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

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. Herriton yesterday, and if I am not careful he will conquer us all today, and the baby will grow up in Monteriano. He is terribly strong; Lilia 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. Miss 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 Sawston, 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 padded upstairs, and looked in at 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, bedclothes, patent-leather boots, dirty plates, and knives 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 Perfetta?”

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 and 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 smoke ring. “And why won’t you tell me the numbers? I have dreamt of a red hen⁠—that is two hundred and five, and a friend unexpected⁠—he means eighty-two. But I try for the Terno this week. So tell me another number.”

Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. She felt those subtle restrictions which come upon us in fatigue. Had she slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. 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 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 pit, she screamed.

There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had 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 you 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 the 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 the 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 a principle any longer. It was so much flesh and blood, so many inches and ounces of life⁠—a glorious, unquestionable fact, which