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

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 travelled, in the whitened 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 Monteriano station. But nothing⁠—not even the discomfort⁠—was commonplace.

“But do people live inside?” asked Harriet. They had exchanged railway-carriage for the legno, and the legno 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 caffè. 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 or 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 so you 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 have lived 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 are 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 Santa Deodata’s, 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 legno 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 out he’ll murder you. I wish he would.”

“Tut tut, tutlet! You’d find a corpse extraordinarily inconvenient.” Then 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 unchivalrous 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 chivalrous 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 upon 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 lire, 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 grave business on his mind. It was in the spirit of the cultivated tourist 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 mingle 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. But so holy was the saint that she never picked her mother up, but lay upon her back through