Where Angels Fear to Tread

by E. M. Forster

  Chapter 7

  At about nine o'clock next morning Perfetta went out on to the loggia,not to look at the view, but to throw some dirty water at it. "Scusitanto!" she wailed, for the water spattered a tall young lady who hadfor some time been tapping at the lower door.

  "Is Signor Carella in?" the young lady asked. It was no business ofPerfetta's to be shocked, and the style of the visitor seemed to demandthe reception-room. Accordingly she opened its shutters, dusted a roundpatch on one of the horsehair chairs, and bade the lady do herself theinconvenience of sitting down. Then she ran into Monteriano and shoutedup and down its streets until such time as her young master should hearher.

  The reception-room was sacred to the dead wife. Her shiny portrait hungupon the wall--similar, doubtless, in all respects to the one whichwould be pasted on her tombstone. A little piece of black drapery hadbeen tacked above the frame to lend a dignity to woe. But two of thetacks had fallen out, and the effect was now rakish, as of a drunkard'sbonnet. A coon song lay open on the piano, and of the two tables onesupported Baedeker's "Central Italy," the other Harriet's inlaid box.And over everything there lay a deposit of heavy white dust, whichwas only blown off one moment to thicken on another. It is well tobe remembered with love. It is not so very dreadful to be forgottenentirely. But if we shall resent anything on earth at all, we shallresent the consecration of a deserted room.

  Miss Abbott did not sit down, partly because the antimacassars mightharbour fleas, partly because she had suddenly felt faint, and was gladto cling on to the funnel of the stove. She struggled with herself,for she had need to be very calm; only if she was very calm might herbehaviour be justified. She had broken faith with Philip and Harriet:she was going to try for the baby before they did. If she failed shecould scarcely look them in the face again.

  "Harriet and her brother," she reasoned, "don't realize what is beforethem. She would bluster and be rude; he would be pleasant and take itas a joke. Both of them--even if they offered money--would fail. But Ibegin to understand the man's nature; he does not love the child, but hewill 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. Herritonyesterday, and if I am not careful he will conquer us all today, and thebaby will grow up in Monteriano. He is terribly strong; Lilia found thatout, but only I remember it now."

  This attempt, and this justification of it, were the results of the longand restless night. Miss Abbott had come to believe that she alone coulddo battle with Gino, because she alone understood him; and she had putthis, 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 educationinclined her to reverence the male, partly because she had got to likePhilip a good deal after their last strange interview. His pettinesswould be dispersed, and as for his "unconventionality," which was somuch gossiped about at Sawston, she began to see that it did not differgreatly from certain familiar notions of her own. If only he wouldforgive her for what she was doing now, there might perhaps be beforethem a long and profitable friendship. But she must succeed. No onewould forgive her if she did not succeed. She prepared to do battle withthe powers of evil.

  The voice of her adversary was heard at last, singing fearlesslyfrom his expanded lungs, like a professional. Herein he differed fromEnglishmen, who always have a little feeling against music, and singonly from the throat, apologetically. He padded upstairs, and lookedin at the open door of the reception-room without seeing her. Her heartleapt and her throat was dry when he turned away and passed, stillsinging, 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, bedclothes,patent-leather boots, dirty plates, and knives lay strewn over a largetable and on the floor. But it was the mess that comes of life, not ofdesolation. It was preferable to the charnel-chamber in which she wasstanding now, and the light in it was soft and large, as from somegracious, noble opening.

  He stopped singing, and cried "Where is Perfetta?"

  His back was turned, and he was lighting a cigar. He was not speakingto Miss Abbott. He could not even be expecting her. The vista of thelanding and the two open doors made him both remote and significant,like an actor on the stage, intimate and unapproachable at the sametime. 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 smoke-ring. "And why won't youtell me the numbers? I have dreamt of a red hen--that is two hundred andfive, and a friend unexpected--he means eighty-two. But I try for theTerno this week. So tell me another number."

  Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. Shefelt those subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. Had sheslept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it wasimpossible. He had got into another world.

  She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him,and brought it out intact upon the landing.

  "Two hundred and five--eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari,not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week forBari." Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized her. It hadbecome 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 'Thankyou, 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 lostself-control. It enveloped her. As if it was a breath from the pit, shescreamed.

  There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had gothere, why she had never spoken. He made her sit down. He brought herwine, 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 somethingcuriously 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 dustychair.

  "Before business you must get well; this is the best wine."

  She refused it feebly. He poured out a glass. She drank it. As she didso she became self-conscious. However important the business, it was notproper 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 helived, he pointed to--the baby.

  She had thought so much about this baby, of its welfare, its soul, itsmorals, its probable defects. But, like most unmarried people, she hadonly thought of it as a word--just as the healthy man only thinks of theword death, not of death itself. The real thing, lying asleep on a dirtyrug, disconcerted her. It did not stand for a principle any longer.It was so much flesh and blood, so many inches and ounces of life--aglorious, unquestionable fact, which a man and another woman had givento the world. You could talk to it; in time it would answer you; in timeit would not answer you unless it chose, but would secrete, within thecompass of its body, thoughts and wonderful passions of its own. Andthis was the machine on which she and Mrs. Herriton and Philip andHarriet had for the last month been exercising their various ideals--haddetermined that in time it should move this way or that way, shouldaccomplish this and not that. It was to be Low Church, it was to behigh-principled, it was to be tactful, gentlemanly, artistic--excellentthings 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 exertno more influence than there may be
in a kiss or in the vaguest of theheartfelt prayers.

  But she had practised self-discipline, and her thoughts and actions werenot yet to correspond. To recover her self-esteem she tried to imaginethat she was in her district, and to behave accordingly.

  "What a fine child, Signor Carella. And how nice of you to talk to it.Though I see that the ungrateful little fellow is asleep! Seven months?No, eight; of course eight. Still, he is a remarkably fine child for hisage."

  Italian is a bad medium for condescension. The patronizing words cameout gracious and sincere, and he smiled with pleasure.

  "You must not stand. Let us sit on the loggia, where it is cool. I amafraid the room is very untidy," he added, with the air of a hostess whoapologizes for a stray thread on the drawing-room carpet. Miss Abbottpicked her way to the chair. He sat near her, astride the parapet, withone foot in the loggia and the other dangling into the view. His facewas in profile, and its beautiful contours drove artfully againstthe misty green of the opposing hills. "Posing!" said Miss Abbott toherself. "A born artist's model."

  "Mr. Herriton called yesterday," she began, "but you were out."

  He started an elaborate and graceful explanation. He had gone for theday to Poggibonsi. Why had the Herritons not written to him, so that hecould have received them properly? Poggibonsi would have done any day;not but what his business there was fairly important. What did shesuppose that it was?

  Naturally she was not greatly interested. She had not come from Sawstonto guess why he had been to Poggibonsi. She answered politely that shehad no idea, and returned to her mission.

  "But guess!" he persisted, clapping the balustrade between his hands.

  She suggested, with gentle sarcasm, that perhaps he had gone toPoggibonsi to find something to do.

  He intimated that it was not as important as all that. Something todo--an almost hopeless quest! "E manca questo!" He rubbed his thumb andforefinger together, to indicate that he had no money. Then hesighed, and blew another smoke-ring. Miss Abbott took heart and turneddiplomatic.

  "This house," she said, "is a large house."

  "Exactly," was his gloomy reply. "And when my poor wife died--" He gotup, went in, and walked across the landing to the reception-room door,which he closed reverently. Then he shut the door of the living-roomwith 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 andsisters and two aunts were also willing. But it was impossible. Theyhave their ways of doing things, and when I was younger I was contentwith them. But now I am a man. I have my own ways. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, I do," said Miss Abbott, thinking of her own dear father, whosetricks and habits, after twenty-five years spent in their company, werebeginning to get on her nerves. She remembered, though, that she wasnot here to sympathize with Gino--at all events, not to show thatshe sympathized. She also reminded herself that he was not worthy ofsympathy. "It is a large house," she repeated.

  "Immense; and the taxes! But it will be better when--Ah! but you havenever guessed why I went to Poggibonsi--why it was that I was out whenhe called."

  "I cannot guess, Signor Carella. 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 gratefulto me. You gave it me once before. Will you give it now?"

  "I have not come as a friend this time," she answered stiffly. "I am notlikely, Signor Carella, to approve of anything you do."

  "Oh, Signorina!" He laughed, as if he found her piquant and amusing."Surely you approve of marriage?"

  "Where there is love," said Miss Abbott, looking at him hard. His facehad altered in the last year, but not for the worse, which was baffling.

  "Where there is love," said he, politely echoing the English view. Thenhe 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 sexand her nationality went thrilling through the words.

  "But why?" He jumped up, frowning. His voice was squeaky and petulant,like that of a child who is suddenly forbidden a toy.

  "You have ruined one woman; I forbid you to ruin another. It is not ayear since Lilia died. You pretended to me the other day that you lovedher. It is a lie. You wanted her money. Has this woman money too?"

  "Why, yes!" he said irritably. "A little."

  "And I suppose you 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 indeedhe had often found Lilia as agreeable as any one 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. Sheglowed and throbbed; her tongue moved nimbly. At the finish, if thereal business of the day had been completed, she could have sweptmajestically from the house. But the baby still remained, asleep on adirty rug.

  Gino was thoughtful, and stood scratching his head. He respected MissAbbott. 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 childwith the strength and the passions of a disreputable man. "How can itsucceed," 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.

  "Then God help her!"

  He stamped impatiently. "Whatever I say displeases you, Signorina. Godhelp you, for you are most unfair. You say that I ill-treated my dearwife. It is not so. I have never ill-treated any one. You complain thatthere is no love in this marriage. I prove that there is, and you becomestill more angry. What do you want? Do you suppose she will not becontented? 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 wascapable.

  "Why, of course. She knows why I am marrying her."

  "To succeed where Lilia failed! To be your housekeeper, your slave,you--" The words she would like to have said were too violent for her.

  "To look after the baby, certainly," said he.

  "The baby--?" She had forgotten it.

  "It is an English marriage," he said proudly. "I do not care about themoney. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that?"

  "No," said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she sawlight. "It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of thebaby--"

  Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake atonce. "I don't mean that," she added quickly.

  "I know," was his courteous response. "Ah, in a foreign language (andhow 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 could not always be together yet, he and I. You areright. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is toorough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has tobe washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, orsettle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he isunhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do notbe unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (hisvoice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are notall 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 wasnot so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed forHarriet's burly obtuseness or for the soulle
ss diplomacy of Mrs.Herriton.

  "A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly.

  "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very seriousstep. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--"

  "Empoli! I would as 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 himwith me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they wouldseparate 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 nakedbefore her, and her moral being was abashed. It was her duty to rescuethe baby, to save it from contagion, and she still meant to do her duty.But the comfortable sense of virtue left her. She was in the presence ofsomething greater than right or wrong.

  Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into theroom, driven by the instinct she had aroused in him. "Wake up!" he criedto his baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he lifted his footand trod lightly on its stomach.

  Miss Abbott cried, "Oh, take care!" She was unaccustomed to this methodof awakening the young.

  "He is not much longer than my boot, is he? Can you believe that in timehis own boots will be as large? And that he also--"

  "But ought 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 havesons like him, to people the earth. It is the strongest desire that cancome to a man--if it comes to him at all--stronger even than love or thedesire for personal immortality. All men vaunt it, and declare that itis theirs; but the hearts of most are set elsewhere. It is the exceptionwho comprehends that physical and spiritual life may stream out of himfor ever. Miss Abbott, for all her goodness, could not comprehend it,though such a thing is more within the comprehension of women. Andwhen Gino pointed first to himself and then to his baby and said"father-son," she still took it as a piece of nursery prattle, andsmiled mechanically.

  The child, the first fruits, woke up and glared at her. Gino did notgreet 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 cannotpretend that to you for a moment. But she is what I require."

  The baby gave a piercing yell.

  "Oh, do take care!" begged Miss Abbott. "You are squeezing it."

  "It is nothing. If he cries silently then you may be frightened. Hethinks I am going to wash him, and he is quite right."

  "Wash him!" she cried. "You? Here?" The homely piece of news seemedto shatter all her plans. She had spent a long half-hour in elaborateapproaches, in high moral attacks; she had neither frightened her enemynor made him angry, nor interfered with the least detail of his domesticlife.

  "I had gone to the Farmacia," he continued, "and was sitting therecomfortably, when suddenly I remembered that Perfetta had heated wateran hour ago--over there, look, covered with a cushion. I came away atonce, for really he must be washed. You must excuse me. I can put it offno longer."

  "I have wasted your time," she said feebly.

  He walked sternly to the loggia and drew from it a large earthenwarebowl. It was dirty inside; he dusted it with a tablecloth. Then hefetched the hot water, which was in a copper pot. He poured it out. Headded cold. He felt in his pocket and brought out a piece of soap. Thenhe took up the baby, and, holding his cigar between his teeth, began tounwrap it. Miss Abbott turned to go.

  "But why 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 nowwas to find Philip, confess her miserable defeat, and bid him go inher stead and prosper better. She cursed her feebleness; she longed toexpose 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 littlekicking image of bronze.

  "Take him!"

  She would not touch the child.

  "I must go at once," she cried; for the tears--the wrong tears--werehurrying to her eyes.

  "Who would have believed his mother was blonde? For he is brown allover--brown every inch of him. Ah, but how beautiful he is! And he ismine; mine for ever. Even if he hates me he will be mine. He cannot helpit; 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 wassomething too remote from the prettiness of the nursery. The man wasmajestic; he was a part of Nature; in no ordinary love scene could heever be so great. For a wonderful physical tie binds the parents to thechildren; and--by some sad, strange irony--it does not bind us childrento our parents. For if it did, if we could answer their love not withgratitude but with equal love, life would lose much of its pathosand much of its squalor, and we might be wonderfully happy. Ginopassionately embracing, Miss Abbott reverently averting her eyes--bothof them had parents whom 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 andlegs were agitated by some overpowering joy. Miss Abbott had a woman'spleasure in cleaning anything--more especially when the thing was human.She understood little babies from long experience in a district, andGino soon ceased to give her directions, and only gave her thanks.

  "It is very kind of you," he murmured, "especially in your beautifuldress. He is nearly clean already. Why, I take the whole morning! Thereis so much more of a baby than one expects. And Perfetta washes him justas she washes clothes. Then he screams for hours. My wife is to have alight hand. Ah, how he kicks! Has he splashed you? I am very sorry."

  "I am ready for a soft towel now," said Miss Abbott, who was strangelyexalted by the service.

  "Certainly! certainly!" He strode in a knowing way to a cupboard. Buthe had no idea where the soft towel was. Generally he dabbed the baby onthe first dry thing he found.

  "And if you had any powder."

  He struck his forehead despairingly. Apparently the stock of powder wasjust exhausted.

  She sacrificed her own clean handkerchief. He put a chair for her on theloggia, which faced westward, and was still pleasant and cool. There shesat, with twenty miles of view behind her, and he placed the drippingbaby on her knee. It shone now with health and beauty: it seemed toreflect light, like a copper vessel. Just such a baby Bellini setslanguid on his mother's lap, or Signorelli flings wriggling on pavementsof marble, or Lorenzo di Credi, more reverent but less divine, layscarefully among flowers, with his head upon a wisp of golden straw. Fora time Gino contemplated them standing. Then, to get a better view, heknelt 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.

  "Hullo!" he exclaimed; for he was glad to find things in such cheerfultrim.

  She did not greet him, but rose up unsteadily and handed the baby to hisfather.

  "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 italone."

  No words came from her, but she raised her hands to her mouth, like onewho is in sudden agony.

  "Signorina, 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 theloggia. They were just in time to see Miss Abbott disappear among thetrees.

  "What is it?" asked Philip again. There was no answer, and somehow hedid not want an answer. Some strange thing had happened which he couldnot presume to understand. He would find out from Miss Abbott, if everhe found out at all.

  "Well, your business," said Gino, after a 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."

  Perfetta, who had a genius for missing people, now returned, loudlycomplaining of the size of Monteriano and the intricacies of itsstreets. Gino told her to watch the baby. Then he offered Philip acigar, and they proceeded to the business.