 CHAPTER 8 Mad Screamed Harriet Absolutely stark, staring, raving mad. Philip judged it better, not to contradict her. What's she here for? Answer me that. What's she doing in Montoriano 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! 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. Then why has she come here? Answer me that. He made no answer, but fortunately his sister was too much agitated to wait for one. First stinging on me, crying and looking a disgusting sight and said 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. Harriton, 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. Bob governed his temper. His sister was annoying but quite reasonable in her indignation. Moreover, Miss Abbott had behaved even worse than she supposed. I've not got the baby, Harriet, but at the same time I haven't exactly failed. I and Senior Corella are to have another interview this afternoon at the Cafe Garibaldi. He is perfectly reasonable and pleasant. Should you be disposed to come with me, you would find him quite willing to discuss things. Harriet 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. 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 stem Caroline. Oh, poor Lillia. Bob drummed on the bedroom window sill. He saw no escape from the deadlock. Further he spoke cheerfully about his second interview with Geno. He felt at the bottom of his heart that it would fail. Geno 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. Miss Abbott has behaved extraordinarily, he said at last, but at the same time his sister would not hear him. She burst forth again on the madness, the interference, the intolerable duplicity of Caroline. Harriet, you must listen. My dear, you must stop crying. I have something quite important to say. I shall not stop crying, said she. But in time, finding that he would not speak to her, she did stop. 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. Well, she isn't. Yes, but if you're careful she may be. I interpret her behavior thus. She went to see him, honestly intending to get the child away. In the note she left me, she said so, and I don't believe she'd lie. I do. 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. I don't understand your long words. Say plainly. 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. Disgusting. Harriet's ejaculations were more aggravating than the rest of her, but Philip was averse to losing his temper. The excess 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. 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. There can be no peace between me and her, said Harriet gloomily. Did you—oh, not all I wanted. She went away before I had finished speaking, just like those cowardly people, into the church. Into Santa Deodatas? Yes, I'm sure she needs it. Anything more un-christian 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 Montariana 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. 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 Publico, the collegiate church, and the Cafe Garibaldi, the intellect, the soul, and the body—had never looked more charming. For a moment Philip stood in its center, 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 Deodatus to continue his mission. 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 worshipers. The Sacristan himself had propped a ladder in the center of the deluge, which fills one of the nave's spandrels, and was freeing a column from its wealth of scarlet calico. Much scarlet calico also lay upon a floor, for the church can look as fine as any theater, and the Sacristan's little daughter was trying to fold it up. She was wearing a chintzel 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 cannons, and unhooked it just before the festa began, and had given it to the Sacristan's daughter. Please, Cred Phillip, is there an English lady here? The man's mouth was full of tindacs, but he nodded cheerfully towards a kneeling figure. In the midst of this confusion Miss Abbot was praying. 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 chorus 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 Santo de Adatas, where a prayer to God is thought none the worse, because it comes next to a pleasant word to a neighbor. 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. I have 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. And please believe that I have not come to scold you, said Phillip. I know what has happened. What, asked Miss Abbot? Instinctively she led the way to the famous chapel. The fifth chapel on the right, wherein Giovanni d'Ampoli, has painted the death and burial of the saint. Here they could sit out of the dust and the noise and proceed with the discussion which promised to be important. What might have happened to me? He had made you believe that he loved the child. Oh, yes, he has. He will never give it up. At present it is still unsettled. It will never be settled. Perhaps not. But 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. I can do no more, she said, but I tell you plainly I have changed sides. If you do no more, that is all we want. You promise not to prejudice our cause by speaking to Senior Corella? Oh, certainly. I don't want to speak to him again. I shan't ever see him again. Quite nice, wasn't he? Quite. Well, that's all I wanted to know. I'll go until Harriet, if you promise, and I think things will quiet down now. 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. Why aren't you angry with me? she asked after a pause, because I understand you. All sides I think Harriet, Senior Corella, even my mother. You do understand wonderfully. You are the only one of us who has a general view of the muddle. He smiled with pleasure. It was the first time she had ever praised him. His eyes rested agreeably on Santo de Adata 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 low she had a vision. The head and shoulders of St. Augustine were sliding like some miraculous enamel along the roughcast wall. It is a gentle saint who is content with half another saint to see her die. In her death as in her life Santo de Adata did not accomplish much. So what are we going to do, Sidmus Abbot? Philip started not so much at the words as had the sudden change in the voice. Do, he echoed rather dismayed, this afternoon I have another interview. It will come to nothing. Well, then another. If that fails I shall wire home for instructions. I dare say we may fail altogether, but we shall fail honorably. 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, That's not doing anything. You'll be doing something if you kidnap the baby, or if you went straight away. But that, to fail honorably, to come out of the thing as well as you can. Is that all you're after? Why, yes, he stammered. Since we talk openly, that is all I am after just now. What else is there? If I can persuade Senior Corrella 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? 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 Sostom 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 honorable failure, which means simply not thinking and not acting at all. Because I understand the position of Senior Corrella and of you, it's no reason that 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? Anyone 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 inside 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. You are wonderful, you said gravely. 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 were 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. Harrington, that I can't bear to see you wasted. I can't bear. She has not been good to you, your mother. Miss Abbott, don't worry over me. Some people are not born to do things. I'm one of them. I never did anything at school or at the bar. I came out to stop Lily as marriage, and it was too late. I came out intending to get the baby, and I shall return an honorable failure. I never expect anything to happen now, and so I'm never disappointed. You'd 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 faith'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're 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. She said solemnly, I wish something would happen to you, my dear friend. I wish something would happen to you. But why, he asked, smiling, prove to me why I don't do as I am. 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. 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 was not unreasonable. She tried to avoid even the suspicion of satire in her replies, but Harriet was sure that she was a tyrical because she was so calm. She got more and more violent and Philip at one time feared that she would come to blows. 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 the book. I retire to pack, said Harriet. This reminds Senior Corella Philip that the baby is to be here by half past eight this evening. Oh, certainly, Harriet. I shall make a point of reminding him. And order a carriage to take us to the evening train. And, please, Miss Abbott, would you order a carriage for me, too? You going, he exclaimed. Of course, she replied suddenly, flushing. Why not? Why, of course he 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. Order my carriage for the evening train, said Harriet, and depart in. Well, I suppose I shall. And I shall also have my interview with Senior Corella. Miss Abbott gave a little sigh. But why should you mind? Do you suppose that I shall have the slightest influence over him? 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. 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 splendor of it, even the humor. Geno sitting up here on the mountaintop with his cub, we come and ask for it. He welcomes us. We ask for it again. He is equally pleasant. I am 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. 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 forever? 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 Ms. Abbott was right. The baby had better stop where it was loved, and that probably was what the fates had decreed. He felt very little interest in the matter, and he was sure that he had no influence. It was not surprising, therefore, that the interview at the Catholic 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're right, he said. This affair is being managed by the ladies. 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 stripe was over. 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? My poor fellow, I will. You laid a sympathetic hand on Philip's knee, 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. Harriot. Mia Cerella, he exclaimed. Gino, much amused, laid his hand upon the little table, and beat the marble humorously with his fists. Harriot turned away and began gloomily to inspect the Palazzo Pubblico. Poor Harriot, said Philip, swallowing the sugar. One more wrench, and it will be all over for her. We're leaving this evening. Gino was sorry for this. Then you will not be here this evening as you promised us. All three leaving? 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 am afraid I shan't be here. They watched the departing figure of Harriot 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. Harritan, should he send her his sympathetic regards? No, perhaps that would hardly do. 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 things 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. Harriet, however, talked little. She had seen enough to know that her brother had failed again, and with unwanted dignity she accepted the situation. She did her packing, she wrote up her diary, she made a brown paper cover for the new Baytaker, but finding her so amenable, tried to discuss their future plans. But she only said that they would sleep in Florence, and told them to telegraph her rooms. They had supper alone. Miss Abbott did not come down. The landlady told them that senior Carella had called on Miss Abbott to say goodbye, 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. 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. Yes, do, said Philip, who was standing in the hall. Now that we have crawled, we scarcely want to travel in procession all the way down the hill. Well, goodbye, it's all over at last. Another scene in my pageant has shifted. Goodbye, it's been a great pleasure to see you. I hope that won't shift at all events. She gripped his hand. You sound despondent, he said, laughing. Don't forget that you return victorious. 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 Sauston, whether her fame would doubtless precede her. Whatever would Mrs. Harriton 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 Abel was bound to have a bad time. Her reputation, both for consistency and for moral enthusiasm, would be lost forever. 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? 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 a 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. Santo 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 Sr. Carellus to say goodbye to her little nephew. Philip did not think it lightly. 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. Montariana was sad without her. The rain was thickening. The scraps of Donizetti floated tunelessly out of the wine-shops. And of the great power opposite, he could only see the base fresh paper. Montariana was sad without her. The rain was thickening. The scraps of Donizetti floated tunelessly out of the wine-shops. And of the great tower opposite, he could only see the base fresh paper with the advertisements of quacks. A man came up the street with a note. Philip rent. Start at once. Pick me up outside the gate. Pay the bear. H. H. Did the lady give you this note? He cried. The man was unintelligible. Speak up! exclaimed Philip. Who gave it you? And where? Nothing but horrible sirens and bubblings came out of the man. 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. Philip then saw that the messenger was a ghastly creature quite bald, with trickling eyes and gray twitching nose. In a other country he would have been shut up. Here he was accepted as a public institution and part of nature's scheme. Ah, shuddered the Englishman. Senior Arpadrona. Find out from him. This note is for my sister. What does it mean? Where did he see her? It is no good, said the landlady. He understands everything, but he can explain nothing. He has visions of the saints, said the man who drove the cab. But my sister, where has she gone? How has she met him? 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 Sienna Gate. Many of my guests do this. There was nothing to do but 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. Go on, cried Philip, I have paid him plenty. A horrible hand pushed three soul-de into his lap. It was part of the idiot's malady only to receive what was just for his services. This was a change out of the nickel piece. 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 Sienna 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. What am I to do? he cried. It is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train. Let us drive slowly, said the driver, and you should call her by name as we go. 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. Harriet, why don't you answer? I heard you coming, said she, and got quickly in. Not till then did he see that she carried a bundle. What's that? Hush! Whatever is that? Hush! Sleeping! Harriet had succeeded, when Miss Abbott and Philip had failed. It was the baby. 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. 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 somber and unexpected clothes. You've been pretty secret, he said. You might tell me a little now. What do we pay for him, all we've got? Hush! answered Harriet and dandled the bundle laboriously like some bony prophetess, Judith or Deborah or Jayael. 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 in the silent rain, filled him with sorrow and with the expectation of sorrow to come. Montariana 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 traveled 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. Look here, Harriet, he said at last, I feel bad, I want to see the baby. Hush! I don't mind if I do wake him up, I want to see him. I have as much right in him as you. Harriet gave him, 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 lit a match under the shelter of her umbrella. But he's awake, he exclaimed. The match went out. Go ahead, go quiet, boysy, then. Philip winced. His face, do you know, struck me as all wrong. All wrong? All puckered, queerly. Of course, with the shadows you couldn't see him. Well, hold him up again, she did so. He lit another match and went out quickly, but not before he had seen that the baby was crying. Nonsense! said Harriet sharply. We should hear him if he cried. No, he's crying hard, I thought so before, and I'm certain now. 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. 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 Propheta to carry it to the hotel instead of modeling with a messenger? It's a marvel he understood about the note. Oh, he understands. And he could feel her shudder. He tried to carry the baby. But why not Gina or Propheta? Philip don't talk. Must I say it again? Don't talk. The baby wants to sleep. She crewed 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 traveling with the whole world's sorrow, as if all the mystery, all the persi... It was as if they were traveling with the whole world's sorrow, as if all the mystery, all the persist... 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 zig-zags into the night. He knew the landmarks pretty well. Here was a crossroad to Pogibonsi in the last few of Montariano. If they had light would be from here. Soon they ought to come to that little wood where violets were so plentiful in the 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. I suppose he breathes and all that sort of thing, he said. Of course it Harriet in an angry whisper. You've started him again. I'm certain he was asleep. I do wish he wouldn't talk. It makes me so nervous. I'm nervous too. I wish he'd scream. It's too uncanny. Poor Gino. I'm terribly sorry for Gino. Are you? 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. Naturally enough she made no answer. You despise him Harriet, and you despise me. But you do us no good by it. We fools want someone to set us on our feet. Suppose a really decent woman had set up Gino. I believe Caroline Abbott might have done it. Might he have been another man? 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. 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. Oh, I don't want all that bother. Try again. 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. 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 a grey road. The accident had taken place in the wood where it was even darker than in the open. Are you all right? He managed to say. Harriet was screaming. The horse was kicking. The driver was cursing some other man. Harriet's screams became coherent. The baby. The baby. It slipped. It's gone from my arms. I stole it. God help me, said Philip. A cold circle came around his mouth and he fainted. 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. Keep still, he commanded the driver. Let no one move. We may tread on it. Keep still. For a moment they all obeyed him. He began to crawl to 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 uningered hand. At last he succeeded and the light fell upon the bundle which he was seeking. 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 linked the ways it would have disappeared and he might never have found it. I stole it. I in the idiot. No one was there. She burst out laughing. He sat down and laid in 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 or breath. 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. 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. 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. End of chapter 8. Orangels fear to tread. Chapter 9. Orangels fear to tread by E. M. Forster. Read for you by Julie Pandia. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Orangels fear to tread. Chapter 9. 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 the 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 to the 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. As he had he could scarcely survey the thing. It was too great. Round the Italian baby who had died in the mud there centered deep passions and high hopes. People had been wicked or wrong in the matter. No one safe 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 seem 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 not 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. 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 perfetto or Mrs. Harriton at home. Everyone 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 acknowledge weakness in his own character. Therefore he and no one else must take the news of it to Gino. 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 Montariano after a two-hour's absence. Profetto 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. 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 horse-hair chairs. But it was dark now, so she left the guest a little lamp. I will be as quick as I can, she told him. But there are many streets in Montariano. He is sometimes difficult to find. I could not find him this morning. Go first to the café Garibaldi, said Philip, remembering that this was the hour appointed by his friends of yesterday. 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, So you're aback! How glad I am! We're all waiting! 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. My sister is ill, said Philip, and Miss Abbott is guiltless. I should be glad if you did not have to trouble them. 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. It is through me he continued it happened because I was cowardly and idle. I have come to know what you will do. 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. Gently, man, gently he's not here. He went up and touched him on the shoulder. He twitched away and began to pass his hands over things more rapidly. Over the table the chair is 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. Break down Gino, you must break down. Scream and curse and give in for a little. You must break down. There is no reply and no cessation of the sweeping hands. It is time to be unhappy. Break down or you will be ill like my sister. You will go. The tour of the room was over. He touched everything in it except Philip. Now he approached him. His face was that of a man who has lost his old reason for life and seeks a new one. Gino! He stopped for a moment then he came nearer. Philip stood his ground. You were 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. 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. Philip struck out with all the strength of his other arm. Gino fell to the blow without a cry or a word. You brute! exclaimed the Englishman. Kill me if you like, but just you leave my broken arm alone. Then he was seized with remorse and knelt beside his adversary and tried to revive him. He managed to raise him up and prop 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. 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. Do what you like but think first. The lamp was tossed across the room out through the lochia. It broke against one of the trees below. Philip began to cry out in the dark. 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 it was in store for him. He struck out, exerting 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-borne. He sensed this 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 on the stairs. There was a quick swoop above him. Then a low growl like a dog's. Gino had broken his fingernails against the stove. Physical pain is almost too terrible to bear. We can just bear it when it comes by accident or far or good as it generally does in modern life except at school. But when it is caused by the malignity of a man, full grown fashion like ourselves, all our control disappears. Philip's one thought was to get away from that room at whatever sacrifice of nobility or pride. Gino is 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 cleaned by the elbow. 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 him 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. 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 head 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. Vivid pictures were dancing through the pain. Lillia dying some months back in this very house misabit 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 hard tumbling. Then his arm was pulled a little too roughly and everything was quiet at last. But your son is dead, Gino. Your son is dead, dear Gino. Your son is dead. The room was full of light and misabit had Gino by the shoulders holding him down in a chair. She was exhausted with the struggle and her arms were trembling. What is the good of another death? What is the good of more pain? 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. Misabit 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 prophetic returning with the baby's milk. Go to him, said Misabit, indicating Philip. Pick him up, treat him kindly. 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. Help! Help! moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino. It cannot bear to be touched by him. Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Misabit herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms. Oh, the foul devil he murmured. Kill him! Kill him for me! Misabit laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face. Then she said gravely to them both. This thing stops here. Lotte! Lotte! cried Propheta hilariously ascending the stairs. Remember, she continued, there is to be no revenge. I will have no more intentional evil. We are not to fight with each other anymore. I shall never forgive him, side Philip. Lotte! Lotte frescissima! Bianca comeneve! Propheta came in with another lamp and a little jug. Gino spoke for the first time. Put the milk on the table, he said. It will not be wanted in the other room. Pearl 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 Misabit like a child and clung to her. All through the day Misabit 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 discern the boundaries of sorrow and saw unimaginable tracks beyond. Such eyes he had seen in great pictures but never in a mortal. Her hands were folded around 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. Philip looked away as he sometimes looked away from the great pictures were visible for him 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 for 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. That milk, said she, need not be wasted. Take it, Sr. Corella, and persuade Mr. Harrington to drink. Gino obeyed her and carried the child's milk to Philip. And Philip obeyed also and drank. Is there any left? A little answered, Gino. And finish it, for she was determined to use such remnants as lie about the world. Will you not have some? I do not care for milk. Finish it all. Philip, have you had enough milk? Yes, thank you, Gino. Finish it all. He drank the milk, and then either by accident or in some spasm of pain broke the jug to pieces. Propheta exclaimed in bewilderment. It does not matter, he told her. It does not matter, it will never be wanted any more. End of Chapter 9. War Angel Sphere to Tread. Chapter 10. War Angel Sphere to Tread, by E. M. Forster. Read for you by Julie Pandia. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. War Angel Sphere to Tread. Chapter 10. 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 in 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. He 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. Thank him, please, when you write, said Miss Abbott, and give him my kindest regards. 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 skillful operator. But Philip came away feeling that he had not a secret corner left, and 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. 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 Sengothard Tunnel. I hope next spring, perhaps we shall paint Sienna red for a day or two as some of the new wife's money. It was one of the arguments for marrying her. He has no heart, she said, severely. He does not really mind about the child at all. 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. He said he would never be happy again. 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. You know, it is not ashamed of inconsistency. It is one of the many things I like him for. Yes, I was wrong, that is so. He is 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? No. I'm sorry, when will you come back, do you think? I think never. For whatever reason, he stared at her as if she was some monstrosity. Because I understand the place. There is no need. I understand Italy, he exclaimed. Perfectly. 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. 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. She greeted him with a question of her own. Are your plans decided? Yes, I can't live at Sauston. Have you told Mrs. Harriton? I wrote from Montoriano. I try 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 circled me 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? Poor Harriet's in this habit, as if I dared judge Harriet or anybody, and without replying to Philip's question she left him to visit the other invalid. Philip gazed after her mournfully, and then they 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. Is Harriet going to be all right? he asked. Miss Abbott had come back to him. 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. I'm clear enough about Harriet's future and about parts of my own, but I ask again, what about yours? Sauston and works in Miss Abbott? No. Why not? he asked, smiling. You've seen too much. You've seen as much and done more than I have. Of course I shall go to Sauston. You forget my father, and even if he wasn't there, I have a hundred ties. My district? I'm neglecting it shamefully. My evening classes, as St. James? Sittling 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. Of course we shall meet whenever you come down, and I hope that it will mean often. 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. We can write at all events. You'll write, he cried, with a flush of pleasure. At times this hope seems so solid. I will indeed. But I say it's not enough. You can't go back to the old life if you wanted to. Too much has happened. I know that, she said sadly. Not only pain and sorrow, but wonderful things. That tower in the sunlight, do you remember it? And all you've said to me? The theater even. And the next day in the church in our times with Gino? All the wonderful things are over, she said. That is just where it is. I don't believe it. At all events, not for me. The most wonderful things may be to come. 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 Arolo and the entrance of the tunnel. 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 Montoriano 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 it, Sauston. 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 at the end. That laughter in the theater, 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. It is tempting, she repeated, not to be mysterious. I've wanted often to tell you and then been afraid. I can never tell anyone else, certainly no woman, and I think you're the one man who might understand and not be disgusted. Are you lonely? he whispered. Is it anything like that? 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. The faces were crimson, as if the same thought was searching through them both. Perhaps I do, he came close to her. Perhaps I could speak instead, but if you will say the word plainly that you'll never be sorry, I will thank you for it all my life. She said plainly that I love him. Then she broke down. Her body was shaken with sobs. Unless there should be any doubt, she cried between the sobs for Gino. Gino. Gino. He hurt himself her mark. 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. 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. Just so laugh at me. Laugh at love, asked Philip. Yes, pull it to pieces. Tell me I'm a fool or worse, that he's a cad. Say all you said when Lillia 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 our 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. Harriton, 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 honored 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. Harriton, 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 Sauston, and if I may speak about him to you sometimes I shall die. In that terrible discovery Philip managed not to think 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. Perhaps it is what the books call a passing fancy? 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's like, or he might grow old, but I dare not risk it so nothing can alter me now. Well, if the fancy does pass let me know. After all, after all he could say what he wanted. Oh, you shall know quick enough. But before you retired to Sauston, are you so mighty sure? What of she had stopped crying? He was treating her exactly as she had hoped. That you and he, he smelled bitterly at the thought of them together, here was the cruel antique malice of the gods, such as they once set forth in its pacific. Centuries of aspiration and culture and the world could not escape it. I was going to say whatever have you got in common? Nothing except the times we have seen each other. Again her face was crimson, he turned his own face away. Which times? The time I thought you weak and heedless and when 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 he 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 rafted me round. But through my faults had Philip solemnly he as part of 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. Don't talk of faults. You're my friend forever, Mr. Harrington, 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. 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. 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 worshiping every inch of him and every word he spoke, and that saved me. Philip's eyes were fixed on the companyle of Irolo, 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 he was lifted, that without regret he could now have told her that he was her worship or two. But what was the use of telling her for all the wonderful things that happened? Thank you was all that he permitted himself. Thank you for everything. She looked at him with great friendliness for he had made her life indurable. At that moment the train entered the Sengothar tunnel. They hurried back to the carriage to close the windows lest the smuts should get into Harriet's eyes. Chapter 10 And Were Angels Fear to Tread by E. M. Forrester Read for you by Julie Pandia, November and December 2007.