayers. + </p> + <p> + But she had practised self-discipline, and her thoughts and actions were + not yet to correspond. To recover her self-esteem she tried to imagine + that she was in her district, and to behave accordingly. + </p> + <p> + “What a fine child, Signor Carella. And how nice of you to talk to it. + Though I see that the ungrateful little fellow is asleep! Seven months? + No, eight; of course eight. Still, he is a remarkably fine child for his + age.” + </p> + <p> + Italian is a bad medium for condescension. The patronizing words came out + gracious and sincere, and he smiled with pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “You must not stand. Let us sit on the loggia, where it is cool. I am + afraid the room is very untidy,” he added, with the air of a hostess who + apologizes for a stray thread on the drawing-room carpet. Miss Abbott + picked her way to the chair. He sat near her, astride the parapet, with + one foot in the loggia and the other dangling into the view. His face was + in profile, and its beautiful contours drove artfully against the misty + green of the opposing hills. “Posing!” said Miss Abbott to herself. “A + born artist’s model.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Herriton called yesterday,” she began, “but you were out.” + </p> + <p> + He started an elaborate and graceful explanation. He had gone for the day + to Poggibonsi. Why had the Herritons not written to him, so that he could + have received them properly? Poggibonsi would have done any day; not but + what his business there was fairly important. What did she suppose that it + was? + </p> + <p> + Naturally she was not greatly interested. She had not come from Sawston to + guess why he had been to Poggibonsi. She answered politely that she had no + idea, and returned to her mission. + </p> + <p> + “But guess!” he persisted, clapping the balustrade between his hands. + </p> + <p> + She suggested, with gentle sarcasm, that perhaps he had gone to Poggibonsi + to find something to do. + </p> + <p> + He intimated that it was not as important as all that. Something to do—an + almost hopeless quest! “E manca questo!” He rubbed his thumb and + forefinger together, to indicate that he had no money. Then he sighed, and + blew another smoke-ring. Miss Abbott took heart and turned diplomatic. + </p> + <p> + “This house,” she said, “is a large house.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” was his gloomy reply. “And when my poor wife died—” He + got up, went in, and walked across the landing to the reception-room door, + which he closed reverently. Then he shut the door of the living-room with + his foot, returned briskly to his seat, and continued his sentence. “When + my poor wife died I thought of having my relatives to live here. My father + wished to give up his practice at Empoli; my mother and sisters and two + aunts were also willing. But it was impossible. They have their ways of + doing things, and when I was younger I was content with them. But now I am + a man. I have my own ways. Do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do,” said Miss Abbott, thinking of her own dear father, whose + tricks and habits, after twenty-five years spent in their company, were + beginning to get on her nerves. She remembered, though, that she was not + here to sympathize with Gino—at all events, not to show that she + sympathized. She also reminded herself that he was not worthy of sympathy. + “It is a large house,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Immense; and the taxes! But it will be better when—Ah! but you have + never guessed why I went to Poggibonsi—why it was that I was out + when he called.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot guess, Signor Carella. I am here on business.” + </p> + <p> + “But try.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot; I hardly know you.” + </p> + <p> + “But we are old friends,” he said, “and your approval will be grateful to + me. You gave it me once before. Will you give it now?” + </p> + <p> + “I have not come as a friend this time,” she answered stiffly. “I am not + likely, Signor Carella, to approve of anything you do.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Signorina!” He laughed, as if he found her piquant and amusing. + “Surely you approve of marriage?” + </p> + <p> + “Where there is love,” said Miss Abbott, looking at him hard. His face had + altered in the last year, but not for the worse, which was baffling. + </p> + <p> + “Where there is love,” said he, politely echoing the English view. Then he + smiled on her, expecting congratulations. + </p> + <p> + “Do I understand that you are proposing to marry again?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I forbid you, then!” + </p> + <p> + He looked puzzled, but took it for some foreign banter, and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I forbid you!” repeated Miss Abbott, and all the indignation of her sex + and her nationality went thrilling through the words. + </p> + <p> + “But why?” He jumped up, frowning. His voice was squeaky and petulant, + like that of a child who is suddenly forbidden a toy. + </p> + <p> + “You have ruined one woman; I forbid you to ruin another. It is not a year + since Lilia died. You pretended to me the other day that you loved her. It + is a lie. You wanted her money. Has this woman money too?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes!” he said irritably. “A little.” + </p> + <p> + “And I suppose you will say that you love her.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not say it. It will be untrue. Now my poor wife—” He + stopped, seeing that the comparison would involve him in difficulties. And + indeed he had often found Lilia as agreeable as any one else. + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott was furious at this final insult to her dead acquaintance. She + was glad that after all she could be so angry with the boy. She glowed and + throbbed; her tongue moved nimbly. At the finish, if the real business of + the day had been completed, she could have swept majestically from the + house. But the baby still remained, asleep on a dirty rug. + </p> + <p> + Gino was thoughtful, and stood scratching his head. He respected Miss + Abbott. He wished that she would respect him. “So you do not advise me?” + he said dolefully. “But why should it be a failure?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott tried to remember that he was really a child still—a + child with the strength and the passions of a disreputable man. “How can + it succeed,” she said solemnly, “where there is no love?” + </p> + <p> + “But she does love me! I forgot to tell you that.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “Passionately.” He laid his hand upon his own heart. + </p> + <p> + “Then God help her!” + </p> + <p> + He stamped impatiently. “Whatever I say displeases you, Signorina. God + help you, for you are most unfair. You say that I ill-treated my dear + wife. It is not so. I have never ill-treated any one. You complain that + there is no love in this marriage. I prove that there is, and you become + still more angry. What do you want? Do you suppose she will not be + contented? Glad enough she is to get me, and she will do her duty well.” + </p> + <p> + “Her duty!” cried Miss Abbott, with all the bitterness of which she was + capable. + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course. She knows why I am marrying her.” + </p> + <p> + “To succeed where Lilia failed! To be your housekeeper, your slave, you—” + The words she would like to have said were too violent for her. + </p> + <p> + “To look after the baby, certainly,” said he. + </p> + <p> + “The baby—?” She had forgotten it. + </p> + <p> + “It is an English marriage,” he said proudly. “I do not care about the + money. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw + light. “It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the + baby—” + </p> + <p> + Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at + once. “I don’t mean that,” she added quickly. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” was his courteous response. “Ah, in a foreign language (and how + perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. + </p> + <p> + “You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are + right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too + rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be + washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle + what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in + the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair + this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became + pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for + a young man.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all suitable,” said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each + moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so + tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet’s + burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton. + </p> + <p> + “A little more wine?” asked Gino kindly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. + Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example—” + </p> + <p> + “Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!” + </p> + <p> + “England, then—” + </p> + <p> + He laughed. + </p> + <p> + “He has a grandmother there, you know—Mrs. Theobald.” + </p> + <p> + “He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him + with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would + separate us,” he added. + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “They would separate our thoughts.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange refinements. + The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked + before her, and her moral being was abashed. It was her duty to rescue the + baby, to save it from contagion, and she still meant to do her duty. But + the comfortable sense of virtue left her. She was in the presence of + something greater than right or wrong. + </p> + <p> + Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into the room, + driven by the instinct she had aroused in him. “Wake up!” he cried to his + baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he lifted his foot and trod + lightly on its stomach. + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott cried, “Oh, take care!” She was unaccustomed to this method of + awakening the young. + </p> + <p> + “He is not much longer than my boot, is he? Can you believe that in time + his own boots will be as large? And that he also—” + </p> + <p> + “But ought you to treat him like that?” + </p> + <p> + He stood with one foot resting on the little body, suddenly musing, filled + with the desire that his son should be like him, and should have sons like + him, to people the earth. It is the strongest desire that can come to a + man—if it comes to him at all—stronger even than love or the + desire for personal immortality. All men vaunt it, and declare that it is + theirs; but the hearts of most are set elsewhere. It is the exception who + comprehends that physical and spiritual life may stream out of him for + ever. Miss Abbott, for all her goodness, could not comprehend it, though + such a thing is more within the comprehension of women. And when Gino + pointed first to himself and then to his baby and said “father-son,” she + still took it as a piece of nursery prattle, and smiled mechanically. + </p> + <p> + The child, the first fruits, woke up and glared at her. Gino did not greet + it, but continued the exposition of his policy. + </p> + <p> + “This woman will do exactly what I tell her. She is fond of children. She + is clean; she has a pleasant voice. She is not beautiful; I cannot pretend + that to you for a moment. But she is what I require.” + </p> + <p> + The baby gave a piercing yell. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do take care!” begged Miss Abbott. “You are squeezing it.” + </p> + <p> + “It is nothing. If he cries silently then you may be frightened. He thinks + I am going to wash him, and he is quite right.” + </p> + <p> + “Wash him!” she cried. “You? Here?” The homely piece of news seemed to + shatter all her plans. She had spent a long half-hour in elaborate + approaches, in high moral attacks; she had neither frightened her enemy + nor made him angry, nor interfered with the least detail of his domestic + life. + </p> + <p> + “I had gone to the Farmacia,” he continued, “and was sitting there + comfortably, when suddenly I remembered that Perfetta had heated water an + hour ago—over there, look, covered with a cushion. I came away at + once, for really he must be washed. You must excuse me. I can put it off + no longer.” + </p> + <p> + “I have wasted your time,” she said feebly. + </p> + <p> + He walked sternly to the loggia and drew from it a large earthenware bowl. + It was dirty inside; he dusted it with a tablecloth. Then he fetched the + hot water, which was in a copper pot. He poured it out. He added cold. He + felt in his pocket and brought out a piece of soap. Then he took up the + baby, and, holding his cigar between his teeth, began to unwrap it. Miss + Abbott turned to go. + </p> + <p> + “But why are you going? Excuse me if I wash him while we talk.” + </p> + <p> + “I have nothing more to say,” said Miss Abbott. All she could do now was + to find Philip, confess her miserable defeat, and bid him go in her stead + and prosper better. She cursed her feebleness; she longed to expose it, + without apologies or tears. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but stop a moment!” he cried. “You have not seen him yet.” + </p> + <p> + “I have seen as much as I want, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + The last wrapping slid off. He held out to her in his two hands a little + kicking image of bronze. + </p> + <p> + “Take him!” + </p> + <p> + She would not touch the child. + </p> + <p> + “I must go at once,” she cried; for the tears—the wrong tears—were + hurrying to her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Who would have believed his mother was blonde? For he is brown all over—brown + every inch of him. Ah, but how beautiful he is! And he is mine; mine for + ever. Even if he hates me he will be mine. He cannot help it; he is made + out of me; I am his father.” + </p> + <p> + It was too late to go. She could not tell why, but it was too late. She + turned away her head when Gino lifted his son to his lips. This was + something too remote from the prettiness of the nursery. The man was + majestic; he was a part of Nature; in no ordinary love scene could he ever + be so great. For a wonderful physical tie binds the parents to the + children; and—by some sad, strange irony—it does not bind us + children to our parents. For if it did, if we could answer their love not + with gratitude but with equal love, life would lose much of its pathos and + much of its squalor, and we might be wonderfully happy. Gino passionately + embracing, Miss Abbott reverently averting her eyes—both of them had + parents whom they did not love so very much. + </p> + <p> + “May I help you to wash him?” she asked humbly. + </p> + <p> + He gave her his son without speaking, and they knelt side by side, tucking + up their sleeves. The child had stopped crying, and his arms and legs were + agitated by some overpowering joy. Miss Abbott had a woman’s pleasure in + cleaning anything—more especially when the thing was human. She + understood little babies from long experience in a district, and Gino soon + ceased to give her directions, and only gave her thanks. + </p> + <p> + “It is very kind of you,” he murmured, “especially in your beautiful + dress. He is nearly clean already. Why, I take the whole morning! There is + so much more of a baby than one expects. And Perfetta washes him just as + she washes clothes. Then he screams for hours. My wife is to have a light + hand. Ah, how he kicks! Has he splashed you? I am very sorry.” + </p> + <p> + “I am ready for a soft towel now,” said Miss Abbott, who was strangely + exalted by the service. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly! certainly!” He strode in a knowing way to a cupboard. But he + had no idea where the soft towel was. Generally he dabbed the baby on the + first dry thing he found. + </p> + <p> + “And if you had any powder.” + </p> + <p> + He struck his forehead despairingly. Apparently the stock of powder was + just exhausted. + </p> + <p> + She sacrificed her own clean handkerchief. He put a chair for her on the + loggia, which faced westward, and was still pleasant and cool. There she + sat, with twenty miles of view behind her, and he placed the dripping baby + on her knee. It shone now with health and beauty: it seemed to reflect + light, like a copper vessel. Just such a baby Bellini sets languid on his + mother’s lap, or Signorelli flings wriggling on pavements of marble, or + Lorenzo di Credi, more reverent but less divine, lays carefully among + flowers, with his head upon a wisp of golden straw. For a time Gino + contemplated them standing. Then, to get a better view, he knelt by the + side of the chair, with his hands clasped before him. + </p> + <p> + So they were when Philip entered, and saw, to all intents and purposes, + the Virgin and Child, with Donor. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo!” he exclaimed; for he was glad to find things in such cheerful + trim. + </p> + <p> + She did not greet him, but rose up unsteadily and handed the baby to his + father. + </p> + <p> + “No, do stop!” whispered Philip. “I got your note. I’m not offended; + you’re quite right. I really want you; I could never have done it alone.” + </p> + <p> + No words came from her, but she raised her hands to her mouth, like one + who is in sudden agony. + </p> + <p> + “Signorina, do stop a little—after all your kindness.” + </p> + <p> + She burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” said Philip kindly. + </p> + <p> + She tried to speak, and then went away weeping bitterly. + </p> + <p> + The two men stared at each other. By a common impulse they ran on to the + loggia. They were just in time to see Miss Abbott disappear among the + trees. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” asked Philip again. There was no answer, and somehow he did + not want an answer. Some strange thing had happened which he could not + presume to understand. He would find out from Miss Abbott, if ever he + found out at all. + </p> + <p> + “Well, your business,” said Gino, after a puzzled sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Our business—Miss Abbott has told you of that.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “But surely—” + </p> + <p> + “She came for business. But she forgot about it; so did I.” + </p> + <p> + Perfetta, who had a genius for missing people, now returned, loudly + complaining of the size of Monteriano and the intricacies of its streets. + Gino told her to watch the baby. Then he offered Philip a cigar, and they + proceeded to the business. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter 8 + </h2> + <h3> + “Mad!” screamed Harriet,—“absolutely stark, staring, raving mad!” + </h3> + <p> + Philip judged it better not to contradict her. + </p> + <p> + “What’s she here for? Answer me that. What’s she doing in Monteriano in + August? Why isn’t she in Normandy? Answer that. She won’t. I can: she’s + come to thwart us; she’s betrayed us—got hold of mother’s plans. Oh, + goodness, my head!” + </p> + <p> + He was unwise enough to reply, “You mustn’t accuse her of that. Though she + is exasperating, she hasn’t come here to betray us.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why has she come here? Answer me that.” + </p> + <p> + He made no answer. But fortunately his sister was too much agitated to + wait for one. “Bursting in on me—crying and looking a disgusting + sight—and says she has been to see the Italian. Couldn’t even talk + properly; pretended she had changed her opinions. What are her opinions to + us? I was very calm. I said: ‘Miss Abbott, I think there is a little + misapprehension in this matter. My mother, Mrs. Herriton—’ Oh, + goodness, my head! Of course you’ve failed—don’t trouble to answer—I + know you’ve failed. Where’s the baby, pray? Of course you haven’t got it. + Dear sweet Caroline won’t let you. Oh, yes, and we’re to go away at once + and trouble the father no more. Those are her commands. Commands! + COMMANDS!” And Harriet also burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + Philip governed his temper. His sister was annoying, but quite reasonable + in her indignation. Moreover, Miss Abbott had behaved even worse than she + supposed. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve not got the baby, Harriet, but at the same time I haven’t exactly + failed. I and Signor Carella are to have another interview this afternoon, + at the Caffe Garibaldi. He is perfectly reasonable and pleasant. Should + you be disposed to come with me, you would find him quite willing to + discuss things. He is desperately in want of money, and has no prospect of + getting any. I discovered that. At the same time, he has a certain + affection for the child.” For Philip’s insight, or perhaps his + opportunities, had not been equal to Miss Abbott’s. + </p> + <p> + Harriet would only sob, and accuse her brother of insulting her; how could + a lady speak to such a horrible man? That, and nothing else, was enough to + stamp Caroline. Oh, poor Lilia! + </p> + <p> + Philip drummed on the bedroom window-sill. He saw no escape from the + deadlock. For though he spoke cheerfully about his second interview with + Gino, he felt at the bottom of his heart that it would fail. Gino was too + courteous: he would not break off negotiations by sharp denial; he loved + this civil, half-humorous bargaining. And he loved fooling his opponent, + and did it so nicely that his opponent did not mind being fooled. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Abbott has behaved extraordinarily,” he said at last; “but at the + same time—” + </p> + <p> + His sister would not hear him. She burst forth again on the madness, the + interference, the intolerable duplicity of Caroline. + </p> + <p> + “Harriet, you must listen. My dear, you must stop crying. I have something + quite important to say.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not stop crying,” said she. But in time, finding that he would + not speak to her, she did stop. + </p> + <p> + “Remember that Miss Abbott has done us no harm. She said nothing to him + about the matter. He assumes that she is working with us: I gathered + that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she isn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but if you’re careful she may be. I interpret her behaviour thus: + She went to see him, honestly intending to get the child away. In the note + she left me she says so, and I don’t believe she’d lie.” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + “When she got there, there was some pretty domestic scene between him and + the baby, and she has got swept off in a gush of sentimentalism. Before + very long, if I know anything about psychology, there will be a reaction. + She’ll be swept back.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand your long words. Say plainly—” + </p> + <p> + “When she’s swept back, she’ll be invaluable. For she has made quite an + impression on him. He thinks her so nice with the baby. You know, she + washed it for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Disgusting!” + </p> + <p> + Harriet’s ejaculations were more aggravating than the rest of her. But + Philip was averse to losing his temper. The access of joy that had come to + him yesterday in the theatre promised to be permanent. He was more anxious + than heretofore to be charitable towards the world. + </p> + <p> + “If you want to carry off the baby, keep your peace with Miss Abbott. For + if she chooses, she can help you better than I can.” + </p> + <p> + “There can be no peace between me and her,” said Harriet gloomily. + </p> + <p> + “Did you—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not all I wanted. She went away before I had finished speaking—just + like those cowardly people!—into the church.” + </p> + <p> + “Into Santa Deodata’s?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I’m sure she needs it. Anything more unchristian—” + </p> + <p> + In time Philip went to the church also, leaving his sister a little calmer + and a little disposed to think over his advice. What had come over Miss + Abbott? He had always thought her both stable and sincere. That + conversation he had had with her last Christmas in the train to Charing + Cross—that alone furnished him with a parallel. For the second time, + Monteriano must have turned her head. He was not angry with her, for he + was quite indifferent to the outcome of their expedition. He was only + extremely interested. + </p> + <p> + It was now nearly midday, and the streets were clearing. But the intense + heat had broken, and there was a pleasant suggestion of rain. The Piazza, + with its three great attractions—the Palazzo Pubblico, the + Collegiate Church, and the Caffe Garibaldi: the intellect, the soul, and + the body—had never looked more charming. For a moment Philip stood + in its centre, much inclined to be dreamy, and thinking how wonderful it + must feel to belong to a city, however mean. He was here, however, as an + emissary of civilization and as a student of character, and, after a sigh, + he entered Santa Deodata’s to continue his mission. + </p> + <p> + There had been a FESTA two days before, and the church still smelt of + incense and of garlic. The little son of the sacristan was sweeping the + nave, more for amusement than for cleanliness, sending great clouds of + dust over the frescoes and the scattered worshippers. The sacristan + himself had propped a ladder in the centre of the Deluge—which fills + one of the nave spandrels—and was freeing a column from its wealth + of scarlet calico. Much scarlet calico also lay upon the floor—for + the church can look as fine as any theatre—and the sacristan’s + little daughter was trying to fold it up. She was wearing a tinsel crown. + The crown really belonged to St. Augustine. But it had been cut too big: + it fell down over his cheeks like a collar: you never saw anything so + absurd. One of the canons had unhooked it just before the FIESTA began, + and had given it to the sacristan’s daughter. + </p> + <p> + “Please,” cried Philip, “is there an English lady here?” + </p> + <p> + The man’s mouth was full of tin-tacks, but he nodded cheerfully towards a + kneeling figure. In the midst of this confusion Miss Abbott was praying. + </p> + <p> + He was not much surprised: a spiritual breakdown was quite to be expected. + For though he was growing more charitable towards mankind, he was still a + little jaunty, and too apt to stake out beforehand the course that will be + pursued by the wounded soul. It did not surprise him, however, that she + should greet him naturally, with none of the sour self-consciousness of a + person who had just risen from her knees. This was indeed the spirit of + Santa Deodata’s, where a prayer to God is thought none the worse of + because it comes next to a pleasant word to a neighbour. “I am sure that I + need it,” said she; and he, who had expected her to be ashamed, became + confused, and knew not what to reply. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve nothing to tell you,” she continued. “I have simply changed straight + round. If I had planned the whole thing out, I could not have treated you + worse. I can talk it over now; but please believe that I have been + crying.” + </p> + <p> + “And please believe that I have not come to scold you,” said Philip. “I + know what has happened.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” asked Miss Abbott. Instinctively she led the way to the famous + chapel, the fifth chapel on the right, wherein Giovanni da Empoli has + painted the death and burial of the saint. Here they could sit out of the + dust and the noise, and proceed with a discussion which promised to be + important. + </p> + <p> + “What might have happened to me—he had made you believe that he + loved the child.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; he has. He will never give it up.” + </p> + <p> + “At present it is still unsettled.” + </p> + <p> + “It will never be settled.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps not. Well, as I said, I know what has happened, and I am not here + to scold you. But I must ask you to withdraw from the thing for the + present. Harriet is furious. But she will calm down when she realizes that + you have done us no harm, and will do none.” + </p> + <p> + “I can do no more,” she said. “But I tell you plainly I have changed + sides.” + </p> + <p> + “If you do no more, that is all we want. You promise not to prejudice our + cause by speaking to Signor Carella?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, certainly. I don’t want to speak to him again; I shan’t ever see him + again.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite nice, wasn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s all I wanted to know. I’ll go and tell Harriet of your + promise, and I think things’ll quiet down now.” + </p> + <p> + But he did not move, for it was an increasing pleasure to him to be near + her, and her charm was at its strongest today. He thought less of + psychology and feminine reaction. The gush of sentimentalism which had + carried her away had only made her more alluring. He was content to + observe her beauty and to profit by the tenderness and the wisdom that + dwelt within her. + </p> + <p> + “Why aren’t you angry with me?” she asked, after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “Because I understand you—all sides, I think,—Harriet, Signor + Carella, even my mother.” + </p> + <p> + “You do understand wonderfully. You are the only one of us who has a + general view of the muddle.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled with pleasure. It was the first time she had ever praised him. + His eyes rested agreeably on Santa Deodata, who was dying in full + sanctity, upon her back. There was a window open behind her, revealing + just such a view as he had seen that morning, and on her widowed mother’s + dresser there stood just such another copper pot. The saint looked neither + at the view nor at the pot, and at her widowed mother still less. For lo! + she had a vision: the head and shoulders of St. Augustine were sliding + like some miraculous enamel along the rough-cast wall. It is a gentle + saint who is content with half another saint to see her die. In her death, + as in her life, Santa Deodata did not accomplish much. + </p> + <p> + “So what are you going to do?” said Miss Abbott. + </p> + <p> + Philip started, not so much at the words as at the sudden change in the + voice. “Do?” he echoed, rather dismayed. “This afternoon I have another + interview.” + </p> + <p> + “It will come to nothing. Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Then another. If that fails I shall wire home for instructions. I dare + say we may fail altogether, but we shall fail honourably.” + </p> + <p> + She had often been decided. But now behind her decision there was a note + of passion. She struck him not as different, but as more important, and he + minded it very much when she said— + </p> + <p> + “That’s not doing anything! You would be doing something if you kidnapped + the baby, or if you went straight away. But that! To fail honourably! To + come out of the thing as well as you can! Is that all you are after?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes,” he stammered. “Since we talk openly, that is all I am after + just now. What else is there? If I can persuade Signor Carella to give in, + so much the better. If he won’t, I must report the failure to my mother + and then go home. Why, Miss Abbott, you can’t expect me to follow you + through all these turns—” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t! But I do expect you to settle what is right and to follow that. + Do you want the child to stop with his father, who loves him and will + bring him up badly, or do you want him to come to Sawston, where no one + loves him, but where he will be brought up well? There is the question put + dispassionately enough even for you. Settle it. Settle which side you’ll + fight on. But don’t go talking about an ‘honourable failure,’ which means + simply not thinking and not acting at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Because I understand the position of Signor Carella and of you, it’s no + reason that—” + </p> + <p> + “None at all. Fight as if you think us wrong. Oh, what’s the use of your + fair-mindedness if you never decide for yourself? Any one gets hold of you + and makes you do what they want. And you see through them and laugh at + them—and do it. It’s not enough to see clearly; I’m muddle-headed + and stupid, and not worth a quarter of you, but I have tried to do what + seemed right at the time. And you—your brain and your insight are + splendid. But when you see what’s right you’re too idle to do it. You told + me once that we shall be judged by our intentions, not by our + accomplishments. I thought it a grand remark. But we must intend to + accomplish—not sit intending on a chair.” + </p> + <p> + “You are wonderful!” he said gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you appreciate me!” she burst out again. “I wish you didn’t. You + appreciate us all—see good in all of us. And all the time you are + dead—dead—dead. Look, why aren’t you angry?” She came up to + him, and then her mood suddenly changed, and she took hold of both his + hands. “You are so splendid, Mr. Herriton, that I can’t bear to see you + wasted. I can’t bear—she has not been good to you—your + mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Abbott, don’t worry over me. Some people are born not to do things. + I’m one of them; I never did anything at school or at the Bar. I came out + to stop Lilia’s marriage, and it was too late. I came out intending to get + the baby, and I shall return an ‘honourable failure.’ I never expect + anything to happen now, and so I am never disappointed. You would be + surprised to know what my great events are. Going to the theatre + yesterday, talking to you now—I don’t suppose I shall ever meet + anything greater. I seem fated to pass through the world without colliding + with it or moving it—and I’m sure I can’t tell you whether the + fate’s good or evil. I don’t die—I don’t fall in love. And if other + people die or fall in love they always do it when I’m just not there. You + are quite right; life to me is just a spectacle, which—thank God, + and thank Italy, and thank you—is now more beautiful and heartening + than it has ever been before.” + </p> + <p> + She said solemnly, “I wish something would happen to you, my dear friend; + I wish something would happen to you.” + </p> + <p> + “But why?” he asked, smiling. “Prove to me why I don’t do as I am.” + </p> + <p> + She also smiled, very gravely. She could not prove it. No argument + existed. Their discourse, splendid as it had been, resulted in nothing, + and their respective opinions and policies were exactly the same when they + left the church as when they had entered it. + </p> + <p> + Harriet was rude at lunch. She called Miss Abbott a turncoat and a coward + to her face. Miss Abbott resented neither epithet, feeling that one was + justified and the other not unreasonable. She tried to avoid even the + suspicion of satire in her replies. But Harriet was sure that she was + satirical because she was so calm. She got more and more violent, and + Philip at one time feared that she would come to blows. + </p> + <p> + “Look here!” he cried, with something of the old manner, “it’s too hot for + this. We’ve been talking and interviewing each other all the morning, and + I have another interview this afternoon. I do stipulate for silence. Let + each lady retire to her bedroom with a book.” + </p> + <p> + “I retire to pack,” said Harriet. “Please remind Signor Carella, Philip, + that the baby is to be here by half-past eight this evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, certainly, Harriet. I shall make a point of reminding him.” + </p> + <p> + “And order a carriage to take us to the evening train.” + </p> + <p> + “And please,” said Miss Abbott, “would you order a carriage for me too?” + </p> + <p> + “You going?” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she replied, suddenly flushing. “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course you would be going. Two carriages, then. Two carriages for + the evening train.” He looked at his sister hopelessly. “Harriet, whatever + are you up to? We shall never be ready.” + </p> + <p> + “Order my carriage for the evening train,” said Harriet, and departed. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose I shall. And I shall also have my interview with Signor + Carella.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott gave a little sigh. + </p> + <p> + “But why should you mind? Do you suppose that I shall have the slightest + influence over him?” + </p> + <p> + “No. But—I can’t repeat all that I said in the church. You ought + never to see him again. You ought to bundle Harriet into a carriage, not + this evening, but now, and drive her straight away.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I ought. But it isn’t a very big ‘ought.’ Whatever Harriet and I + do the issue is the same. Why, I can see the splendour of it—even + the humour. Gino sitting up here on the mountain-top with his cub. We come + and ask for it. He welcomes us. We ask for it again. He is equally + pleasant. I’m agreeable to spend the whole week bargaining with him. But I + know that at the end of it I shall descend empty-handed to the plains. It + might be finer of me to make up my mind. But I’m not a fine character. And + nothing hangs on it.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I am extreme,” she said humbly. “I’ve been trying to run you, + just like your mother. I feel you ought to fight it out with Harriet. + Every little trifle, for some reason, does seem incalculably important + today, and when you say of a thing that ‘nothing hangs on it,’ it sounds + like blasphemy. There’s never any knowing—(how am I to put it?)—which + of our actions, which of our idlenesses won’t have things hanging on it + for ever.” + </p> + <p> + He assented, but her remark had only an aesthetic value. He was not + prepared to take it to his heart. All the afternoon he rested—worried, + but not exactly despondent. The thing would jog out somehow. Probably Miss + Abbott was right. The baby had better stop where it was loved. And that, + probably, was what the fates had decreed. He felt little interest in the + matter, and he was sure that he had no influence. + </p> + <p> + It was not surprising, therefore, that the interview at the Caffe + Garibaldi came to nothing. Neither of them took it very seriously. And + before long Gino had discovered how things lay, and was ragging his + companion hopelessly. Philip tried to look offended, but in the end he had + to laugh. “Well, you are right,” he said. “This affair is being managed by + the ladies.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the ladies—the ladies!” cried the other, and then he roared + like a millionaire for two cups of black coffee, and insisted on treating + his friend, as a sign that their strife was over. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I have done my best,” said Philip, dipping a long slice of sugar + into his cup, and watching the brown liquid ascend into it. “I shall face + my mother with a good conscience. Will you bear me witness that I’ve done + my best?” + </p> + <p> + “My poor fellow, I will!” He laid a sympathetic hand on Philip’s knee. + </p> + <p> + “And that I have—” The sugar was now impregnated with coffee, and he + bent forward to swallow it. As he did so his eyes swept the opposite of + the Piazza, and he saw there, watching them, Harriet. “Mia sorella!” he + exclaimed. Gino, much amused, laid his hand upon the little table, and + beat the marble humorously with his fists. Harriet turned away and began + gloomily to inspect the Palazzo Pubblico. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Harriet!” said Philip, swallowing the sugar. “One more wrench and it + will all be over for her; we are leaving this evening.” + </p> + <p> + Gino was sorry for this. “Then you will not be here this evening as you + promised us. All three leaving?” + </p> + <p> + “All three,” said Philip, who had not revealed the secession of Miss + Abbott; “by the night train; at least, that is my sister’s plan. So I’m + afraid I shan’t be here.” + </p> + <p> + They watched the departing figure of Harriet, and then entered upon the + final civilities. They shook each other warmly by both hands. Philip was + to come again next year, and to write beforehand. He was to be introduced + to Gino’s wife, for he was told of the marriage now. He was to be + godfather to his next baby. As for Gino, he would remember some time that + Philip liked vermouth. He begged him to give his love to Irma. Mrs. + Herriton—should he send her his sympathetic regards? No; perhaps + that would hardly do. + </p> + <p> + So the two young men parted with a good deal of genuine affection. For the + barrier of language is sometimes a blessed barrier, which only lets pass + what is good. Or—to put the thing less cynically—we may be + better in new clean words, which have never been tainted by our pettiness + or vice. Philip, at all events, lived more graciously in Italian, the very + phrases of which entice one to be happy and kind. It was horrible to think + of the English of Harriet, whose every word would be as hard, as distinct, + and as unfinished as a lump of coal. + </p> + <p> + Harriet, however, talked little. She had seen enough to know that her + brother had failed again, and with unwonted dignity she accepted the + situation. She did her packing, she wrote up her diary, she made a brown + paper cover for the new Baedeker. Philip, finding her so amenable, tried + to discuss their future plans. But she only said that they would sleep in + Florence, and told him to telegraph for rooms. They had supper alone. Miss + Abbott did not come down. The landlady told them that Signor Carella had + called on Miss Abbott to say good-bye, but she, though in, had not been + able to see him. She also told them that it had begun to rain. Harriet + sighed, but indicated to her brother that he was not responsible. + </p> + <p> + The carriages came round at a quarter past eight. It was not raining much, + but the night was extraordinarily dark, and one of the drivers wanted to + go slowly to the station. Miss Abbott came down and said that she was + ready, and would start at once. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do,” said Philip, who was standing in the hall. “Now that we have + quarrelled we scarcely want to travel in procession all the way down the + hill. Well, good-bye; it’s all over at last; another scene in my pageant + has shifted.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye; it’s been a great pleasure to see you. I hope that won’t shift, + at all events.” She gripped his hand. + </p> + <p> + “You sound despondent,” he said, laughing. “Don’t forget that you return + victorious.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I do,” she replied, more despondently than ever, and got into + the carriage. He concluded that she was thinking of her reception at + Sawston, whither her fame would doubtless precede her. Whatever would Mrs. + Herriton do? She could make things quite unpleasant when she thought it + right. She might think it right to be silent, but then there was Harriet. + Who would bridle Harriet’s tongue? Between the two of them Miss Abbott was + bound to have a bad time. Her reputation, both for consistency and for + moral enthusiasm, would be lost for ever. + </p> + <p> + “It’s hard luck on her,” he thought. “She is a good person. I must do for + her anything I can.” Their intimacy had been very rapid, but he too hoped + that it would not shift. He believed that he understood her, and that she, + by now, had seen the worst of him. What if after a long time—if + after all—he flushed like a boy as he looked after her carriage. + </p> + <p> + He went into the dining-room to look for Harriet. Harriet was not to be + found. Her bedroom, too, was empty. All that was left of her was the + purple prayer-book which lay open on the bed. Philip took it up aimlessly, + and saw—“Blessed be the Lord my God who teacheth my hands to war and + my fingers to fight.” He put the book in his pocket, and began to brood + over more profitable themes. + </p> + <p> + Santa Deodata gave out half past eight. All the luggage was on, and still + Harriet had not appeared. “Depend upon it,” said the landlady, “she has + gone to Signor Carella’s to say good-bye to her little nephew.” Philip did + not think it likely. They shouted all over the house and still there was + no Harriet. He began to be uneasy. He was helpless without Miss Abbott; + her grave, kind face had cheered him wonderfully, even when it looked + displeased. Monteriano was sad without her; the rain was thickening; the + scraps of Donizetti floated tunelessly out of the wineshops, and of the + great tower opposite he could only see the base, fresh papered with the + advertisements of quacks. + </p> + <p> + A man came up the street with a note. Philip read, “Start at once. Pick me + up outside the gate. Pay the bearer. H. H.” + </p> + <p> + “Did the lady give you this note?” he cried. + </p> + <p> + The man was unintelligible. + </p> + <p> + “Speak up!” exclaimed Philip. “Who gave it you—and where?” + </p> + <p> + Nothing but horrible sighings and bubblings came out of the man. + </p> + <p> + “Be patient with him,” said the driver, turning round on the box. “It is + the poor idiot.” And the landlady came out of the hotel and echoed “The + poor idiot. He cannot speak. He takes messages for us all.” + </p> + <p> + Philip then saw that the messenger was a ghastly creature, quite bald, + with trickling eyes and grey twitching nose. In another country he would + have been shut up; here he was accepted as a public institution, and part + of Nature’s scheme. + </p> + <p> + “Ugh!” shuddered the Englishman. “Signora padrona, find out from him; this + note is from my sister. What does it mean? Where did he see her?” + </p> + <p> + “It is no good,” said the landlady. “He understands everything but he can + explain nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “He has visions of the saints,” said the man who drove the cab. + </p> + <p> + “But my sister—where has she gone? How has she met him?” + </p> + <p> + “She has gone for a walk,” asserted the landlady. It was a nasty evening, + but she was beginning to understand the English. “She has gone for a walk—perhaps + to wish good-bye to her little nephew. Preferring to come back another + way, she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and is waiting for you + outside the Siena gate. Many of my guests do this.” + </p> + <p> + There was nothing to do but to obey the message. He shook hands with the + landlady, gave the messenger a nickel piece, and drove away. After a dozen + yards the carriage stopped. The poor idiot was running and whimpering + behind. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” cried Philip. “I have paid him plenty.” + </p> + <p> + A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was part of the + idiot’s malady only to receive what was just for his services. This was + the change out of the nickel piece. + </p> + <p> + “Go on!” shouted Philip, and flung the money into the road. He was + frightened at the episode; the whole of life had become unreal. It was a + relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on the + terrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana + men. But they had seen no English lady pass. + </p> + <p> + “What am I to do?” he cried; “it is not like the lady to be late. We shall + miss the train.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us drive slowly,” said the driver, “and you shall call her by name as + we go.” + </p> + <p> + So they started down into the night, Philip calling “Harriet! Harriet! + Harriet!” And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first + turn of the zigzag. + </p> + <p> + “Harriet, why don’t you answer?” + </p> + <p> + “I heard you coming,” said she, and got quickly in. Not till then did he + see that she carried a bundle. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “Hush—” + </p> + <p> + “Whatever is that?” + </p> + <p> + “Hush—sleeping.” + </p> + <p> + Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had failed. It was the + baby. + </p> + <p> + She would not let him talk. The baby, she repeated, was asleep, and she + put up an umbrella to shield it and her from the rain. He should hear all + later, so he had to conjecture the course of the wonderful interview—an + interview between the South pole and the North. It was quite easy to + conjecture: Gino crumpling up suddenly before the intense conviction of + Harriet; being told, perhaps, to his face that he was a villain; yielding + his only son perhaps for money, perhaps for nothing. “Poor Gino,” he + thought. “He’s no greater than I am, after all.” + </p> + <p> + Then he thought of Miss Abbott, whose carriage must be descending the + darkness some mile or two below them, and his easy self-accusation failed. + She, too, had conviction; he had felt its force; he would feel it again + when she knew this day’s sombre and unexpected close. + </p> + <p> + “You have been pretty secret,” he said; “you might tell me a little now. + What do we pay for him? All we’ve got?” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” answered Harriet, and dandled the bundle laboriously, like some + bony prophetess—Judith, or Deborah, or Jael. He had last seen the + baby sprawling on the knees of Miss Abbott, shining and naked, with twenty + miles of view behind him, and his father kneeling by his feet. And that + remembrance, together with Harriet, and the darkness, and the poor idiot, + and the silent rain, filled him with sorrow and with the expectation of + sorrow to come. + </p> + <p> + Monteriano had long disappeared, and he could see nothing but the + occasional wet stem of an olive, which their lamp illumined as they passed + it. They travelled quickly, for this driver did not care how fast he went + to the station, and would dash down each incline and scuttle perilously + round the curves. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Harriet,” he said at last, “I feel bad; I want to see the + baby.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mind if I do wake him up. I want to see him. I’ve as much right + in him as you.” + </p> + <p> + Harriet gave in. But it was too dark for him to see the child’s face. + “Wait a minute,” he whispered, and before she could stop him he had lit a + match under the shelter of her umbrella. “But he’s awake!” he exclaimed. + The match went out. + </p> + <p> + “Good ickle quiet boysey, then.” + </p> + <p> + Philip winced. “His face, do you know, struck me as all wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “All wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “All puckered queerly.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course—with the shadows—you couldn’t see him.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, hold him up again.” She did so. He lit another match. It went out + quickly, but not before he had seen that the baby was crying. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense,” said Harriet sharply. “We should hear him if he cried.” + </p> + <p> + “No, he’s crying hard; I thought so before, and I’m certain now.” + </p> + <p> + Harriet touched the child’s face. It was bathed in tears. “Oh, the night + air, I suppose,” she said, “or perhaps the wet of the rain.” + </p> + <p> + “I say, you haven’t hurt it, or held it the wrong way, or anything; it is + too uncanny—crying and no noise. Why didn’t you get Perfetta to + carry it to the hotel instead of muddling with the messenger? It’s a + marvel he understood about the note.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he understands.” And he could feel her shudder. “He tried to carry + the baby—” + </p> + <p> + “But why not Gino or Perfetta?” + </p> + <p> + “Philip, don’t talk. Must I say it again? Don’t talk. The baby wants to + sleep.” She crooned harshly as they descended, and now and then she wiped + up the tears which welled inexhaustibly from the little eyes. Philip + looked away, winking at times himself. It was as if they were travelling + with the whole world’s sorrow, as if all the mystery, all the persistency + of woe were gathered to a single fount. The roads were now coated with + mud, and the carriage went more quietly but not less swiftly, sliding by + long zigzags into the night. He knew the landmarks pretty well: here was + the crossroad to Poggibonsi; and the last view of Monteriano, if they had + light, would be from here. Soon they ought to come to that little wood + where violets were so plentiful in spring. He wished the weather had not + changed; it was not cold, but the air was extraordinarily damp. It could + not be good for the child. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose he breathes, and all that sort of thing?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” said Harriet, in an angry whisper. “You’ve started him again. + I’m certain he was asleep. I do wish you wouldn’t talk; it makes me so + nervous.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m nervous too. I wish he’d scream. It’s too uncanny. Poor Gino! I’m + terribly sorry for Gino.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Because he’s weak—like most of us. He doesn’t know what he wants. + He doesn’t grip on to life. But I like that man, and I’m sorry for him.” + </p> + <p> + Naturally enough she made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “You despise him, Harriet, and you despise me. But you do us no good by + it. We fools want some one to set us on our feet. Suppose a really decent + woman had set up Gino—I believe Caroline Abbott might have done it—mightn’t + he have been another man?” + </p> + <p> + “Philip,” she interrupted, with an attempt at nonchalance, “do you happen + to have those matches handy? We might as well look at the baby again if + you have.” + </p> + <p> + The first match blew out immediately. So did the second. He suggested that + they should stop the carriage and borrow the lamp from the driver. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t want all that bother. Try again.” + </p> + <p> + They entered the little wood as he tried to strike the third match. At + last it caught. Harriet poised the umbrella rightly, and for a full + quarter minute they contemplated the face that trembled in the light of + the trembling flame. Then there was a shout and a crash. They were lying + in the mud in darkness. The carriage had overturned. + </p> + <p> + Philip was a good deal hurt. He sat up and rocked himself to and fro, + holding his arm. He could just make out the outline of the carriage above + him, and the outlines of the carriage cushions and of their luggage upon + the grey road. The accident had taken place in the wood, where it was even + darker than in the open. + </p> + <p> + “Are you all right?” he managed to say. Harriet was screaming, the horse + was kicking, the driver was cursing some other man. + </p> + <p> + Harriet’s screams became coherent. “The baby—the baby—it + slipped—it’s gone from my arms—I stole it!” + </p> + <p> + “God help me!” said Philip. A cold circle came round his mouth, and, he + fainted. + </p> + <p> + When he recovered it was still the same confusion. The horse was kicking, + the baby had not been found, and Harriet still screamed like a maniac, “I + stole it! I stole it! I stole it! It slipped out of my arms!” + </p> + <p> + “Keep still!” he commanded the driver. “Let no one move. We may tread on + it. Keep still.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment they all obeyed him. He began to crawl through the mud, + touching first this, then that, grasping the cushions by mistake, + listening for the faintest whisper that might guide him. He tried to light + a match, holding the box in his teeth and striking at it with the + uninjured hand. At last he succeeded, and the light fell upon the bundle + which he was seeking. + </p> + <p> + It had rolled off the road into the wood a little way, and had fallen + across a great rut. So tiny it was that had it fallen lengthways it would + have disappeared, and he might never have found it. + </p> + <p> + “I stole it! I and the idiot—no one was there.” She burst out + laughing. + </p> + <p> + He sat down and laid it on his knee. Then he tried to cleanse the face + from the mud and the rain and the tears. His arm, he supposed, was broken, + but he could still move it a little, and for the moment he forgot all + pain. He was listening—not for a cry, but for the tick of a heart or + the slightest tremor of breath. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you?” called a voice. It was Miss Abbott, against whose + carriage they had collided. She had relit one of the lamps, and was + picking her way towards him. + </p> + <p> + “Silence!” he called again, and again they obeyed. He shook the bundle; he + breathed into it; he opened his coat and pressed it against him. Then he + listened, and heard nothing but the rain and the panting horses, and + Harriet, who was somewhere chuckling to herself in the dark. + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott approached, and took it gently from him. The face was already + chilly, but thanks to Philip it was no longer wet. Nor would it again be + wetted by any tear. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter 9 + </h2> + <p> + The details of Harriet’s crime were never known. In her illness she spoke + more of the inlaid box that she lent to Lilia—lent, not given—than + of recent troubles. It was clear that she had gone prepared for an + interview with Gino, and finding him out, she had yielded to a grotesque + temptation. But how far this was the result of ill-temper, to what extent + she had been fortified by her religion, when and how she had met the poor + idiot—these questions were never answered, nor did they interest + Philip greatly. Detection was certain: they would have been arrested by + the police of Florence or Milan, or at the frontier. As it was, they had + been stopped in a simpler manner a few miles out of the town. + </p> + <p> + As yet he could scarcely survey the thing. It was too great. Round the + Italian baby who had died in the mud there centred deep passions and high + hopes. People had been wicked or wrong in the matter; no one save himself + had been trivial. Now the baby had gone, but there remained this vast + apparatus of pride and pity and love. For the dead, who seemed to take + away so much, really take with them nothing that is ours. The passion they + have aroused lives after them, easy to transmute or to transfer, but + well-nigh impossible to destroy. And Philip knew that he was still + voyaging on the same magnificent, perilous sea, with the sun or the clouds + above him, and the tides below. + </p> + <p> + The course of the moment—that, at all events, was certain. He and no + one else must take the news to Gino. It was easy to talk of Harriet’s + crime—easy also to blame the negligent Perfetta or Mrs. Herriton at + home. Every one had contributed—even Miss Abbott and Irma. If one + chose, one might consider the catastrophe composite or the work of fate. + But Philip did not so choose. It was his own fault, due to acknowledged + weakness in his own character. Therefore he, and no one else, must take + the news of it to Gino. + </p> + <p> + Nothing prevented him. Miss Abbott was engaged with Harriet, and people + had sprung out of the darkness and were conducting them towards some + cottage. Philip had only to get into the uninjured carriage and order the + driver to return. He was back at Monteriano after a two hours’ absence. + Perfetta was in the house now, and greeted him cheerfully. Pain, physical + and mental, had made him stupid. It was some time before he realized that + she had never missed the child. + </p> + <p> + Gino was still out. The woman took him to the reception-room, just as she + had taken Miss Abbott in the morning, and dusted a circle for him on one + of the horsehair chairs. But it was dark now, so she left the guest a + little lamp. + </p> + <p> + “I will be as quick as I can,” she told him. “But there are many streets + in Monteriano; he is sometimes difficult to find. I could not find him + this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Go first to the Caffe Garibaldi,” said Philip, remembering that this was + the hour appointed by his friends of yesterday. + </p> + <p> + He occupied the time he was left alone not in thinking—there was + nothing to think about; he simply had to tell a few facts—but in + trying to make a sling for his broken arm. The trouble was in the + elbow-joint, and as long as he kept this motionless he could go on as + usual. But inflammation was beginning, and the slightest jar gave him + agony. The sling was not fitted before Gino leapt up the stairs, crying— + </p> + <p> + “So you are back! How glad I am! We are all waiting—” + </p> + <p> + Philip had seen too much to be nervous. In low, even tones he told what + had happened; and the other, also perfectly calm, heard him to the end. In + the silence Perfetta called up that she had forgotten the baby’s evening + milk; she must fetch it. When she had gone Gino took up the lamp without a + word, and they went into the other room. + </p> + <p> + “My sister is ill,” said Philip, “and Miss Abbott is guiltless. I should + be glad if you did not have to trouble them.” + </p> + <p> + Gino had stooped down by the way, and was feeling the place where his son + had lain. Now and then he frowned a little and glanced at Philip. + </p> + <p> + “It is through me,” he continued. “It happened because I was cowardly and + idle. I have come to know what you will do.” + </p> + <p> + Gino had left the rug, and began to pat the table from the end, as if he + was blind. The action was so uncanny that Philip was driven to intervene. + </p> + <p> + “Gently, man, gently; he is not here.” + </p> + <p> + He went up and touched him on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + He twitched away, and began to pass his hands over things more rapidly—over + the table, the chairs, the entire floor, the walls as high as he could + reach them. Philip had not presumed to comfort him. But now the tension + was too great—he tried. + </p> + <p> + “Break down, Gino; you must break down. Scream and curse and give in for a + little; you must break down.” + </p> + <p> + There was no reply, and no cessation of the sweeping hands. + </p> + <p> + “It is time to be unhappy. Break down or you will be ill like my sister. + You will go—” + </p> + <p> + The tour of the room was over. He had touched everything in it except + Philip. Now he approached him. He face was that of a man who has lost his + old reason for life and seeks a new one. + </p> + <p> + “Gino!” + </p> + <p> + He stopped for a moment; then he came nearer. Philip stood his ground. + </p> + <p> + “You are to do what you like with me, Gino. Your son is dead, Gino. He + died in my arms, remember. It does not excuse me; but he did die in my + arms.” + </p> + <p> + The left hand came forward, slowly this time. It hovered before Philip + like an insect. Then it descended and gripped him by his broken elbow. + </p> + <p> + Philip struck out with all the strength of his other arm. Gino fell to the + blow without a cry or a word. + </p> + <p> + “You brute!” exclaimed the Englishman. “Kill me if you like! But just you + leave my broken arm alone.” + </p> + <p> + Then he was seized with remorse, and knelt beside his adversary and tried + to revive him. He managed to raise him up, and propped his body against + his own. He passed his arm round him. Again he was filled with pity and + tenderness. He awaited the revival without fear, sure that both of them + were safe at last. + </p> + <p> + Gino recovered suddenly. His lips moved. For one blessed moment it seemed + that he was going to speak. But he scrambled up in silence, remembering + everything, and he made not towards Philip, but towards the lamp. + </p> + <p> + “Do what you like; but think first—” + </p> + <p> + The lamp was tossed across the room, out through the loggia. It broke + against one of the trees below. Philip began to cry out in the dark. + </p> + <p> + Gino approached from behind and gave him a sharp pinch. Philip spun round + with a yell. He had only been pinched on the back, but he knew what was in + store for him. He struck out, exhorting the devil to fight him, to kill + him, to do anything but this. Then he stumbled to the door. It was open. + He lost his head, and, instead of turning down the stairs, he ran across + the landing into the room opposite. There he lay down on the floor between + the stove and the skirting-board. + </p> + <p> + His senses grew sharper. He could hear Gino coming in on tiptoe. He even + knew what was passing in his mind, how now he was at fault, now he was + hopeful, now he was wondering whether after all the victim had not escaped + down the stairs. There was a quick swoop above him, and then a low growl + like a dog’s. Gino had broken his finger-nails against the stove. + </p> + <p> + Physical pain is almost too terrible to bear. We can just bear it when it + comes by accident or for our good—as it generally does in modern + life—except at school. But when it is caused by the malignity of a + man, full grown, fashioned like ourselves, all our control disappears. + Philip’s one thought was to get away from that room at whatever sacrifice + of nobility or pride. + </p> + <p> + Gino was now at the further end of the room, groping by the little tables. + Suddenly the instinct came to him. He crawled quickly to where Philip lay + and had him clean by the elbow. + </p> + <p> + The whole arm seemed red-hot, and the broken bone grated in the joint, + sending out shoots of the essence of pain. His other arm was pinioned + against the wall, and Gino had trampled in behind the stove and was + kneeling on his legs. For the space of a minute he yelled and yelled with + all the force of his lungs. Then this solace was denied him. The other + hand, moist and strong, began to close round his throat. + </p> + <p> + At first he was glad, for here, he thought, was death at last. But it was + only a new torture; perhaps Gino inherited the skill of his ancestors—and + childlike ruffians who flung each other from the towers. Just as the + windpipe closed, the hand fell off, and Philip was revived by the motion + of his arm. And just as he was about to faint and gain at last one moment + of oblivion, the motion stopped, and he would struggle instead against the + pressure on his throat. + </p> + <p> + Vivid pictures were dancing through the pain—Lilia dying some months + back in this very house, Miss Abbott bending over the baby, his mother at + home, now reading evening prayers to the servants. He felt that he was + growing weaker; his brain wandered; the agony did not seem so great. Not + all Gino’s care could indefinitely postpone the end. His yells and gurgles + became mechanical—functions of the tortured flesh rather than true + notes of indignation and despair. He was conscious of a horrid tumbling. + Then his arm was pulled a little too roughly, and everything was quiet at + last. + </p> + <p> + “But your son is dead, Gino. Your son is dead, dear Gino. Your son is + dead.” + </p> + <p> + The room was full of light, and Miss Abbott had Gino by the shoulders, + holding him down in a chair. She was exhausted with the struggle, and her + arms were trembling. + </p> + <p> + “What is the good of another death? What is the good of more pain?” + </p> + <p> + He too began to tremble. Then he turned and looked curiously at Philip, + whose face, covered with dust and foam, was visible by the stove. Miss + Abbott allowed him to get up, though she still held him firmly. He gave a + loud and curious cry—a cry of interrogation it might be called. + Below there was the noise of Perfetta returning with the baby’s milk. + </p> + <p> + “Go to him,” said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip. “Pick him up. Treat him + kindly.” + </p> + <p> + She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His eyes were filling + with trouble. He bent down, as if he would gently raise him up. + </p> + <p> + “Help! help!” moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino. It + could not bear to be touched by him. + </p> + <p> + Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbott + herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the foul devil!” he murmured. “Kill him! Kill him for me.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face. Then she + said gravely to them both, “This thing stops here.” + </p> + <p> + “Latte! latte!” cried Perfetta, hilariously ascending the stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Remember,” she continued, “there is to be no revenge. I will have no more + intentional evil. We are not to fight with each other any more.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never forgive him,” sighed Philip. + </p> + <p> + “Latte! latte freschissima! bianca come neve!” Perfetta came in with + another lamp and a little jug. + </p> + <p> + Gino spoke for the first time. “Put the milk on the table,” he said. “It + will not be wanted in the other room.” The peril was over at last. A great + sob shook the whole body, another followed, and then he gave a piercing + cry of woe, and stumbled towards Miss Abbott like a child and clung to + her. + </p> + <p> + All through the day Miss Abbott had seemed to Philip like a goddess, and + more than ever did she seem so now. Many people look younger and more + intimate during great emotion. But some there are who look older, and + remote, and he could not think that there was little difference in years, + and none in composition, between her and the man whose head was laid upon + her breast. Her eyes were open, full of infinite pity and full of majesty, + as if they discerned the boundaries of sorrow, and saw unimaginable tracts + beyond. Such eyes he had seen in great pictures but never in a mortal. Her + hands were folded round the sufferer, stroking him lightly, for even a + goddess can do no more than that. And it seemed fitting, too, that she + should bend her head and touch his forehead with her lips. + </p> + <p> + Philip looked away, as he sometimes looked away from the great pictures + where visible forms suddenly become inadequate for the things they have + shown to us. He was happy; he was assured that there was greatness in the + world. There came to him an earnest desire to be good through the example + of this good woman. He would try henceforward to be worthy of the things + she had revealed. Quietly, without hysterical prayers or banging of drums, + he underwent conversion. He was saved. + </p> + <p> + “That milk,” said she, “need not be wasted. Take it, Signor Carella, and + persuade Mr. Herriton to drink.” + </p> + <p> + Gino obeyed her, and carried the child’s milk to Philip. And Philip obeyed + also and drank. + </p> + <p> + “Is there any left?” + </p> + <p> + “A little,” answered Gino. + </p> + <p> + “Then finish it.” For she was determined to use such remnants as lie about + the world. + </p> + <p> + “Will you not have some?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not care for milk; finish it all.” + </p> + <p> + “Philip, have you had enough milk?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, thank you, Gino; finish it all.” + </p> + <p> + He drank the milk, and then, either by accident or in some spasm of pain, + broke the jug to pieces. Perfetta exclaimed in bewilderment. “It does not + matter,” he told her. “It does not matter. It will never be wanted any + more.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter 10 + </h2> + <p> + “He will have to marry her,” said Philip. “I heard from him this morning, + just as we left Milan. He finds he has gone too far to back out. It would + be expensive. I don’t know how much he minds—not as much as we + suppose, I think. At all events there’s not a word of blame in the letter. + I don’t believe he even feels angry. I never was so completely forgiven. + Ever since you stopped him killing me, it has been a vision of perfect + friendship. He nursed me, he lied for me at the inquest, and at the + funeral, though he was crying, you would have thought it was my son who + had died. Certainly I was the only person he had to be kind to; he was so + distressed not to make Harriet’s acquaintance, and that he scarcely saw + anything of you. In his letter he says so again.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank him, please, when you write,” said Miss Abbott, “and give him my + kindest regards.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I will.” He was surprised that she could slide away from the man + so easily. For his own part, he was bound by ties of almost alarming + intimacy. Gino had the southern knack of friendship. In the intervals of + business he would pull out Philip’s life, turn it inside out, remodel it, + and advise him how to use it for the best. The sensation was pleasant, for + he was a kind as well as a skilful operator. But Philip came away feeling + that he had not a secret corner left. In that very letter Gino had again + implored him, as a refuge from domestic difficulties, “to marry Miss + Abbott, even if her dowry is small.” And how Miss Abbott herself, after + such tragic intercourse, could resume the conventions and send calm + messages of esteem, was more than he could understand. + </p> + <p> + “When will you see him again?” she asked. They were standing together in + the corridor of the train, slowly ascending out of Italy towards the San + Gothard tunnel. + </p> + <p> + “I hope next spring. Perhaps we shall paint Siena red for a day or two + with some of the new wife’s money. It was one of the arguments for + marrying her.” + </p> + <p> + “He has no heart,” she said severely. “He does not really mind about the + child at all.” + </p> + <p> + “No; you’re wrong. He does. He is unhappy, like the rest of us. But he + doesn’t try to keep up appearances as we do. He knows that the things that + have made him happy once will probably make him happy again—” + </p> + <p> + “He said he would never be happy again.” + </p> + <p> + “In his passion. Not when he was calm. We English say it when we are calm—when + we do not really believe it any longer. Gino is not ashamed of + inconsistency. It is one of the many things I like him for.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I was wrong. That is so.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s much more honest with himself than I am,” continued Philip, “and he + is honest without an effort and without pride. But you, Miss Abbott, what + about you? Will you be in Italy next spring?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry. When will you come back, do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “I think never.” + </p> + <p> + “For whatever reason?” He stared at her as if she were some monstrosity. + </p> + <p> + “Because I understand the place. There is no need.” + </p> + <p> + “Understand Italy!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t. And I don’t understand you,” he murmured to himself, as he + paced away from her up the corridor. By this time he loved her very much, + and he could not bear to be puzzled. He had reached love by the spiritual + path: her thoughts and her goodness and her nobility had moved him first, + and now her whole body and all its gestures had become transfigured by + them. The beauties that are called obvious—the beauties of her hair + and her voice and her limbs—he had noticed these last; Gino, who + never traversed any path at all, had commended them dispassionately to his + friend. + </p> + <p> + Why was he so puzzling? He had known so much about her once—what she + thought, how she felt, the reasons for her actions. And now he only knew + that he loved her, and all the other knowledge seemed passing from him + just as he needed it most. Why would she never come to Italy again? Why + had she avoided himself and Gino ever since the evening that she had saved + their lives? The train was nearly empty. Harriet slumbered in a + compartment by herself. He must ask her these questions now, and he + returned quickly to her down the corridor. + </p> + <p> + She greeted him with a question of her own. “Are your plans decided?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I can’t live at Sawston.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you told Mrs. Herriton?” + </p> + <p> + “I wrote from Monteriano. I tried to explain things; but she will never + understand me. Her view will be that the affair is settled—sadly + settled since the baby is dead. Still it’s over; our family circle need be + vexed no more. She won’t even be angry with you. You see, you have done us + no harm in the long run. Unless, of course, you talk about Harriet and + make a scandal. So that is my plan—London and work. What is yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Harriet!” said Miss Abbott. “As if I dare judge Harriet! Or + anybody.” And without replying to Philip’s question she left him to visit + the other invalid. + </p> + <p> + Philip gazed after her mournfully, and then he looked mournfully out of + the window at the decreasing streams. All the excitement was over—the + inquest, Harriet’s short illness, his own visit to the surgeon. He was + convalescent, both in body and spirit, but convalescence brought no joy. + In the looking-glass at the end of the corridor he saw his face haggard, + and his shoulders pulled forward by the weight of the sling. Life was + greater than he had supposed, but it was even less complete. He had seen + the need for strenuous work and for righteousness. And now he saw what a + very little way those things would go. + </p> + <p> + “Is Harriet going to be all right?” he asked. Miss Abbott had come back to + him. + </p> + <p> + “She will soon be her old self,” was the reply. For Harriet, after a short + paroxysm of illness and remorse, was quickly returning to her normal + state. She had been “thoroughly upset” as she phrased it, but she soon + ceased to realize that anything was wrong beyond the death of a poor + little child. Already she spoke of “this unlucky accident,” and “the + mysterious frustration of one’s attempts to make things better.” Miss + Abbott had seen that she was comfortable, and had given her a kind kiss. + But she returned feeling that Harriet, like her mother, considered the + affair as settled. + </p> + <p> + “I’m clear enough about Harriet’s future, and about parts of my own. But I + ask again, What about yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Sawston and work,” said Miss Abbott. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” she asked, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve seen too much. You’ve seen as much and done more than I have.” + </p> + <p> + “But it’s so different. Of course I shall go to Sawston. You forget my + father; and even if he wasn’t there, I’ve a hundred ties: my district—I’m + neglecting it shamefully—my evening classes, the St. James’—” + </p> + <p> + “Silly nonsense!” he exploded, suddenly moved to have the whole thing out + with her. “You’re too good—about a thousand times better than I am. + You can’t live in that hole; you must go among people who can hope to + understand you. I mind for myself. I want to see you often—again and + again.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course we shall meet whenever you come down; and I hope that it will + mean often.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not enough; it’ll only be in the old horrible way, each with a dozen + relatives round us. No, Miss Abbott; it’s not good enough.” + </p> + <p> + “We can write at all events.” + </p> + <p> + “You will write?” he cried, with a flush of pleasure. At times his hopes + seemed so solid. + </p> + <p> + “I will indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “But I say it’s not enough—you can’t go back to the old life if you + wanted to. Too much has happened.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that,” she said sadly. + </p> + <p> + “Not only pain and sorrow, but wonderful things: that tower in the + sunlight—do you remember it, and all you said to me? The theatre, + even. And the next day—in the church; and our times with Gino.” + </p> + <p> + “All the wonderful things are over,” she said. “That is just where it is.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it. At all events not for me. The most wonderful things + may be to come—” + </p> + <p> + “The wonderful things are over,” she repeated, and looked at him so + mournfully that he dare not contradict her. The train was crawling up the + last ascent towards the Campanile of Airolo and the entrance of the + tunnel. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Abbott,” he murmured, speaking quickly, as if their free intercourse + might soon be ended, “what is the matter with you? I thought I understood + you, and I don’t. All those two great first days at Monteriano I read you + as clearly as you read me still. I saw why you had come, and why you + changed sides, and afterwards I saw your wonderful courage and pity. And + now you’re frank with me one moment, as you used to be, and the next + moment you shut me up. You see I owe too much to you—my life, and I + don’t know what besides. I won’t stand it. You’ve gone too far to turn + mysterious. I’ll quote what you said to me: ‘Don’t be mysterious; there + isn’t the time.’ I’ll quote something else: ‘I and my life must be where I + live.’ You can’t live at Sawston.” + </p> + <p> + He had moved her at last. She whispered to herself hurriedly. “It is + tempting—” And those three words threw him into a tumult of joy. + What was tempting to her? After all was the greatest of things possible? + Perhaps, after long estrangement, after much tragedy, the South had + brought them together in the end. That laughter in the theatre, those + silver stars in the purple sky, even the violets of a departed spring, all + had helped, and sorrow had helped also, and so had tenderness to others. + </p> + <p> + “It is tempting,” she repeated, “not to be mysterious. I’ve wanted often + to tell you, and then been afraid. I could never tell any one else, + certainly no woman, and I think you’re the one man who might understand + and not be disgusted.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you lonely?” he whispered. “Is it anything like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” The train seemed to shake him towards her. He was resolved that + though a dozen people were looking, he would yet take her in his arms. + “I’m terribly lonely, or I wouldn’t speak. I think you must know already.” + Their faces were crimson, as if the same thought was surging through them + both. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I do.” He came close to her. “Perhaps I could speak instead. But + if you will say the word plainly you’ll never be sorry; I will thank you + for it all my life.” + </p> + <p> + She said plainly, “That I love him.” Then she broke down. Her body was + shaken with sobs, and lest there should be any doubt she cried between the + sobs for Gino! Gino! Gino! + </p> + <p> + He heard himself remark “Rather! I love him too! When I can forget how he + hurt me that evening. Though whenever we shake hands—” One of them + must have moved a step or two, for when she spoke again she was already a + little way apart. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve upset me.” She stifled something that was perilously near + hysterics. “I thought I was past all this. You’re taking it wrongly. I’m + in love with Gino—don’t pass it off—I mean it crudely—you + know what I mean. So laugh at me.” + </p> + <p> + “Laugh at love?” asked Philip. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Pull it to pieces. Tell me I’m a fool or worse—that he’s a + cad. Say all you said when Lilia fell in love with him. That’s the help I + want. I dare tell you this because I like you—and because you’re + without passion; you look on life as a spectacle; you don’t enter it; you + only find it funny or beautiful. So I can trust you to cure me. Mr. + Herriton, isn’t it funny?” She tried to laugh herself, but became + frightened and had to stop. “He’s not a gentleman, nor a Christian, nor + good in any way. He’s never flattered me nor honoured me. But because he’s + handsome, that’s been enough. The son of an Italian dentist, with a pretty + face.” She repeated the phrase as if it was a charm against passion. “Oh, + Mr. Herriton, isn’t it funny!” Then, to his relief, she began to cry. “I + love him, and I’m not ashamed of it. I love him, and I’m going to Sawston, + and if I mayn’t speak about him to you sometimes, I shall die.” + </p> + <p> + In that terrible discovery Philip managed to think not of himself but of + her. He did not lament. He did not even speak to her kindly, for he saw + that she could not stand it. A flippant reply was what she asked and + needed—something flippant and a little cynical. And indeed it was + the only reply he could trust himself to make. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it is what the books call ‘a passing fancy’?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. Even this question was too pathetic. For as far as she + knew anything about herself, she knew that her passions, once aroused, + were sure. “If I saw him often,” she said, “I might remember what he is + like. Or he might grow old. But I dare not risk it, so nothing can alter + me now.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if the fancy does pass, let me know.” After all, he could say what + he wanted. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you shall know quick enough—” + </p> + <p> + “But before you retire to Sawston—are you so mighty sure?” + </p> + <p> + “What of?” She had stopped crying. He was treating her exactly as she had + hoped. + </p> + <p> + “That you and he—” He smiled bitterly at the thought of them + together. Here was the cruel antique malice of the gods, such as they once + sent forth against Pasiphae. Centuries of aspiration and culture—and + the world could not escape it. “I was going to say—whatever have you + got in common?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing except the times we have seen each other.” Again her face was + crimson. He turned his own face away. + </p> + <p> + “Which—which times?” + </p> + <p> + “The time I thought you weak and heedless, and went instead of you to get + the baby. That began it, as far as I know the beginning. Or it may have + begun when you took us to the theatre, and I saw him mixed up with music + and light. But didn’t understand till the morning. Then you opened the + door—and I knew why I had been so happy. Afterwards, in the church, + I prayed for us all; not for anything new, but that we might just be as we + were—he with the child he loved, you and I and Harriet safe out of + the place—and that I might never see him or speak to him again. I + could have pulled through then—the thing was only coming near, like + a wreath of smoke; it hadn’t wrapped me round.” + </p> + <p> + “But through my fault,” said Philip solemnly, “he is parted from the child + he loves. And because my life was in danger you came and saw him and spoke + to him again.” For the thing was even greater than she imagined. Nobody + but himself would ever see round it now. And to see round it he was + standing at an immense distance. He could even be glad that she had once + held the beloved in her arms. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk of ‘faults.’ You’re my friend for ever, Mr. Herriton, I think. + Only don’t be charitable and shift or take the blame. Get over supposing + I’m refined. That’s what puzzles you. Get over that.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke she seemed to be transfigured, and to have indeed no part with + refinement or unrefinement any longer. Out of this wreck there was + revealed to him something indestructible—something which she, who + had given it, could never take away. + </p> + <p> + “I say again, don’t be charitable. If he had asked me, I might have given + myself body and soul. That would have been the end of my rescue party. But + all through he took me for a superior being—a goddess. I who was + worshipping every inch of him, and every word he spoke. And that saved + me.” + </p> + <p> + Philip’s eyes were fixed on the Campanile of Airolo. But he saw instead + the fair myth of Endymion. This woman was a goddess to the end. For her no + love could be degrading: she stood outside all degradation. This episode, + which she thought so sordid, and which was so tragic for him, remained + supremely beautiful. To such a height was he lifted, that without regret + he could now have told her that he was her worshipper too. But what was + the use of telling her? For all the wonderful things had happened. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” was all that he permitted himself. “Thank you for + everything.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with great friendliness, for he had made her life + endurable. At that moment the train entered the San Gothard tunnel. They + hurried back to the carriage to close the windows lest the smuts should + get into Harriet’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s Where Angels Fear to Tread, by E. M. Forster + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD *** + +***** This file should be named 2948-h.htm or 2948-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/4/2948/ + +Produced by Richard Fane, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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