 Chapter 5 of Were Angels Fear to Tread by E. M. Forster At the time of Lillia's death Philip Harriton was just twenty-four years of age. Indeed, the news reached Sauston 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 believed that destiny resides in the mouth and chin shook their heads when they looked at him. 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 everyone. 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 humor, two most desirable gifts. The sense of beauty developed first. It caused him at the age of twenty to wear party-colored ties in a squashy hat, to be late for dinner on account of the sunset and to catch art from Byrne Jones to Prex Italy's. At twenty-two he went to Italy with some cousins, and there he absorbed into one aesthetic, whole olive trees, blue sky, frescoes, country ends, saints, peasants, mosaic, statues, beggars. He came back with the air of a prophet who would either remodel Sauston or reject it. All the energies and enthusiasm of a rather friendless life had passed into the championship of beauty. In a short time it was over. Nothing had happened either in Sauston or within himself. He had shocked half a dozen people, squabble 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. 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 humor. 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 uncontentedly to Lillia's marriage, topical contentment down forever. 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 sort of tragedy had come it filled him with pangs, not of sympathy, but of final dissolution. The dissolution was convenient for Mrs. Harriton, who saw a trying little period ahead of her, and was glad to have her family united. Are we to go into mourning, do you think? She always asked her children's advice were possible. Harriet thought that they should. She had been detestable to Lillia 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. Of course we must tell Irma, said Philip. Of course it is mother, but I think we can still not tell her about Lillia's marriage. I don't think that, and she must have suspected something by now. 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, behavior, everything. Absolute trust in someone else is the essence of education. That is why I have been so careful about talking your poor Lillia before her. But you forget this wretched baby. Waters and Adams are right that there is a baby. Mrs. Theobald must be told, but she doesn't count. She is breaking up very quickly. She doesn't even see Mr. Kingcroft now. We thank goodness I here has at last consoled himself with someone else. The child must know, some time, persist Philip who felt a little displeased, though he could not tell with what. The later the better. Every moment she is developing. I must say it seems rather hard luck, doesn't it? On Irma, why? On us, perhaps. We have morals and behavior also, and I don't think this continual secrecy improves them. There's no need to twist the thing round to that, said Harriet, rather disturbed. 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. It will make a difference in the money, surely, said he. 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. Good! Does the Italian get anything? He will get all hers, but you know what that is. Good! So those are our tactics, to tell no one about the baby, not even Miss Abbott. Most certainly, this is the proper course in Mrs. Heriton, preferring course to tactics for Harriet's sake. And why ever should we tell Caroline? She was so mixed up in the affair. 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 anyone 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. Philip saw that his mother was scarcely logical, but there was no advantage in saying so. Here beganeth a new life then. Do you remember, mother, that was what we said when we saw Lillia off? 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. That is quite true, he said, sadly. And as the tactics were now settled, he went out and took an aimless and solitary walk. By the time he came back, two important things had happened. Irma had been told of her mother's death, and Ms. Abbott, who had called for a subscription, had been told also. 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 Lillia, who had been absent so long, would now be absent forever. As for Caroline, said Mrs. Harriton, 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. Did she ask no questions, as to the nature of Lillia's death, I mean? She did, but she has a mind of extraordinary delicacy. She saw that I was reticent, and she did not press me. I 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 Sauston that there is a baby. All peace and comfort would be lost if people came inquiring after it. 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 was better informed. Their last journey together had been from Montereyana back across Europe. They had been in ghastly journey, and Philip, from the force of association, rather, expected something ghastly now. He was surprised. Miss Abbott, between Sauston and Charingcross, 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 who it might be well to cultivate. At first she annoyed him. They were talking, of course, about Lillia, when she broke the thread of vague commiseration and said abruptly, It is also strange, as well as so tragic. And what I did was as strange as anything. It was the first reference she had ever made to her contemptible behavior. Never mind, he said, it's all over now. Let the dead bury their dead. It's fallen out of our lives. 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. Indeed, I never think about it now, sit Philip gently. He knew that her nature was in the main generous and upright, and it was unnecessary for her to reveal her thoughts. The first evening we got to Montariano, she persisted, Lillia went out for a walk alone, and saw that Italian in a picture-ass position on a wall and fell in love. He was shavilly dressed, and she did not even know he was the son of a priest. 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. Yes, we counted on you, said Philip, with sudden sharpness. After all, if she would reveal her thoughts, she must take the consequences. I know you did, she retorted, with equal sharpness. Lillia 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. 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? Really, really exploded Philip as exasperated as if the thing had happened yesterday. You knew Lillia all your life, apart from everything else, as if she could choose what could make her happy. Had you ever let her choose? She flashed out. I'm afraid that's rude, she added, trying to calm herself. Let us rather say unhappily expressed, said Philip, who always adopted a dry satirical manner when he was puzzled. I want to finish. Next morning I found Senior Corella, and said the same to him. He, well, he was willing. That's all. And the telegram? He looked scornfully out of the window. Hitherto her voice had been hard, possibly in self-accusation, possibly in defiance. Now it became unmistakably sad. Ah, the telegram. That was wrong. Lillia 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. Did you really mean to stop? For a time at all events. Would I have suited a newly married pair? It would have suited them. Lillia needed me, and as for him I can't help feeling I might have got influence over him. I am ignorant of these matters, said Philip, but I should have thought that would have increased the difficulty of the situation. The crisp remark was wasted on her. She looked hopelessly at the raw, overbuilt country and said, Well, I have explained. Pardon me, Miss Abbott, of most of your conduct you have given a description rather than an explanation. 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. Heriton. It drags in other topics. Oh, never mind. I hated Sauston, you see. He was delighted. So did and do I. That splendid. Go on. I hated the idleness, the stupidity, the respectability, the petty unselfishness. Petty selfishness, he corrected. Sauston psychology had long been his specialty. Petty unselfishness, she repeated. I had got an idea that everyone 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 once as bad they never learnt how to enjoy themselves. That's what I thought, what I thought at Montariano. Why, Miss Abbott, he cried, you should have told me this before. Think it still. I agree with lots of it. Magnificent. Now Lilia, as 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 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. 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? We were mad drunk with rebellion. We had no common sense. As soon as you came, you saw and foresaw everything. 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. 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. Harriton, it makes me especially 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 splendor, and I don't know what. And when the spring came I wanted to fight against the things I hated—mediocrity and dullness and spitefulness and society. I actually hated society for a day or two at Montariano. 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. 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 splendor and beauty, into the thoughts and beliefs that make the real life, the real you. I have never had that experience yet. Surely I in my life must be where I live. 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 of fellow victim. I hope that this is only the first of many discussions that we shall have together. She made a suitable reply. The train reached Cheering Cross, and they parted. Heed to go to a matinee, she used to buy a petticoats for the corpulent poor. Her thoughts wandered as she bought them. The gulf between herself and Mr. Harriton, which she had always known to be great, now seemed to her immeasurable. 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. Irma collected picture postcards, and Mrs. Harriton 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 ruin of factory chimneys, and Harriet was about to hand it to her niece, when her eye was cut by the words on the margin. She gave a shriek and flung the card into the grate. Of course no fire was the light in July, and Irma only had to run and pick it out again. How dare you, screamed her aunt, you wicked girl, give it here! Unfortunately Mrs. Harriton 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 Montariano, from your little brother. Stupid Harriet caught her, boxed her ears, and tore the postcard into fragments. Irma howled with pain, and began shouting indignantly. Who is my little brother? Why have I never heard of him before? Grandmama! Grandmama! Who is my little brother? Who is my—? Mrs. Harriton swept into the room, saying, Come with me, dear, and I will tell you. Now it is time for you to know. 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? On Harriet, she would say, Uncle Phil! Grandmama! 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. The last remark always made Harriet look grave. Really, exclaims Mrs. Harriton. Irma is getting too tiresome. She forgot poor Lillia soon enough. A living brother is more to her than a dead mother, said Philip dreamily. She can knit him socks. I stop 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 mentioned specially in her prayers. What did you say? Of course I allowed her, she replied coldly. She has the right to mention any one she chooses. But I was annoyed with her this morning, and I fear that I showed it. And what happened this morning? She asked if she could pray for her new father, for the Italian. Did you let her? I got up without saying anything. You must have felt just as you did when I wanted to pray for the devil. He is the devil! cried Harriet. No, Harriet. He is too vulgar. 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. 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. 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. Harriet's conscience could be quite as tiresome as Philip's unconventionality. Mrs. Harriton soon made it easy for her daughter to go for six weeks to the Tyrol. Then she and Philip began to grapple with Irma alone. Just as they had got things, a little quiet the beastly baby sent another picture postcard, a comic one, not particularly proper. Irma received it while they were out, and all the trouble began again. I cannot think, said Mrs. Harriton, what his motive is in sending them. 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. Do you suppose that he guesses the situation how anxious we are to hush the scandal out? 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. Hopeful indeed. At the same time he has the chance of corrupting the child's morals. She unlocked a drawer, took out the postcard, and regarded it gravely. He entreats her to send the baby one with her next remark. You might do it, too. I told her not to, but we must watch her carefully, without, of course, appearing to be suspicious. Philip was getting to enjoy his mother's diplomacy. He did not think of his own morals and behavior any more. Who is to watch her at school, though? She may bubble out any moment. We can but trust to our influence in Mrs. Harriton. Irma did bubble out that very day. She was proof against a single postcard, not against two. A new little brother is a valuable sentimental asset to a schoolgirl, 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 male carts in the interval, who dangle them at tea ere they retire to rest. That one might sing the unwritten song of Miriam, blessed above all schoolgirls, who was allowed to hide her baby brother in a squashy place where none but herself could find him. How could Irma keep silent when pretentious girl spoke of baby cousins and baby visitors? She who had a baby brother who wrote her postcards 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. Yes, it is all very sad, Mrs. Harriton 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 she will have him over. She disapproves of the father. It is altogether a painful business for her. She was careful only to scold Irma for disobedience. That eighth deadly sin so convenient to parents and guardians. Harrit 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. It was several days before they saw Miss Abbott. Mrs. Harriton 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 now 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. I dare say you have heard, so Mrs. Harriton, well knowing what the matter was. Yes, I have. I came to ask you. Have any steps been taken? 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. About the baby, as Mrs. Harriton pleasantly. Yes. As far as I know no steps. Mrs. Theobald may have decided on something, but I have not heard of it. I was meaning, have you decided on anything? The child is no relation of ours, said Philip. It is therefore scarcely for us to interfere. His mother glanced at him nervously. Poor Lillia 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. But does not Mrs. Theobald always take any initiative from you, as Mrs. Abbott? Mrs. Harriton could not help coloring. I sometimes have given her advice in the past. I should not presume to do so now. It is nothing to be done for the child at all. It is extraordinarily good of you to take this unexpected interest at Philip. The child came into the world through my negligence, replied Miss Abbott. It is natural I should take an interest in it. My dear Caroline's, Mrs. Harriton, you must not brood over the thing. But bygones be bygones. The child should worry you even less than it worries us. We never even mention it. It belongs to another world. Miss Abbott got up without replying and turned to go. Her extreme gravity made Mrs. Harriton 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. Please, would you let me know if she decides on anything? I should like to join as well. My dear, how you throw about your money. We would never allow it. And if she decides on nothing, please also let me know. Let me know in any case. Mrs. Harriton made a point of kissing her. Miss 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. His mother said nothing. But you don't 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 non-entity. We don't do anything. She is going to raise a scandal, that we neglect our relatives, etc. 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 Montariano. I had my suspicions last year one day in the train, and here it is again. The young person is mad. She still said nothing. Shall I go round at once and give it her well? I'd really enjoy it. In a low, serious voice, such a voice as she had not used to him for months, Mrs. Harriton 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? 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. Let us admit, frankly, she continued that after all we may have responsibilities. I don't understand you, mother. You're turning absolutely round. What are you up to? In one moment an impenetrable barrier had been erected between them. There were no longer in smiling confidance. Mrs. Harriton was off on tactics of her own. Tactics would might be beyond or beneath him. His remark offended her. Up to? I am wondering whether I ought not to adopt the child. Is that sufficiently plain? And this is the result of half a dozen idiocies of misabit? It is. I repeat, she has been extremely impertinent. Nonetheless, she is showing me my duty. If I can rescue poor Lily's baby from that horrible man, who will bring it up either as a papist or infidel, who will certainly bring it up to be vicious, I shall do it. You talk like Harriet. And why not? said she, flushing at what she knew to be an insult. Say, if you choose that I talk like Irma. The 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. 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 Sauston, just as she let Harriet be low church. She let him talk as much as he liked. But when she wanted a thing, she always got it. 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 vigor? Did they make anyone better or happier? Did they even bring happiness to herself? Harriet with her gloomy, peevish creed, Lillia with her clutches after pleasure, or after all more divine than this well-ordered, active, useless machine? 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 a duel between her and Miss Abbott. Mrs. Heriton'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. I'm 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. 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, Montariana had become a magic city of vice, between whose towers no person could grow up unhappy or pure. Sauston, with its semi-detached houses and snobby schools as booktees and bazaars, was certainly petty and dull. At time she found it even contemptible. But it was not a place of sin, and at Sauston, either with the heritons or with herself, the baby should grow up. As soon as it was inevitable, Mrs. Heriton wrote a letter for Waters and Adamson to Centugino. 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 Gina would undertake never to come near it, and would surrender some of Lillie's money for its education. What do you think of it, she asked her son? It would not do to let him know that we are anxious for it. Certainly he will never suppose that. But what effect will the letter have on him? When he gets it, he will do as some, if it is less expensive in the long run to part with a little money and be clear of the baby, he will part with it. If he will lose, he will adopt the tone of the loving father. Dear, you're shockingly cynical, after a pause, she added. How would the sum work out? 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. Sauston's a kind, pitiful place, isn't it? I will go walk in it and seek comfort. He smiled as he spoke for the sake of not appearing serious. When he had left her she began to smile also. It was to the abbots 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 Sr. Corella, and they both uttered fervent wishes for her success. Very fine of Mrs. Harrington, very fine indeed, said Mr. Abbott, who like everyone else knew nothing of his daughter's exasperating behavior. I'm afraid it will mean a lot of expense. She'll get nothing out of Italy without paying. There are sure to be incidental expenses, said Philip cautiously. Then he turned to Mr. Abbott and said, Do you suppose we shall have difficulty with the man? It depends, she replied, with equal caution. From what you saw of him should you conclude that he would make an affectionate parent? I don't go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him. Well, what do you conclude from that? That he is a thoroughly wicked man. Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at Rodrigo Borgia, for example. I have also seen examples of that in my district. 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 cousiness, 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. Insincereity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal. She fenced as well, he said to his mother afterwards. What had you to fence about? she said swavly. 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 the misabit was her valued ally. Even when next week the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. Read the letters, she said, we have failed. Gina wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation where Preglia Tissima Signora was rendered as most praiseworthy madam, and every delicate compliment in superlative. Superlatives are delicate in Italian, who would have felt 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 Cafe 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 Sosten or Montoriano. Isn't it disheartening, said his mother? He then read that Gino could not accept a generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon the symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture postcards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Heriton with her notorious kindness explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma, courteous miss, had sent to him? The sum works out against us, said Philip. Or perhaps he is putting up the price. No, said Mrs. Heriton, decided that 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. 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. The impudence, she shouted, the cursed impudence. Oh, I'm swearing. I don't care. That beastly woman, how dare she interfere. I'll fill up, dear. I'm sorry. It's no good. You must go. 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. She won't accept. Won't accept the letter as final. You must go to Montariano. I won't, he shouted back. I've been and I've failed. I'll never see the place again. I hate Italy. If you don't go, she will. Abbot? 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. 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 to 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. 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. Harriet exclaimed his mother. Harriet, she'll 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. End of chapter five, We're Angels Feared to Tread by E. M. Forster. Chapter six, We're Angels Feared to Tread by E. M. Forster. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. We're Angels Feared to Tread by E. M. Forster. Chapter six, Read for You by Julie Bandia. 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 Tyrol. He found his sister in a dense cloud, five thousand feet above the sea, chill to the bone, overfed, bored, and not at all unwilling to be fetched away. It upsets one's plans terribly, she remarked as she squeezed out her sponges. But it obviously is my duty. Did Mother explain it all to you, asked Philip? 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. 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. Philip assented. Caroline feels it is keenly almost as us. That is because she knows the man. Oh, he must be loathsome. Goodness me! I have 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. Philip saw no prospect of good, nor a 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. Harrington 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. They travelled for thirteen hours downhill whilst the streams broadened, and the mountain 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 hills of Verona. Absurd nonsense they talk about the heats, said Philip as they drove from the station. Supposing we were here for pleasure, what could be more pleasurable than this? Did you hear, though, their remarking on the cold, said Harriet nervously, I should never have thought it cold. 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 sketchbook 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 Manchua 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 poppies 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 bedaker at Bologna. She only left her sponge bag. Next day they crossed the Aponines with a trained 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 crossword would bade them both in boiling water. Philip, who was slight for a build and less conscientious, suffered less. But Harriet had never meant to Florence. At 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 Montoriano. Singles a return, said he. Single for me, said Harriet peevishly, I shall never get back alive. Sweet creature, said her brother, suddenly breaking down. How helpful you will be when we come to Senior Corella. Do you suppose, said Harriet, standing still among a whirl of porters, do you suppose I am going to enter that man's house? Then what have you come for? Pray. For ornament? To see that you do your duty. Oh, thanks. So Mother told me, for goodness sake at the tickets. Here comes that hot woman again. She has the impudence to bow. 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 center of beastly Italy. But he had a strange feeling that he was to blame for it all. The 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 traveled, in the white and 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 Montoriano Station, but nothing, not even the discomfort was commonplace. But do people live inside, asked Harriet? They had exchanged railway carriage for the lanio, and the lanio had emerged from the withered trees and had revealed to them their destination. Philip, to be annoying, answered, No. What do they do there, continued Harriet with a frown. There is a café, a prison, a theatre, a church, walls, a view. Not for me, thank you, said Harriet, after a weighty pause. 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 nor attractive in that place? Nothing at all? Nothing at all. It's frightful. I know it is, but it's old, awfully old. Beauty is the only test, said Harriet. At least you so told me when I sketched old buildings for the sake, I suppose, of making yourself unpleasant. Oh, I'm perfectly right, but at the same time, I don't know. So many things have happened here. People who live so hard and so splendidly, I can't explain. 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 were going to do when you arrive? I do beg you will not be taken unawares this time. 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 Sant'Adeodatas and read there. It is always fresh and cool. 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. Meaning? You, she shouted, bouncing on the cushions of the lanio and startling all the fleas. What's the good of cleverness if a man's murdered a woman? Harriet, I am hot. To whom do you refer? He? Her. If you don't look at him, murder you. I wish he would. T-t-t-let, you'd find a corpse extraordinarily convenient. And 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. He has murdered her. The things he did. Things one can't even mention. 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. It's the supreme test. The man who is unshivalrous to a woman. Oh, stow it. Take it to the back kitchen. It's no more a supreme test than anything else. The Italians never were shivalrous from the first. If you condemn him for that, you'll condemn the whole lot. I condemn the whole lot. And the French as well. And the French as well. Things aren't so jolly easy, said Philip, more to himself than to her. But for Harriet, things were easy, though not jolly, and she turned up on 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. 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. 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 lira, 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 great business on his mind. Yet it was in the spirit of the cultivated tourists that he approached his destination. 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 mingled 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. So holy was the saint that she never picked her mother up, but lay upon her back through all, and thus assured her thrown in paradise. She was only fifteen when she died, which shows how much is within the reach of any schoolgirl. Those who think her life was unpractical need only think of the victories upon Puggibonsi, San Geminiano, Fulterra, Sienna 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 our 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 Montariano. 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 Santo Deodata. That is why Beteker gives the place a star. Santo Deodata was better company than Harriet, and she kept Philip in a pleasant dream until the lanio drew up at the hotel. Everyone there was asleep for it was still the hour when only idiots were moving. There were not even any beggars about. The cab man 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. Then Harriet pronounced the mono-syllable, Go! Go where us, Philip? Bowering to the landlady who was swimming down the stairs. To the Italian, go. Buona sera, signora padrona. See, retorn a volunteerio montoriano. Don't be such a goose, I'm not going now. You're in the way, too. Go this instant, now. I'll stand it no longer. Go. I'll be damned if I'll go. I want my tea. Swear if you like, she cried. Blaspheme, abuse me, but understand I'm in earnest. Harriet don't act or act better. 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? Think of mother and don't straddle across the stairs. Let the cab man and the landlady come down and let me go up and choose rooms. I shunt. Harriet, are you mad? If you like, but you will not come up till you have seen the Italian. La signorina, si sendi male, said Philip. C'è il sole. Povareta, cried the landlady and the cab man. Leave me alone, said Harriet, snarling round at them. I don't care for the lot of you. I'm English. Neither you'll come down nor he up till he goes for the baby. La prego piano, piano, ti un altra signorina che dorme. We shall probably be arrested for brawling, Harriet. Have you the very slightest sense of the ludicrous? Harriet had not. That was why she could be so powerful. She had concocted the scene in the carriage and nothing should balk 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 hands, was never to be known. For the young lady, who sleep they were disturbing, awoke and opened her bedroom door and came out onto the landing. She was misabbit. Philip's first coherent feeling was one of indignation. To be run by his mother and hectured 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 misabbit. She uttered a shrill cry of joy. You, Caroline, hear of all people! And in spite of the heat she darted up the stairs and imprinted an affectionate kiss upon her friend. Philip had an inspiration. You will have a lot to tell misabbit, Harriet, and she may have as much to tell you. So I'll pay my call on Sr. Corella, as you suggested, and see how things stand. Misabbit uttered some noise of greeting or alarm. He did not reply to it or approach nearer to her. Without even paying the cab man, he escaped into the street. 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! Such people as observed him were interested, but did not conclude that he was mad. This aftermath of conversation is not unknown in Italy. He tried to think how amusing it was, but it would not do. Misabbit'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 heritans. Perhaps Gino had sold a baby cheap to her for a joke. It was just a 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 onto the bed. And whatever it might mean, Misabbit's presence spoilt the comedy. She would do nothing funny. During this short meditation, he had walked through the city and was out on the other side. Where does Senior Corella lived? He asked the men at the Dugana. I'll show you, said a little girl, springing out of the ground, as Italian children will. She will show you, said the Dugana men, nodding reassuringly. Follow her always, always, and you will come to no harm. She's a trustworthy guy. She is my daughter, cousin, sister. Philip knew these relatives well. They ramify if need be all over the peninsula. Do you chance to know whether Senior Corella is in? He asked her. 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 Misabbit up to? That was one of the things he was going to discover. While she headed out with Harriet, he would have it out with Geno. He followed the Dugana's relative softly, like a diplomatist. 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 Lillia in such a building, partly in the confidence of victory. Meanwhile, the Dugana's relative lifted up her voice and gave a shout. For an impressive interval, there was no reply. Then the figure of a woman appeared high up on the loge. That is Perfetta, said the girl. I want to see Senior Corella, cried Philip. Out! Out! echoed the girl complacently. Why on earth did you say he was in? He could have strangled her for temper. He had been just right for an interview, just the right combination of indignation and acuteness. Blood-hot, brain-cool, but nothing ever did go right in Montoriano. When will he be back? He called to Perfetta. It really was too bad. She did not know. He was away on business. He might be back this evening. He might not. He had gone to Poggy Vonsie. At the sound of this word, the little girl put her fingers to her nose and swept them at the plane. She sang as she did so even as her foremothers had sung seven hundred years back. Poggy Vonsie fa ti in la. Came on to Riano si fa ti ta. Then she asked Philip for a half penny. A German lady, friendly to the past, had given her one that very spring. I shall have to leave a message, he called. 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, 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 Poggy Vonsie. 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 Hackabouton, at Sauston, and had taken it to Italy, because in Italy anything does. He had rebuked her for the sentiment. Beautiful is an angel, Bella Perfetta, holding out something which must be Lilia's baby. But who am I addressing? 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. As a young lady happened to call here lately, a young English lady. Perfetta begged his pardon. She was a little deaf. A young lady, pale, large, tall. She did not quite catch. A young lady! 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. Montariano 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. I was going to make myself some tea, he said with his hands still in the banisters. I should be grateful. So he followed her into the dining-room and shut the door. You see, she began. Harriet knows nothing. No more do I. He was out. But what's that to do with it? 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. What do you mean? Please, please, Mr. Harrington, don't be mysterious. There isn't the time. Any moment Harriet may be done, and we shan't have decided how to behave to her. Soston 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. 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 Montoriano? Spy or traitor? 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 molding, as if they might feel beautiful and strange. Spy, she repeated, for Philip was bewildered learning her guilt so easily and could not answer a word. Your mother has behaved dishonorably 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 enormity, to spy on Mrs. Harrington. 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. 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. She nodded carelessly. She did not mind what he said. All she wanted was to get the baby out of Montariano. 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 Senior Carella tomorrow morning. Do you acquiesce? She nodded again. Might I ask for details of your interview with him? That might be helpful to me. 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. My interview, how do you know of it? From Perfetta, if it interests you. Whoever is Perfetta. The woman who must have let you in. In where? Into Senior Carella's house. Mr. Harriton, 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 learned how to behave by now. Philip began to see that there were two Miss Abbott's, the Miss Abbott who could travel alone to Montoriano, 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? I suppose I misunderstood, Perfetta. Where did you have your interview then? 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 roca. 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? Yes, yes, I know the roca. I told you of it. 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. And you talked. 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. And of what did you talk? The weather. The 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. 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. 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. There was something very humorous in the idea of Miss Abbott approaching Gino on Morocco, in the spirit of a district visitor. Philip, whose temper was returning, laughed. Harriet would say he has no sense of sin. Harriet may be right, I am afraid. If so, perhaps he isn't sinful. 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. Philip smiled at her crudity. I should like to hear, though, what he said about me. Is he preparing a warm reception? 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, in which she hadn't been so rude to you eighteen months ago. 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. She would not let this pass. You did not think it a little thing at the time. You told me he had assaulted you. 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? He said he was sorry. Presently, his Italians do say such things. But he never mentioned the baby once. What did the baby matter when that world was suddenly right way up? Philip smiled and was shocked at himself for smiling and smiled again. For romance, I'd come back to Italy. There were no cats in her. She was beautiful, courteous, lovable, as of old. And Miss Abbott, she too, was beautiful in her way, for all her ghostiness and conventionality. She really cared about life and tried to live it properly. And Harriet, even Harriet, tried. This admirable change in Philip proceeds from nothing admirable, and may therefore provoke the jibes of the cynical. But angels and other practical people will accept it reverently and write it down as good. The view from La Roca, small gratuity, is finest at sunset, he murmured more to himself and to her. 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. The view from La Roca, wasn't it fine? What isn't fine here? She had so gently and then added, I wish I was Harriet, throwing an extraordinary meaning into the words. Because Harriet? 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. Harrington, come here, look at this. She removed a pile of plates from the gothic window and they leaned out of it. Close opposite, which 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 merly and the cup-poky do likewise. They command the piazza, you the sienna 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 Aldo Brandeschi, 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 on your dearest friend, you could just make out that it was he who was thrown at you over the stairs. 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. It was to be a symbol of the town. 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. Citizens came out for a little stroll before dinner. Some of them stood engaged at the advertisements on the tower. Surely that isn't an opera bill, said Miss Abbott. Philip put on his pincenet. Lucia di Lama More, by the master Donizetti, unique representation this evening. But is there an opera right up here? 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 their performance is tonight, it will be alive. Italians don't love music silently like the beastly Germans. The audience takes its share, sometimes more. Can't we go? He turned on her, but not unkindly. But we're here to rescue a child. He cursed himself for the remark. All the pleasure in the light went out of her face, and she became again Miss Abbott of Sauston. Good, almost 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. They started as guiltily as if they'd been flirting. Their interview had taken such an unexpected course. Anger, cynicism, stubborn morality all had ended in a feeling of goodwill towards each other, and towards the city which had received them. And now Harriet was here, accurate, indissoluble, large, the same in Italy as in England, changing her disposition never and her atmosphere under protest. Yet even Harriet was human, and the better for her 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. You see him tomorrow at 10, Philip. Well, don't forget the blank check. 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. 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. Three hours, then, or four, or make him learn English ways. At Florence we get a nurse. But Harriet, so Miss Abbott, what if at first he was to refuse? 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. I daresay it will be all right. But as I told you, I thought the men I met on the roka a strange, difficult man. He is 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 mangles. They were nice, quiet things, and we'll 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, no Harriet, I'll trifle 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 to change of topic. We want relaxation. We want to go to the theatre. The theatre is here, and at such a moment, we should hardly enjoy it with the great interview and pending. So Miss Abbott, with an anxious glance at Philip, he did not betray her, but said, don't you think it's better than sitting in all the evening and getting nervous? 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? But this is an opera. Lucia di Lama More, Sir Walter Scott, classical, you know. 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. Good, Miss Abbott, are you coming too? It is very kind of you, Mr. Harriton. In some ways I should enjoy it, but excuse the suggestion. I don't think we ought to go to cheap seats. 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. Unfortunately, I have no evening dress. And if the seats— Oh, that'll be all right, said Philip, smiling at his timorous, scrupulous woman kind. We'll go as we are, and by the best we can get, Montariano is not formal. 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 Sauston, who were supposing them to be now tilting against the powers of evil. What would Mrs. Harriton or Irma or the curates of the back kitchens say if they could see their rescue party at a place of amusement? On the very first day of its mission, Philip, too, marveled at his wish to go. He began to see that he was enjoying his time in Montariano in spite of the tiresomeness of his companions and the occasional contrariness of himself. He had been to this theater many years before on the occasion of a performance of Lazia di Carlo. Since then it had been thoroughly done up in the tints of the beetroot 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 terracotta 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 her 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 theater of Montariano sproutled 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. 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 insistent on praising everything. Her only regret was that she had no pretty clothes with her. We do all right, said Philip, amused at her unwonted vanity. Yes, I know, but pretty things pack as easily as ugly ones. We had no need to come to Italy like guys. 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 theater. Outside the theater, towers and dark gates and medieval walls. Beyond the walls, olive trees and 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. Don't you like it at all? he asked her. Most awfully. And by this bald interchange they convinced each other that romance was here. Harriet meanwhile had been coughing ominously at the drop scene, which presently rose on the grounds of Ravenswood and the chorus of scotch-frotainers burst into cry. The audience, accompanied with tappings and drumming, 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! Shut it! whispered her brother. We must take a stand from the beginning. They're talking. It is tiresome, murmured Miss Abbott, but perhaps it isn't for us to interfere. 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. 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 Montoriano! Ridiculous baby, said Harriet, settling down in her stall. Why, it is the famous hot lady of the Appanines, cried Philip, the one who had never, never before. Ugh, don't, she'll be very vulgar. And I'm sure it's even worse here than in the tunnel. I wish we'd never. Lucia began to sing and there was a moment of 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 that was drowned in a shot of universal joy. So the opera proceeded. The singers drew inspiration from the audience, and the two great sextets 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. Harriet, like Madame 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 around 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 around the theatre. The climax was reached in the mad scene. Lucia clad in white as befitted her melody, suddenly gathered up her streaming hair and bowed her acknowledgement 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. Nonetheless, it did 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 stage boxes snatched up his sister's carnations and offered them. —'Que 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. Harria was always unfortunate. Harria was always unfortunate. The bouquet struck her full in the chest, and a little billet-du fell out of it into her lap. —'Call this classical!' she cried, rising from her seat. It's not even respectable. —'Philip, take me out at once!' —'Who's is it?' shouted her brother, holding up the bouquet in one hand, and the billet-du in the other. —'Who's is it?' The house exploded, and one of the boxes was violently agitated, as if someone was being hauled to the front. Harria moved down the gangway and compelled Miss Abbott to follow her. —'Philip, still laughing and calling, —'Who's is it?' brought up the rear. He was drunk with excitement. The heat, the fatigue, and the enjoyment had mounted into his head. —'To the left!' the people cried. —'The Innamoroto is to the left!' 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 in the note. Then his own hands were seized affectionately. It all seemed quite natural. —'Why, have you not written?' cried the young man. —'Why do you take me by surprise?' —'Oh, I have written,' said Philip hilariously. I left a note this afternoon. —'Silence, silence!' cried the audience. —'We're beginning to have enough.' —'Let the divine creature continue!' Miss Abbott and Harria had disappeared. —'No, no!' cried the young man. —'You don't escape me now.' For Philip was trying fiendly to disengage his hands. Amiable use bent out of the box and invited him to enter it. —'Geno's friends are ours!' —'Friends!' cried Geno. —'A relative, a brother, Fra Filippo, who has come all the way from England and never written. —'I left a message.' The audience began to hiss. —'Come in to us. —'Thank you, ladies. There is not time.' 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 Lammermore resumed her song of madness and death. 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 honor now with Philip. The two had to stand side by side in the front, and exchanged compliments whilst Geno 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. 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 a Harriet's plan, he would have left Montoriano. At ten o'clock then, he said to Geno, I want to speak to you alone, at ten. Certainly, laughed the other. Miss Abbott was sitting up for him when he got back. Harriet, it seemed, had gone straight to bed. That was he, wasn't it? she asked. Yes, rather. I suppose you didn't settle anything. 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 planned and got on high moral horses. Here we find what asses we are for things go off quite easily all by themselves. By a 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 humor. 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 Lillia had told her of their love, the night whose evil she had come now to undo. She gave a sudden cry of shame. This time, the same place, the same thing, that 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 in 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 dystic out of Badeker, Poggy Manizzi, fati in la, che Monteriano, si fati ta. Poggy Bonsi 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 sosten. End of Chapter 6 Where Angels Fear to Tread by E. M. Forster Chapter 7 Where Angels Fear to Tread by E. M. Forster Read for you by Julie Pandia This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. To find out more or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org For Angels Fear to Tread Chapter 7 At about nine o'clock next morning Perfetto went out onto the loggia, not to look at the view, but to throw some dirty water at it. Scusi Tonto, she wailed, for the water spattered a tall young lady who had for some time been tapping at the lower door. Is Sr. Carella in? the young lady asked. It was no business of Perfetto's to be shocked, and the style of the visitor seemed to demand the reception room. Accordingly she opened it shutters, dusted around patch on one of the horsehair chairs, and bade the lady do herself the inconvenience of sitting down. Then she ran into Montariano and shouted up and down its streets until such time as her young master should hear her. The reception room was sacred to the dead wife. Her shiny portrait hung upon the wall, similar and 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 rake-ish as of a drunkard's bonnet. A coonsongly opened on the piano, and of the two tables one supported Badecker'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. Miss Abbott did not sit down, partly because the anti-McArthur's might harbor fleas, partly because she had suddenly felt faint and was glad to cling on to the funnel of the stove. She struggled with herself, or she had need to be very calm. Only if she was very calm might her behavior 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. 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 began 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. Harriton yesterday. And if I'm not careful he will conquer us all today, and the baby will grow up in Montoriano. He is terribly strong. Lillia found that out, but only I remember it now. This attempt and this justification of it were the results of the long and restless night. Ms. 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 Sauston, 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. 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 patted upstairs and looked into 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. 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, bed clothes, patent leather boots, dirty plates, and knifes 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. He stopped singing and cried, Where is Berfetta? 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 in 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. You know, he continued, but you will not tell me. Exactly like you. He reclined on the table and blew a fat smokering. I won't want you to tell me the numbers. I have dreamt of a red hen, that is 205 and a friend unexpected. He means 82, but I try for the charnel this week. So tell me another number. Miss Abbott did not know of the tumbola. His speech terrified her. She felt these subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. As she slept well, she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. He had gotten into another world. She watched his smokering. The air had carried it slowly away from him and brought it out intact upon the landing. 205, 82. 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. 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. 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 pitch she screamed. There he was wanting to know what had frightened her, how she'd 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. What is it, he repeated, what has frightened you? 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. Business, she said at last. Business with me? Most important business. She was lying white and limp in the dusty chair. Before business he must get well. This is the best wine. She refused it feebly. He poured out a glass. She drank it. As she did so she became self-conscious. However important to business it was not proper of her to have called on him or to accept his hospitality. Perhaps you are engaged, she said. And as I am not very well, you are not well enough to go back and I am not engaged. She looked nervously at the other room. 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. 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 a 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 her principle any longer. It was so much flesh and blood and 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 it 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. Harrington and Philip and Harriet had for the last month exercising their various ideals. Had determined that at 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. But she had practiced 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. What a fine child, Sr. 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. Italian is a bad medium for condescension. The patronizing words came out gracious and sincere and he smiled with pleasure. You must not stand. Let us sit on the loge where it is cool. I'm 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 loge 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 model. Mr. Harriton called yesterday. She began, but you were out. He started an elaborate and graceful explanation. He had gone for the day to Pogibonsi. Why had the Harritons not written to him so that he could have received them properly? Pogibonsi would have done any day, not for what his business there was fairly important. What did she suppose that it was? Naturally, she was not greatly interested. She had not come from Sauston to guess why he had been to Pogibonsi. She answered politely that she had no idea and returned to her mission. But guess he persisted, clapping the ballast rod between his hands. She suggested with gentle sarcasm that perhaps he had gone to Pogibonsi to find something to do. He intimated that it was not as important as all that. Something to do, an almost hopeless quest. A mock a quest, though. He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together to indicate that he had no money. Then he sighed and blew another smoke ring. Mrs. Abbott took heart and turned diplomatic. This house, she said, is a large house. 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 had their ways of doing things when I was younger. I was content with them. But now I am a man. I have my own ways. Do you understand? Yes, I do dismiss Abbott thinking of her own dear father, whose tricks and habits after 25 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, immense in the taxes. But it will be better when— but you have never guessed why I want to poke Bonsi. Why it was that I was out when he called. I cannot guess, Sr. Cruella. I am here on business. But try. I cannot. I hardly know you. But we are old friends, he said, and your approval will be grateful to me. You give it me once before. Will you give it now? I have not come as a friend this time, she answered stiffly. I am not likely, Sr. Cruella, to approve of anything you do. Oh, Sr. Mina! He laughed as if he found her pequant and amusing. Surely you approve of marriage. 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. Where there is love, he said, politely echoing the English view. But he smiled on her, expecting congratulations. Do I understand that you are proposing to marry again? He nodded. I forbid you, then. He looked puzzled, but took it for some foreign banter and laughed. I forbid you, repeated Miss Abbott, and all the indignation of her sex and her nationality went thrilling through the words. But why? He jumped up frowning. His voice was squeaking, petulant like that of a child who was suddenly forbidden a toy. You have ruined one woman. I forbid you to ruin another. It is not a year since Lillia 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? Oh, yes, he said irritably. A little. And I suppose he will say that you love her? 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 Lillia as agreeable as anyone else. 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. Gina 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? Miss Abbott tried to remember that he was really a child still, a child with a strength and the passions of a disreputable man. How can it succeed? She said solemnly, where there is no love. But she does love me. I forgot to tell you that. Indeed, passionately, he laid his hand upon his own heart. And God help her! He stamped impatiently. Whatever I say displeases you, Seniorina. 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 anyone. 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. Her duty, cried Miss Abbott with all the bitterness of which she was capable. Why, of course, she knows why I am marrying her. To succeed were Lilia failed to be your housekeeper, your slave. You—the words she would like to have said were too violent for her. To look after the baby, certainly, said he. The baby! She had forgotten it. It is an English marriage, she said proudly. I do not care about the money. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that? No, said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then for a moment she saw light. It is not necessary, Senior Carellet, since he were tired of the baby. Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. I do not mean that, she had to quickly. I know, with this courteous response, ah, in a foreign language, and how perfectly you speak Italian, one is certain to make slips. She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. You meant that we cannot always be together, yet he and I—you are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and profeta 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 feed him or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him, and I 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 at all suitable for a young man. 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. Harriton. A little more wine, as do you know kindly. Oh, no, thank you. But marriage, Senior Corella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply your relative, for example? And Paulie. I would have soon have him in England. England, then. He laughed. He has a grandmother there, you know, Mrs. Theobald. 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. How? They would separate our thoughts. 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 her 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. Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into the room, driven by the instincts she had aroused in him. Wake up! He cried to his baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he lifted his friend and tried lightly on its stomach. Miss Abbott cried, Oh, take care! She was unaccustomed to this method of awakening the young. 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 allowed you to treat him like that? 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 the love or the desire for personal immortality. All men want 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 forever. Miss Abbott, for all her goodness, cannot comprehend it, though such a thing is more within the comprehension of women. And when Geno appointed 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. The child, the first fruits, woke up and glared at her. Geno did not greet it, but continued the exposition of his policy. 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. The baby gave a piercing yell, oh, do take care, Big Miss Abbott, you're squeezing it. It is nothing. If he cries silently, then you may be frightened. He thinks I'm going to wash him, and he is quite right. Wash him, she cried. You hear? A 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 interfere with the least detail of his domestic life. I had gone to the farmachia, he continued, and was sitting there comfortably, when suddenly I remembered that profeta 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. I have wasted your time, she said feebly. He walked sternly to the lojah, 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 fell it 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. But where are you going? Excuse me if I wash him while we talk. 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. Oh, but stop a moment! He cried, you have not seen him yet. I have seen as much as I want, thank you. The last wrapping slid off. He held out to her in his two hands, a little kicking image of bronze. Take him! She would not touch the child. I must go at once, she cried, for the tears, the wrong tears, were herring to her eyes. 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 forever. Even if he hates me, he will be mine. He cannot help it, he is made out of me. I am his father. 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 part of nature, and no ordinary love scene could he ever be so great. For a wonderful physical type 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 Ms. Abbott, reverently averting her eyes, both of them had parents, and they did not love so very much. May I help you to wash him? She asked humbly. 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. Ms. 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. It is very kind of you, he murmured, especially in your beautiful dress. He is nearly clean already. While I take the whole morning, there is so much more of a baby than one expects, and Prof. 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. I am ready for a soft towel now. So Ms. Abbott, who is strangely exalted by the service, 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. And if you had any powder? He struck his forehead despairingly. Apparently the stock of powder was just exhausted. 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 is shown now with health and beauty, it seemed to reflect light like a copper vessel. Just such a baby, Bellini sits languid on his mother's lap, or senior rally flings wriggling on pavements of marble, or Lorenzo di Creti, more reverent but less divine, lays carefully among flowers, with his head upon a wisp of golden straw. For at 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. So they were when Philip entered and saw, to all intents and purposes, the virgin and child with donor, hello, he exclaimed for he was glad to find things in such cheerful trim. She did not greet him, but rose up unsteadily and handed the baby to his father. 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. No words came from her, but she raised her hands to her mouth, like one who is in sudden agony. Senior Rena, do stop a little, after all your kindness. She burst into tears. What is it? said Philip kindly. She tried to speak, and then went away weeping bitterly. The two men stared at each other. By a common impulse they ran on to the loja. They were just in time to see Miss Abbott disappear among the trees. 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 he ever found out at all. Well, your business, said Gino after her puzzled sigh. Our business, Miss Abbott has told you of that? No. But surely, she came for business, but she forgot about it. So did I. Perfeta, who had a genius for missing people, now returned, loudly complaining of the size of Montoriano 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. End of Chapter 7 Where Angels Fear to Tread by E. M. Forrester