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

It was now nearly midday, and the streets were clearing. But the intense heat had broken, and there was a pleasant suggestion of rain. The Piazza, with its three great attractions⁠—the Palazzo Pubblico, the Collegiate Church, and the Caffè Garibaldi: the intellect, the soul, and the body⁠—had never looked more charming. For a moment Philip stood in its centre, much inclined to be dreamy, and thinking how wonderful it must feel to belong to a city, however mean. He was here, however, as an emissary of civilization and as a student of character, and, after a sigh, he entered Santa Deodata’s to continue his mission.

There had been a festa two days before, and the church still smelt of incense and of garlic. The little son of the sacristan was sweeping the nave, more for amusement than for cleanliness, sending great clouds of dust over the frescoes and the scattered worshippers. The sacristan himself had propped a ladder in the centre of the Deluge⁠—which fills one of the nave spandrels⁠—and was freeing a column from its wealth of scarlet calico. Much scarlet calico also lay upon the floor⁠—for the church can look as fine as any theatre⁠—and the sacristan’s little daughter was trying to fold it up. She was wearing a tinsel crown. The crown really belonged to St. Augustine. But it had been cut too big: it fell down over his cheeks like a collar: you never saw anything so absurd. One of the canons had unhooked it just before the festa began, and had given it to the sacristan’s daughter.

“Please,” cried Philip, “is there an English lady here?”

The man’s mouth was full of tin tacks, but he nodded cheerfully towards a kneeling figure. In the midst of this confusion Miss Abbott was praying.

He was not much surprised: a spiritual breakdown was quite to be expected. For though he was growing more charitable towards mankind, he was still a little jaunty, and too apt to stake out beforehand the course that will be pursued by the wounded soul. It did not surprise him, however, that she should greet him naturally, with none of the sour self-consciousness of a person who had just risen from her knees. This was indeed the spirit of Santa Deodata’s, where a prayer to God is thought none the worse of because it comes next to a pleasant word to a neighbour. “I am sure that I need it,” said she; and he, who had expected her to be ashamed, became confused, and knew not what to reply.

“I’ve nothing to tell you,” she continued. “I have simply changed straight round. If I had planned the whole thing out, I could not have treated you worse. I can talk it over now; but please believe that I have been crying.”

“And please believe that I have not come to scold you,” said Philip. “I know what has happened.”

“What?” asked Miss Abbott. Instinctively she led the way to the famous chapel, the fifth chapel on the right, wherein Giovanni da Empoli has painted the death and burial of the saint. Here they could sit out of the dust and the noise, and proceed with a discussion which promised to be important.

“What might have happened to me⁠—he had made you believe that he loved the child.”

“Oh, yes; he has. He will never give it up.”

“At present it is still unsettled.”

“It will never be settled.”

“Perhaps not. Well, as I said, I know what has happened, and I am not here to scold you. But I must ask you to withdraw from the thing for the present. Harriet is furious. But she will calm down when she realizes that you have done us no harm, and will do none.”

“I can do no more,” she said. “But I tell you plainly I have changed sides.”

“If you do no more, that is all we want. You promise not to prejudice our cause by speaking to Signor Carella?”

“Oh, certainly. I don’t want to speak to him again; I shan’t ever see him again.”

“Quite nice, wasn’t he?”

“Quite.”

“Well, that’s all I wanted to know. I’ll go and tell Harriet of your promise, and I think things’ll quiet down now.”

But he did not move, for it was an increasing pleasure to him to be near her, and her charm was at its strongest today. He thought less of psychology and feminine reaction. The gush of sentimentalism which had carried her away had only made her more alluring. He was content to observe her beauty and to profit by the tenderness and the wisdom that dwelt within her.

“Why aren’t you angry with me?” she asked, after a pause.

“Because I understand you⁠—all sides, I think⁠—Harriet, Signor Carella, even my mother.”

“You do understand wonderfully. You are the only one of us who has a general view of the muddle.”

He smiled with pleasure. It was the first time she had ever praised him. His eyes rested agreeably on Santa Deodata, who was dying in full sanctity, upon her back. There was a window open behind her, revealing just such a view as he had seen that morning, and on her widowed mother’s dresser there stood just such another copper pot. The saint looked neither at the view nor at the pot, and at her widowed mother still less. For lo! she had a vision: the head and shoulders of St. Augustine were sliding like some miraculous enamel along the roughcast wall. It is a gentle saint who is content with half another saint to see her die. In her death, as in her life, Santa Deodata did not accomplish much.

“So what are you going to do?” said Miss Abbott.

Philip started, not so much at the words as at the sudden change in the voice. “Do?” he echoed, rather dismayed. “This afternoon I have another interview.”

“It will come to nothing. Well?”

“Then another. If that fails I shall wire home for instructions. I dare say we may fail altogether, but we shall fail honourably.”

She had often been decided.