“My sister is ill,” said Philip, “and Miss Abbott is guiltless. I should be glad if you did not have to trouble them.”
Gino had stooped down by the way, and was feeling the place where his son had lain. Now and then he frowned a little and glanced at Philip.
“It is through me,” he continued. “It happened because I was cowardly and idle. I have come to know what you will do.”
Gino had left the rug, and began to pat the table from the end, as if he was blind. The action was so uncanny that Philip was driven to intervene.
“Gently, man, gently; he is not here.”
He went up and touched him on the shoulder.
He twitched away, and began to pass his hands over things more rapidly — over the table, the chairs, the entire floor, the walls as high as he could reach them. Philip had not presumed to comfort him. But now the tension was too great — he tried.
“Break down, Gino; you must break down. Scream and curse and give in for a little; you must break down.”
There was no reply, and no cessation of the sweeping hands.
“It is time to be unhappy. Break down or you will be ill like my sister. You will go— “
The tour of the room was over. He had touched everything in it except Philip. Now he approached him. He face was that of a man who has lost his old reason for life and seeks a new one.
“Gino!”
He stopped for a moment; then he came nearer. Philip stood his ground.
“You are to do what you like with me, Gino. Your son is dead, Gino. He died in my arms, remember. It does not excuse me; but he did die in my arms.”
The left hand came forward, slowly this time. It hovered before Philip like an insect. Then it descended and gripped him by his broken elbow.
Philip struck out with all the strength of his other arm. Gino fell to the blow without a cry or a word.
“You brute!” exclaimed the Englishman. “Kill me if you like! But just you leave my broken arm alone.”
Then he was seized with remorse, and knelt beside his adversary and tried to revive him. He managed to raise him up, and propped his body against his own. He passed his arm round him. Again he was filled with pity and tenderness. He awaited the revival without fear, sure that both of them were safe at last.
Gino recovered suddenly. His lips moved. For one blessed moment it seemed that he was going to speak. But he scrambled up in silence, remembering everything, and he made not towards Philip, but towards the lamp.
“Do what you like; but think first— “
The lamp was tossed across the room, out through the loggia. It broke against one of the trees below. Philip began to cry out in the dark.
Gino approached from behind and gave him a sharp pinch. Philip spun round with a yell. He had only been pinched on the back, but he knew what was in store for him. He struck out, exhorting the devil to fight him, to kill him, to do anything but this. Then he stumbled to the door. It was open. He lost his head, and, instead of turning down the stairs, he ran across the landing into the room opposite. There he lay down on the floor between the stove and the skirting-board.
His senses grew sharper. He could hear Gino coming in on tiptoe. He even knew what was passing in his mind, how now he was at fault, now he was hopeful, now he was wondering whether after all the victim had not escaped down the stairs. There was a quick swoop above him, and then a low growl like a dog’s. Gino had broken his finger-nails against the stove.
Physical pain is almost too terrible to bear. We can just bear it when it comes by accident or for our good — as it generally does in modern life — except at school. But when it is caused by the malignity of a man, full grown, fashioned like ourselves, all our control disappears. Philip’s one thought was to get away from that room at whatever sacrifice of nobility or pride.
Gino was now at the further end of the room, groping by the little tables. Suddenly the instinct came to him. He crawled quickly to where Philip lay and had him clean by the elbow.
The whole arm seemed red-hot, and the broken bone grated in the joint, sending out shoots of the essence of pain. His other arm was pinioned against the wall, and Gino had trampled in behind the stove and was kneeling on his legs. For the space of a minute he yelled and yelled with all the force of his lungs. Then this solace was denied him. The other hand, moist and strong, began to close round his throat.
At first he was glad, for here, he thought, was death at last. But it was only a new torture; perhaps Gino inherited the skill of his ancestors — and childlike ruffians who flung each other from the towers. Just as the windpipe closed, the hand fell off, and Philip was revived by the motion of his arm. And just as he was about to faint and gain at last one moment of oblivion, the motion stopped, and he would struggle instead against the pressure on his throat.
Vivid pictures were dancing through the pain — Lilia dying some months back in this very house, Miss Abbott bending over the baby, his mother at home, now reading evening prayers to the servants. He felt that he was growing weaker; his brain wandered; the agony did not seem so great. Not all Gino’s care could indefinitely postpone the end. His yells and gurgles became mechanical — functions of the tortured flesh rather than true notes of indignation and despair. He was conscious of a horrid tumbling. Then his arm was pulled a little too roughly, and everything was quiet at last.
“But your son is dead, Gino. Your son is dead, dear Gino. Your son is dead.”
The room was full of light, and Miss Abbott had Gino by the shoulders, holding him down in a chair. She was exhausted with the struggle, and her arms were trembling.
“What is the good of another death? What is the good of more pain?”
He too began to tremble. Then he turned and looked curiously at Philip, whose face, covered with dust and foam, was visible by the stove. Miss Abbott allowed him to get up, though she still held him firmly. He gave a loud and curious cry — a cry of interrogation it might be called. Below there was the noise of Perfetta returning with the baby’s milk.
“Go to him,” said Miss Abbott, indicating Philip. “Pick him up. Treat him kindly.”
She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His eyes were filling with trouble. He bent down, as if he would gently raise him up.
“Help! help!” moaned Philip. His body had suffered too much from Gino. It could not bear to be touched by him.
Gino seemed to understand. He stopped, crouched above him. Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.
“Oh, the foul devil!” he murmured. “Kill him! Kill him for me.”
Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face. Then she said gravely to them both, “This thing stops here.”
“Latte! latte!” cried Perfetta, hilariously ascending the stairs.
“Remember,” she continued, “there is to be no revenge. I will have no more intentional evil. We are not to fight with each other any more.”
“I shall never forgive him,” sighed Philip.
“Latte! latte freschissima! bianca come neve!” Perfetta came in with another lamp and a little jug.
Gino spoke for the first time. “Put the milk on the table,” he said. “It will not be wanted in the other room.” The peril was over at last. A great sob shook the whole body, another followed, and then he gave a piercing cry of woe, and stumbled towards Miss Abbott like a child and clung to her.
All through the day Miss Abbott had seemed to Philip like a goddess, and more than ever did she seem so now. Many people look younger and more intimate during great emotion. But some there are who look older, and remote, and he could not think that there was little difference in years, and none in composition, between her and the man whose head was laid upon her breast. Her eyes were open, full of infinite pity and full of majesty, as if they discerned the boundaries of sorrow, and saw unimaginable tracts beyond. Such eyes he had seen in great pictures but never in a mortal. Her hands were folded round the sufferer, stroking him lightly, for
even a goddess can do no more than that. And it seemed fitting, too, that she should bend her head and touch his forehead with her lips.
Philip looked away, as he sometimes looked away from the great pictures where visible forms suddenly become inadequate for the things they have shown to us. He was happy; he was assured that there was greatness in the world. There came to him an earnest desire to be good through the example of this good woman. He would try henceforward to be worthy of the things she had revealed. Quietly, without hysterical prayers or banging of drums, he underwent conversion. He was saved.
“That milk,” said she, “need not be wasted. Take it, Signor Carella, and persuade Mr. Herriton to drink.”
Gino obeyed her, and carried the child’s milk to Philip. And Philip obeyed also and drank.
“Is there any left?”
“A little,” answered Gino.
“Then finish it.” For she was determined to use such remnants as lie about the world.
“Will you not have some?”
“I do not care for milk; finish it all.”
“Philip, have you had enough milk?”
“Yes, thank you, Gino; finish it all.”
He drank the milk, and then, either by accident or in some spasm of pain, broke the jug to pieces. Perfetta exclaimed in bewilderment. “It does not matter,” he told her. “It does not matter. It will never be wanted any more.”
Chapter 10
“He will have to marry her,” said Philip. “I heard from him this morning, just as we left Milan. He finds he has gone too far to back out. It would be expensive. I don’t know how much he minds — not as much as we suppose, I think. At all events there’s not a word of blame in the letter. I don’t believe he even feels angry. I never was so completely forgiven. Ever since you stopped him killing me, it has been a vision of perfect friendship. He nursed me, he lied for me at the inquest, and at the funeral, though he was crying, you would have thought it was my son who had died. Certainly I was the only person he had to be kind to; he was so distressed not to make Harriet’s acquaintance, and that he scarcely saw anything of you. In his letter he says so again.”
“Thank him, please, when you write,” said Miss Abbott, “and give him my kindest regards.”
“Indeed I will.” He was surprised that she could slide away from the man so easily. For his own part, he was bound by ties of almost alarming intimacy. Gino had the southern knack of friendship. In the intervals of business he would pull out Philip’s life, turn it inside out, remodel it, and advise him how to use it for the best. The sensation was pleasant, for he was a kind as well as a skilful operator. But Philip came away feeling that he had not a secret corner left. In that very letter Gino had again implored him, as a refuge from domestic difficulties, “to marry Miss Abbott, even if her dowry is small.” And how Miss Abbott herself, after such tragic intercourse, could resume the conventions and send calm messages of esteem, was more than he could understand.
“When will you see him again?” she asked. They were standing together in the corridor of the train, slowly ascending out of Italy towards the San Gothard tunnel.
“I hope next spring. Perhaps we shall paint Siena red for a day or two with some of the new wife’s money. It was one of the arguments for marrying her.”
“He has no heart,” she said severely. “He does not really mind about the child at all.”
“No; you’re wrong. He does. He is unhappy, like the rest of us. But he doesn’t try to keep up appearances as we do. He knows that the things that have made him happy once will probably make him happy again— “
“He said he would never be happy again.”
“In his passion. Not when he was calm. We English say it when we are calm — when we do not really believe it any longer. Gino is not ashamed of inconsistency. It is one of the many things I like him for.”
“Yes; I was wrong. That is so.”
“He’s much more honest with himself than I am,” continued Philip, “and he is honest without an effort and without pride. But you, Miss Abbott, what about you? Will you be in Italy next spring?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry. When will you come back, do you think?”
“I think never.”
“For whatever reason?” He stared at her as if she were some monstrosity.
“Because I understand the place. There is no need.”
“Understand Italy!” he exclaimed.
“Perfectly.”
“Well, I don’t. And I don’t understand you,” he murmured to himself, as he paced away from her up the corridor. By this time he loved her very much, and he could not bear to be puzzled. He had reached love by the spiritual path: her thoughts and her goodness and her nobility had moved him first, and now her whole body and all its gestures had become transfigured by them. The beauties that are called obvious — the beauties of her hair and her voice and her limbs — he had noticed these last; Gino, who never traversed any path at all, had commended them dispassionately to his friend.
Why was he so puzzling? He had known so much about her once — what she thought, how she felt, the reasons for her actions. And now he only knew that he loved her, and all the other knowledge seemed passing from him just as he needed it most. Why would she never come to Italy again? Why had she avoided himself and Gino ever since the evening that she had saved their lives? The train was nearly empty. Harriet slumbered in a compartment by herself. He must ask her these questions now, and he returned quickly to her down the corridor.
She greeted him with a question of her own. “Are your plans decided?”
“Yes. I can’t live at Sawston.”
“Have you told Mrs. Herriton?”
“I wrote from Monteriano. I tried to explain things; but she will never understand me. Her view will be that the affair is settled — sadly settled since the baby is dead. Still it’s over; our family circle need be vexed no more. She won’t even be angry with you. You see, you have done us no harm in the long run. Unless, of course, you talk about Harriet and make a scandal. So that is my plan — London and work. What is yours?”
“Poor Harriet!” said Miss Abbott. “As if I dare judge Harriet! Or anybody.” And without replying to Philip’s question she left him to visit the other invalid.
Philip gazed after her mournfully, and then he looked mournfully out of the window at the decreasing streams. All the excitement was over — the inquest, Harriet’s short illness, his own visit to the surgeon. He was convalescent, both in body and spirit, but convalescence brought no joy. In the looking-glass at the end of the corridor he saw his face haggard, and his shoulders pulled forward by the weight of the sling. Life was greater than he had supposed, but it was even less complete. He had seen the need for strenuous work and for righteousness. And now he saw what a very little way those things would go.
“Is Harriet going to be all right?” he asked. Miss Abbott had come back to him.
“She will soon be her old self,” was the reply. For Harriet, after a short paroxysm of illness and remorse, was quickly returning to her normal state. She had been “thoroughly upset” as she phrased it, but she soon ceased to realize that anything was wrong beyond the death of a poor little child. Already she spoke of “this unlucky accident,” and “the mysterious frustration of one’s attempts to make things better.” Miss Abbott had seen that she was comfortable, and had given her a kind kiss. But she returned feeling that Harriet, like her mother, considered the affair as settled.
“I’m clear enough about Harriet’s future, and about parts of my own. But I ask again, What about yours?”
“Sawston and work,” said Miss Abbott.
“No.”
“Why not?” she asked, smiling.
“You’ve seen too much. You’ve seen as much and done more than I have.”
“But it’s so different. Of course I shall go to Sawston. You forget my father; and even if he wasn’t there, I’ve a hundred ties: my district — I’m neglecting it shamefully —
my evening classes, the St. James’— “
“Silly nonsense!” he exploded, suddenly moved to have the whole thing out with her. “You’re too good — about a thousand times better than I am. You can’t live in that hole; you must go among people who can hope to understand you. I mind for myself. I want to see you often — again and again.”
“Of course we shall meet whenever you come down; and I hope that it will mean often.”
“It’s not enough; it’ll only be in the old horrible way, each with a dozen relatives round us. No, Miss Abbott; it’s not good enough.”
“We can write at all events.”
“You will write?” he cried, with a flush of pleasure. At times his hopes seemed so solid.
“I will indeed.”
“But I say it’s not enough — you can’t go back to the old life if you wanted to. Too much has happened.”
“I know that,” she said sadly.
“Not only pain and sorrow, but wonderful things: that tower in the sunlight — do you remember it, and all you said to me? The theatre, even. And the next day — in the church; and our times with Gino.”
“All the wonderful things are over,” she said. “That is just where it is.”
“I don’t believe it. At all events not for me. The most wonderful things may be to come— “
“The wonderful things are over,” she repeated, and looked at him so mournfully that he dare not contradict her. The train was crawling up the last ascent towards the Campanile of Airolo and the entrance of the tunnel.
“Miss Abbott,” he murmured, speaking quickly, as if their free intercourse might soon be ended, “what is the matter with you? I thought I understood you, and I don’t. All those two great first days at Monteriano I read you as clearly as you read me still. I saw why you had come, and why you changed sides, and afterwards I saw your wonderful courage and pity. And now you’re frank with me one moment, as you used to be, and the next moment you shut me up. You see I owe too much to you — my life, and I don’t know what besides. I won’t stand it. You’ve gone too far to turn mysterious. I’ll quote what you said to me: ‘Don’t be mysterious; there isn’t the time.’ I’ll quote something else: ‘I and my life must be where I live.’ You can’t live at Sawston.”
Works of E M Forster Page 15