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

a man and another woman had given to the world. You could talk to it; in time it would answer you; in time it would not answer you unless it chose, but would secrete, within the compass of its body, thoughts and wonderful passions of its own. And this was the machine on which she and Mrs. Herriton and Philip and Harriet had for the last month been exercising their various ideals⁠—had determined that in time it should move this way or that way, should accomplish this and not that. It was to be Low Church, it was to be high-principled, it was to be tactful, gentlemanly, artistic⁠—excellent things 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 exert no more influence than there may be in a kiss or in the vaguest of the heartfelt prayers.

But she had practised self-discipline, and her thoughts and actions were not yet to correspond. To recover her self-esteem she tried to imagine that 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 his age.”

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

“You must not stand. Let us sit on the loggia, where it is cool. I am afraid the room is very untidy,” he added, with the air of a hostess who apologizes for a stray thread on the drawing room carpet. Miss Abbott picked her way to the chair. He sat near her, astride the parapet, with one foot in the loggia and the other dangling into the view. His face was in profile, and its beautiful contours drove artfully against the misty green of the opposing hills. “Posing!” said Miss Abbott to herself. “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 the day to Poggibonsi. Why had the Herritons not written to him, so that he could have received them properly? Poggibonsi would have done any day; not but what his business there was fairly important. What did she suppose that it was?

Naturally she was not greatly interested. She had not come from Sawston to guess why he had been to Poggibonsi. She answered politely that she had 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 to Poggibonsi to find something to do.

He intimated that it was not as important as all that. Something to do⁠—an almost hopeless quest! “E manca questo!” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, to indicate that he had no money. Then he sighed, and blew another smoke ring. Miss Abbott took heart and turned diplomatic.

“This house,” she said, “is a large house.”

“Exactly,” was his gloomy reply. “And when my poor wife died⁠—” He got up, went in, and walked across the landing to the reception room door, which he closed reverently. Then he shut the door of the living room with 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 and sisters and two aunts were also willing. But it was impossible. They have their ways of doing things, and when I was younger I was content with 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, whose tricks and habits, after twenty-five years spent in their company, were beginning to get on her nerves. She remembered, though, that she was not here to sympathize with Gino⁠—at all events, not to show that she sympathized. She also reminded herself that he was not worthy of sympathy. “It is a large house,” she repeated.

“Immense; and the taxes! But it will be better when⁠—Ah! but you have never guessed why I went to Poggibonsi⁠—why it was that I was out when he 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 grateful to 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 not likely, 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 face had altered in the last year, but not for the worse, which was baffling.

“Where there is love,” said he, politely echoing the English view. Then he 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 sex and 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 a year since Lilia died. You pretended to me the other day that you loved her. 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