Where Angels Fear to Tread by E. M. Forster (best free ereader TXT) 📕

as David and Jonathan, you need never enter his home, nor he yours. All your lives you will meet under the open air, the only rooftree of the South, under which he will spit and swear, and you will drop your h’s, and nobody will think the worse of either.

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 caffè 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—someone humorously threw a cloak over his head, and when he disengaged himself he saw his very dear friend Spiridione Tesi of the customhouse 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 stationmaster 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 Caffè Garibaldi, by the Collegiate Church⁠—quite a good caffè 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