Works of E M Forster

by E. M. Forster

  Meanwhile the women — they have, of course, their house and their church, with its admirable and frequent services, to which they are escorted by the maid. Otherwise they do not go out much, for it is not genteel to walk, and you are too poor to keep a carriage. Occasionally you will take them to the caffe or theatre, and immediately all your wonted acquaintance there desert you, except those few who are expecting and expected to marry into your family. It is all very sad. But one consolation emerges — life is very pleasant in Italy if you are a man.

  Hitherto Gino had not interfered with Lilia. She was so much older than he was, and so much richer, that he regarded her as a superior being who answered to other laws. He was not wholly surprised, for strange rumours were always blowing over the Alps of lands where men and women had the same amusements and interests, and he had often met that privileged maniac, the lady tourist, on her solitary walks. Lilia took solitary walks too, and only that week a tramp had grabbed at her watch — an episode which is supposed to be indigenous in Italy, though really less frequent there than in Bond Street. Now that he knew her better, he was inevitably losing his awe: no one could live with her and keep it, especially when she had been so silly as to lose a gold watch and chain. As he lay thoughtful along the parapet, he realized for the first time the responsibilities of monied life. He must save her from dangers, physical and social, for after all she was a woman. “And I,” he reflected, “though I am young, am at all events a man, and know what is right.”

  He found her still in the living-room, combing her hair, for she had something of the slattern in her nature, and there was no need to keep up appearances.

  “You must not go out alone,” he said gently. “It is not safe. If you want to walk, Perfetta shall accompany you.” Perfetta was a widowed cousin, too humble for social aspirations, who was living with them as factotum.

  “Very well,” smiled Lilia, “very well” — as if she were addressing a solicitous kitten. But for all that she never took a solitary walk again, with one exception, till the day of her death.

  Days passed, and no one called except poor relatives. She began to feel dull. Didn’t he know the Sindaco or the bank manager? Even the landlady of the Stella d’Italia would be better than no one. She, when she went into the town, was pleasantly received; but people naturally found a difficulty in getting on with a lady who could not learn their language. And the tea-party, under Gino’s adroit management, receded ever and ever before her.

  He had a good deal of anxiety over her welfare, for she did not settle down in the house at all. But he was comforted by a welcome and unexpected visitor. As he was going one afternoon for the letters — they were delivered at the door, but it took longer to get them at the office — some one humorously threw a cloak over his head, and when he disengaged himself he saw his very dear friend Spiridione Tesi of the custom-house at Chiasso, whom he had not met for two years. What joy! what salutations! so that all the passersby smiled with approval on the amiable scene. Spiridione’s brother was now station-master at Bologna, and thus he himself could spend his holiday travelling over Italy at the public expense. Hearing of Gino’s marriage, he had come to see him on his way to Siena, where lived his own uncle, lately monied too.

  “They all do it,” he exclaimed, “myself excepted.” He was not quite twenty-three. “But tell me more. She is English. That is good, very good. An English wife is very good indeed. And she is rich?”

  “Immensely rich.”

  “Blonde or dark?”

  “Blonde.”

  “Is it possible!”

  “It pleases me very much,” said Gino simply. “If you remember, I always desired a blonde.” Three or four men had collected, and were listening.

  “We all desire one,” said Spiridione. “But you, Gino, deserve your good fortune, for you are a good son, a brave man, and a true friend, and from the very first moment I saw you I wished you well.”

  “No compliments, I beg,” said Gino, standing with his hands crossed on his chest and a smile of pleasure on his face.

  Spiridione addressed the other men, none of whom he had ever seen before. “Is it not true? Does not he deserve this wealthy blonde?”

  “He does deserve her,” said all the men.

  It is a marvellous land, where you love it or hate it.

  There were no letters, and of course they sat down at the Caffe Garibaldi, by the Collegiate Church — quite a good caffe that for so small a city. There were marble-topped tables, and pillars terra-cotta below and gold above, and on the ceiling was a fresco of the battle of Solferino. One could not have desired a prettier room. They had vermouth and little cakes with sugar on the top, which they chose gravely at the counter, pinching them first to be sure they were fresh. And though vermouth is barely alcoholic, Spiridione drenched his with soda-water to be sure that it should not get into his head.

  They were in high spirits, and elaborate compliments alternated curiously with gentle horseplay. But soon they put up their legs on a pair of chairs and began to smoke.

  “Tell me,” said Spiridione— “I forgot to ask — is she young?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “Ah, well, we cannot have everything.”

  “But you would be surprised. Had she told me twenty-eight, I should not have disbelieved her.”

  “Is she SIMPATICA?” (Nothing will translate that word.)

  Gino dabbed at the sugar and said after a silence, “Sufficiently so.”

  “It is a most important thing.”

  “She is rich, she is generous, she is affable, she addresses her inferiors without haughtiness.”

  There was another silence. “It is not sufficient,” said the other. “One does not define it thus.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Last month a German was smuggling cigars. The custom-house was dark. Yet I refused because I did not like him. The gifts of such men do not bring happiness. NON ERA SIMPATICO. He paid for every one, and the fine for deception besides.”

  “Do you gain much beyond your pay?” asked Gino, diverted for an instant.

  “I do not accept small sums now. It is not worth the risk. But the German was another matter. But listen, my Gino, for I am older than you and more full of experience. The person who understands us at first sight, who never irritates us, who never bores, to whom we can pour forth every thought and wish, not only in speech but in silence — that is what I mean by SIMPATICO.”

  “There are such men, I know,” said Gino. “And I have heard it said of children. But where will you find such a woman?”

  “That is true. Here you are wiser than I. SONO POCO SIMPATICHE LE DONNE. And the time we waste over them is much.” He sighed dolefully, as if he found the nobility of his sex a burden.

  “One I have seen who may be so. She spoke very little, but she was a young lady — different to most. She, too, was English, the companion of my wife here. But Fra Filippo, the brother-in-law, took her back with him. I saw them start. He was very angry.”

  Then he spoke of his exciting and secret marriage, and they made fun of the unfortunate Philip, who had travelled over Europe to stop it.

  “I regret though,” said Gino, when they had finished laughing, “that I toppled him on to the bed. A great tall man! And when I am really amused I am often impolite.”

  “You will never see him again,” said Spiridione, who carried plenty of philosophy about him. “And by now the scene will have passed from his mind.”

  “It sometimes happens that such things are recollected longest. I shall never see him again, of course; but it is no benefit to me that he should wish me ill. And even if he has forgotten, I am still sorry that I toppled him on to the bed.”

  So their talk continued, at one moment full of childishness and tender wisdom, the next moment scandalously gross. The shadows of the terra-cotta pillars lengthened, and tourists, flying through the Palazzo Pubblico opposite, could observe how the Italians wasted time.

  The sight of tourists reminded Gino of somet
hing he might say. “I want to consult you since you are so kind as to take an interest in my affairs. My wife wishes to take solitary walks.”

  Spiridione was shocked.

  “But I have forbidden her.”

  “Naturally.”

  “She does not yet understand. She asked me to accompany her sometimes — to walk without object! You know, she would like me to be with her all day.”

  “I see. I see.” He knitted his brows and tried to think how he could help his friend. “She needs employment. Is she a Catholic?”

  “No.”

  “That is a pity. She must be persuaded. It will be a great solace to her when she is alone.”

  “I am a Catholic, but of course I never go to church.”

  “Of course not. Still, you might take her at first. That is what my brother has done with his wife at Bologna and he has joined the Free Thinkers. He took her once or twice himself, and now she has acquired the habit and continues to go without him.”

  “Most excellent advice, and I thank you for it. But she wishes to give tea-parties — men and women together whom she has never seen.”

  “Oh, the English! they are always thinking of tea. They carry it by the kilogramme in their trunks, and they are so clumsy that they always pack it at the top. But it is absurd!”

  “What am I to do about it?”

  “Do nothing. Or ask me!”

  “Come!” cried Gino, springing up. “She will be quite pleased.”

  The dashing young fellow coloured crimson. “Of course I was only joking.”

  “I know. But she wants me to take my friends. Come now! Waiter!”

  “If I do come,” cried the other, “and take tea with you, this bill must be my affair.”

  “Certainly not; you are in my country!”

  A long argument ensued, in which the waiter took part, suggesting various solutions. At last Gino triumphed. The bill came to eightpence-halfpenny, and a halfpenny for the waiter brought it up to ninepence. Then there was a shower of gratitude on one side and of deprecation on the other, and when courtesies were at their height they suddenly linked arms and swung down the street, tickling each other with lemonade straws as they went.

  Lilia was delighted to see them, and became more animated than Gino had known her for a long time. The tea tasted of chopped hay, and they asked to be allowed to drink it out of a wine-glass, and refused milk; but, as she repeatedly observed, this was something like. Spiridione’s manners were very agreeable. He kissed her hand on introduction, and as his profession had taught him a little English, conversation did not flag.

  “Do you like music?” she asked.

  “Passionately,” he replied. “I have not studied scientific music, but the music of the heart, yes.”

  So she played on the humming piano very badly, and he sang, not so badly. Gino got out a guitar and sang too, sitting out on the loggia. It was a most agreeable visit.

  Gino said he would just walk his friend back to his lodgings. As they went he said, without the least trace of malice or satire in his voice, “I think you are quite right. I shall not bring people to the house any more. I do not see why an English wife should be treated differently. This is Italy.”

  “You are very wise,” exclaimed the other; “very wise indeed. The more precious a possession the more carefully it should be guarded.”

  They had reached the lodging, but went on as far as the Caffe Garibaldi, where they spent a long and most delightful evening.

  Chapter 4

  The advance of regret can be so gradual that it is impossible to say “yesterday I was happy, today I am not.” At no one moment did Lilia realize that her marriage was a failure; yet during the summer and autumn she became as unhappy as it was possible for her nature to be. She had no unkind treatment, and few unkind words, from her husband. He simply left her alone. In the morning he went out to do “business,” which, as far as she could discover, meant sitting in the Farmacia. He usually returned to lunch, after which he retired to another room and slept. In the evening he grew vigorous again, and took the air on the ramparts, often having his dinner out, and seldom returning till midnight or later. There were, of course, the times when he was away altogether — at Empoli, Siena, Florence, Bologna — for he delighted in travel, and seemed to pick up friends all over the country. Lilia often heard what a favorite he was.

  She began to see that she must assert herself, but she could not see how. Her self-confidence, which had overthrown Philip, had gradually oozed away. If she left the strange house there was the strange little town. If she were to disobey her husband and walk in the country, that would be stranger still — vast slopes of olives and vineyards, with chalk-white farms, and in the distance other slopes, with more olives and more farms, and more little towns outlined against the cloudless sky. “I don’t call this country,” she would say. “Why, it’s not as wild as Sawston Park!” And, indeed, there was scarcely a touch of wildness in it — some of those slopes had been under cultivation for two thousand years. But it was terrible and mysterious all the same, and its continued presence made Lilia so uncomfortable that she forgot her nature and began to reflect.

  She reflected chiefly about her marriage. The ceremony had been hasty and expensive, and the rites, whatever they were, were not those of the Church of England. Lilia had no religion in her; but for hours at a time she would be seized with a vulgar fear that she was not “married properly,” and that her social position in the next world might be as obscure as it was in this. It might be safer to do the thing thoroughly, and one day she took the advice of Spiridione and joined the Roman Catholic Church, or as she called it, “Santa Deodata’s.” Gino approved; he, too, thought it safer, and it was fun confessing, though the priest was a stupid old man, and the whole thing was a good slap in the face for the people at home.

  The people at home took the slap very soberly; indeed, there were few left for her to give it to. The Herritons were out of the question; they would not even let her write to Irma, though Irma was occasionally allowed to write to her. Mrs. Theobald was rapidly subsiding into dotage, and, as far as she could be definite about anything, had definitely sided with the Herritons. And Miss Abbott did likewise. Night after night did Lilia curse this false friend, who had agreed with her that the marriage would “do,” and that the Herritons would come round to it, and then, at the first hint of opposition, had fled back to England shrieking and distraught. Miss Abbott headed the long list of those who should never be written to, and who should never be forgiven. Almost the only person who was not on that list was Mr. Kingcroft, who had unexpectedly sent an affectionate and inquiring letter. He was quite sure never to cross the Channel, and Lilia drew freely on her fancy in the reply.

  At first she had seen a few English people, for Monteriano was not the end of the earth. One or two inquisitive ladies, who had heard at home of her quarrel with the Herritons, came to call. She was very sprightly, and they thought her quite unconventional, and Gino a charming boy, so all that was to the good. But by May the season, such as it was, had finished, and there would be no one till next spring. As Mrs. Herriton had often observed, Lilia had no resources. She did not like music, or reading, or work. Her one qualification for life was rather blowsy high spirits, which turned querulous or boisterous according to circumstances. She was not obedient, but she was cowardly, and in the most gentle way, which Mrs. Herriton might have envied, Gino made her do what he wanted. At first it had been rather fun to let him get the upper hand. But it was galling to discover that he could not do otherwise. He had a good strong will when he chose to use it, and would not have had the least scruple in using bolts and locks to put it into effect. There was plenty of brutality deep down in him, and one day Lilia nearly touched it.

  It was the old question of going out alone.

  “I always do it in England.”

  “This is Italy.”

  “Yes, but I’m older than you, and I’ll settle.”

  “I am your hus
band,” he said, smiling. They had finished their mid-day meal, and he wanted to go and sleep. Nothing would rouse him up, until at last Lilia, getting more and more angry, said, “And I’ve got the money.”

  He looked horrified.

  Now was the moment to assert herself. She made the statement again. He got up from his chair.

  “And you’d better mend your manners,” she continued, “for you’d find it awkward if I stopped drawing cheques.”

  She was no reader of character, but she quickly became alarmed. As she said to Perfetta afterwards, “None of his clothes seemed to fit — too big in one place, too small in another.” His figure rather than his face altered, the shoulders falling forward till his coat wrinkled across the back and pulled away from his wrists. He seemed all arms. He edged round the table to where she was sitting, and she sprang away and held the chair between them, too frightened to speak or to move. He looked at her with round, expressionless eyes, and slowly stretched out his left hand.

  Perfetta was heard coming up from the kitchen. It seemed to wake him up, and he turned away and went to his room without a word.

  “What has happened?” cried Lilia, nearly fainting. “He is ill — ill.”

  Perfetta looked suspicious when she heard the account. “What did you say to him?” She crossed herself.

  “Hardly anything,” said Lilia and crossed herself also. Thus did the two women pay homage to their outraged male.

  It was clear to Lilia at last that Gino had married her for money. But he had frightened her too much to leave any place for contempt. His return was terrifying, for he was frightened too, imploring her pardon, lying at her feet, embracing her, murmuring “It was not I,” striving to define things which he did not understand. He stopped in the house for three days, positively ill with physical collapse. But for all his suffering he had tamed her, and she never threatened to cut off supplies again.