Works of E M Forster

by E. M. Forster

  “Singles or returns?” said he.

  “A single for me,” said Harriet peevishly; “I shall never get back alive.”

  “Sweet creature!” said her brother, suddenly breaking down. “How helpful you will be when we come to Signor Carella!”

  “Do you suppose,” said Harriet, standing still among a whirl of porters— “do you suppose I am going to enter that man’s house?”

  “Then what have you come for, pray? For ornament?”

  “To see that you do your duty.”

  “Oh, thanks!”

  “So mother told me. For goodness sake get the tickets; here comes that hot woman again! She has the impudence to bow.”

  “Mother told you, did she?” said Philip wrathfully, as he went to struggle for tickets at a slit so narrow that they were handed to him edgeways. Italy was beastly, and Florence station is the centre of beastly Italy. But he had a strange feeling that he was to blame for it all; that a little influx into him of virtue would make the whole land 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 caffe. 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 all, and thus assured her throne in Paradise. She was only fifteen when she died, which shows how much is within the reach of any school-girl. Those who think her life was unpractical need only think of the victories upon Poggibonsi, San Gemignano, Volterra, Siena itself — all gained through the invocation of her name; they need only look at the church which rose over her grave. The grand schemes for a marble facade were never carried out, and it is brown unfinished stone until this day. But for the inside Giotto was summoned to decorate the walls of the nave. Giotto came — that is to say, he did not come, German research having decisively proved — but at all events the nave is covered with frescoes, and so are two chapels in the left transept, and the arch into the choir, and there are scraps in the choir itself. There the decoration stopped, till in the full spring of the Renaissance a great painter came to pay a few weeks’ visit to his friend the Lord of Monteriano. In the intervals between the banquets and the discussions on Latin etymology and the dancing, he would stroll over to the church, and there in the fifth chapel to the right he has painted two frescoes of the death and burial of Santa Deodata. That is why Baedeker gives the place a star.

  Santa Deodata was better company than Harriet, and she kept Philip in a pleasant dream until the legno drew up at
the hotel. Every one there was asleep, for it was still the hour when only idiots were moving. There were not even any beggars about. The cabman put their bags down in the passage — they had left heavy luggage at the station — and strolled about till he came on the landlady’s room and woke her, and sent her to them.

  Then Harriet pronounced the monosyllable “Go!”

  “Go where?” asked Philip, bowing to the landlady, who was swimming down the stairs.

  “To the Italian. Go.”

  “Buona sera, signora padrona. Si ritorna volontieri a Monteriano!” (Don’t be a goose. I’m not going now. You’re in the way, too.) “Vorrei due camere— “

  “Go. This instant. Now. I’ll stand it no longer. Go!”

  “I’m damned if I’ll go. I want my tea.”

  “Swear if you like!” she cried. “Blaspheme! Abuse me! But understand, I’m in earnest.”

  “Harriet, don’t act. Or act better.”

  “We’ve come here to get the baby back, and for nothing else. I’ll not have this levity and slackness, and talk about pictures and churches. Think of mother; did she send you out for THEM?”

  “Think of mother and don’t straddle across the stairs. Let the cabman and the landlady come down, and let me go up and choose rooms.”

  “I shan’t.”

  “Harriet, are you mad?”

  “If you like. But you will not come up till you have seen the Italian.”

  “La signorina si sente male,” said Philip, “C’ e il sole.”

  “Poveretta!” cried the landlady and the cabman.

  “Leave me alone!” said Harriet, snarling round at them. “I don’t care for the lot of you. I’m English, and neither you’ll come down nor he up till he goes for the baby.”

  “La prego-piano-piano-c e un’ altra signorina che dorme— “

  “We shall probably be arrested for brawling, Harriet. Have you the very slightest sense of the ludicrous?”

  Harriet had not; that was why she could be so powerful. She had concocted this scene in the carriage, and nothing should baulk her of it. To the abuse in front and the coaxing behind she was equally indifferent. How long she would have stood like a glorified Horatius, keeping the staircase at both ends, was never to be known. For the young lady, whose sleep they were disturbing, awoke and opened her bedroom door, and came out on to the landing. She was Miss Abbott.

  Philip’s first coherent feeling was one of indignation. To be run by his mother and hectored by his sister was as much as he could stand. The intervention of a third female drove him suddenly beyond politeness. He was about to say exactly what he thought about the thing from beginning to end. But before he could do so Harriet also had seen Miss Abbott. She uttered a shrill cry of joy.

  “You, Caroline, here of all people!” And in spite of the heat she darted up the stairs and imprinted an affectionate kiss upon her friend.

  Philip had an inspiration. “You will have a lot to tell Miss Abbott, Harriet, and she may have as much to tell you. So I’ll pay my call on Signor Carella, as you suggested, and see how things stand.”

  Miss Abbott uttered some noise of greeting or alarm. He did not reply to it or approach nearer to her. Without even paying the cabman, he escaped into the street.

  “Tear each other’s eyes out!” he cried, gesticulating at the facade of the hotel. “Give it to her, Harriet! Teach her to leave us alone. Give it to her, Caroline! Teach her to be grateful to you. Go it, ladies; go it!”

  Such people as observed him were interested, but did not conclude that he was mad. This aftermath of conversation is not unknown in Italy.

  He tried to think how amusing it was; but it would not do — Miss Abbott’s presence affected him too personally. Either she suspected him of dishonesty, or else she was being dishonest herself. He preferred to suppose the latter. Perhaps she had seen Gino, and they had prepared some elaborate mortification for the Herritons. Perhaps Gino had sold the baby cheap to her for a joke: it was just the kind of joke that would appeal to him. Philip still remembered the laughter that had greeted his fruitless journey, and the uncouth push that had toppled him on to the bed. And whatever it might mean, Miss Abbott’s presence spoilt the comedy: she would do nothing funny.

  During this short meditation he had walked through the city, and was out on the other side. “Where does Signor Carella live?” he asked the men at the Dogana.

  “I’ll show you,” said a little girl, springing out of the ground as Italian children will.

  “She will show you,” said the Dogana men, nodding reassuringly. “Follow her always, always, and you will come to no harm. She is a trustworthy guide. She is my

  daughter.”

  cousin.”

  sister.”

  Philip knew these relatives well: they ramify, if need be, all over the peninsula.

  “Do you chance to know whether Signor Carella is in?” he asked her.

  She had just seen him go in. Philip nodded. He was looking forward to the interview this time: it would be an intellectual duet with a man of no great intellect. What was Miss Abbott up to? That was one of the things he was going to discover. While she had it out with Harriet, he would have it out with Gino. He followed the Dogana’s relative softly, like a diplomatist.

  He did not follow her long, for this was the Volterra gate, and the house was exactly opposite to it. In half a minute they had scrambled down the mule-track and reached the only practicable entrance. Philip laughed, partly at the thought of Lilia in such a building, partly in the confidence of victory. Meanwhile the Dogana’s relative lifted up her voice and gave a shout.

  For an impressive interval there was no reply. Then the figure of a woman appeared high up on the loggia.

  “That is Perfetta,” said the girl.

  “I want to see Signor Carella,” cried Philip.

  “Out!”

  “Out,” echoed the girl complacently.

  “Why on earth did you say he was in?” He could have strangled her for temper. He had been just ripe for an interview — just the right combination of indignation and acuteness: blood hot, brain cool. But nothing ever did go right in Monteriano. “When will he be back?” he called to Perfetta. It really was too bad.

  She did not know. He was away on business. He might be back this evening, he might not. He had gone to Poggibonsi.

  At the sound of this word the little girl put her fingers to her nose and swept them at the plain. She sang as she did so, even as her foremothers had sung seven hundred years back —

  Poggibonizzi, fatti in la,

  Che Monteriano si fa citta!

  Then she asked Philip for a halfpenny. A German lady, friendly to the Past, had given her one that very spring.

  “I shall have to leave a message,” he called.

  “Now Perfetta has gone for her basket,” said the little girl. “When she returns she will lower it — so. Then you will put your card into it. Then she will raise it — thus. By this means— “

  When Perfetta returned, Philip remembered to ask after the baby. It took longer to find than the basket, and he stood perspiring in the evening sun, trying to avoid the smell of the drains and to prevent the little girl from singing against Poggibonsi. The olive-trees beside him were draped with the weekly — or more probably the monthly — wash. What a frightful spotty blouse! He could not think where he had seen it. Then he remembered that it was Lilia’s. She had brought it “to hack about in” at Sawston, and had taken it to Italy because “in Italy anything does.” He had rebuked her for the sentiment.

  “Beautiful as an angel!” bellowed Perfetta, holding out something which must be Lilia’s baby. “But who am I addressing?”

  “Thank you — here is my card.” He had written on it a civil request to Gino for an interview next morning. But before he placed it in the basket and revealed his identity, he wished to find something out. “Has a young lady happened to call here lately — a young English lady?”

  Perfetta begged his pardon: she
was a little deaf.

  “A young lady — pale, large, tall.”

  She did not quite catch.

  “A YOUNG LADY!”

  “Perfetta is deaf when she chooses,” said the Dogana’s relative. At last Philip admitted the peculiarity and strode away. He paid off the detestable child at the Volterra gate. She got two nickel pieces and was not pleased, partly because it was too much, partly because he did not look pleased when he gave it to her. He caught her fathers and cousins winking at each other as he walked past them. Monteriano seemed in one conspiracy to make him look a fool. He felt tired and anxious and muddled, and not sure of anything except that his temper was lost. In this mood he returned to the Stella d’Italia, and there, as he was ascending the stairs, Miss Abbott popped out of the dining-room on the first floor and beckoned to him mysteriously.

  “I was going to make myself some tea,” he said, with his hand still on the banisters.

  “I should be grateful— “

  So he followed her into the dining-room and shut the door.

  “You see,” she began, “Harriet knows nothing.”

  “No more do I. He was out.”

  “But what’s that to do with it?”

  He presented her with an unpleasant smile. She fenced well, as he had noticed before. “He was out. You find me as ignorant as you have left Harriet.”

  “What do you mean? Please, please Mr. Herriton, don’t be mysterious: there isn’t the time. Any moment Harriet may be down, and we shan’t have decided how to behave to her. Sawston was different: we had to keep up appearances. But here we must speak out, and I think I can trust you to do it. Otherwise we’ll never start clear.”

  “Pray let us start clear,” said Philip, pacing up and down the room. “Permit me to begin by asking you a question. In which capacity have you come to Monteriano — spy or traitor?”