________________________________________________
_ When the bewildered tourist alights at the station of
Monteriano, he finds himself in the middle of the country.
There are a few houses round the railway, and many more
dotted over the plain and the slopes of the hills, but of a
town, mediaeval or otherwise, not the slightest sign. He
must take what is suitably termed a "legno"--a piece of
wood--and drive up eight miles of excellent road into the
middle ages. For it is impossible, as well as sacrilegious,
to be as quick as Baedeker.
It was three in the afternoon when Philip left the
realms of commonsense. He was so weary with travelling that
he had fallen asleep in the train. His fellow-passengers
had the usual Italian gift of divination, and when
Monteriano came they knew he wanted to go there, and dropped
him out. His feet sank into the hot asphalt of the
platform, and in a dream he watched the train depart, while
the porter who ought to have been carrying his bag, ran up
the line playing touch-you-last with the guard. Alas! he
was in no humour for Italy. Bargaining for a legno bored
him unutterably. The man asked six lire; and though Philip
knew that for eight miles it should scarcely be more than
four, yet he was about to give what he was asked, and so
make the man discontented and unhappy for the rest of the
day. He was saved from this social blunder by loud shouts,
and looking up the road saw one cracking his whip and waving
his reins and driving two horses furiously, and behind him
there appeared the swaying figure of a woman, holding
star-fish fashion on to anything she could touch. It was
Miss Abbott, who had just received his letter from Milan
announcing the time of his arrival, and had hurried down to
meet him.
He had known Miss Abbott for years, and had never had
much opinion about her one way or the other. She was good,
quiet, dull, and amiable, and young only because she was
twenty-three: there was nothing in her appearance or manner
to suggest the fire of youth. All her life had been spent
at Sawston with a dull and amiable father, and her pleasant,
pallid face, bent on some respectable charity, was a
familiar object of the Sawston streets. Why she had ever
wished to leave them was surprising; but as she truly said,
"I am John Bull to the backbone, yet I do want to see Italy,
just once. Everybody says it is marvellous, and that one
gets no idea of it from books at all." The curate suggested
that a year was a long time; and Miss Abbott, with decorous
playfulness, answered him, "Oh, but you must let me have my
fling! I promise to have it once, and once only. It will
give me things to think about and talk about for the rest of
my life." The curate had consented; so had Mr. Abbott. And
here she was in a legno, solitary, dusty, frightened, with
as much to answer and to answer for as the most dashing
adventuress could desire.
They shook hands without speaking. She made room for
Philip and his luggage amidst the loud indignation of the
unsuccessful driver, whom it required the combined eloquence
of the station-master and the station beggar to confute.
The silence was prolonged until they started. For three
days he had been considering what he should do, and still
more what he should say. He had invented a dozen imaginary
conversations, in all of which his logic and eloquence
procured him certain victory. But how to begin? He was in
the enemy's country, and everything--the hot sun, the cold
air behind the heat, the endless rows of olive-trees,
regular yet mysterious--seemed hostile to the placid
atmosphere of Sawston in which his thoughts took birth. At
the outset he made one great concession. If the match was
really suitable, and Lilia were bent on it, he would give
in, and trust to his influence with his mother to set things
right. He would not have made the concession in England;
but here in Italy, Lilia, however wilful and silly, was at
all events growing to be a human being.
"Are we to talk it over now?" he asked.
"Certainly, please," said Miss Abbott, in great
agitation. "If you will be so very kind."
"Then how long has she been engaged?"
Her face was that of a perfect fool--a fool in terror.
"A short time--quite a short time," she stammered, as if
the shortness of the time would reassure him.
"I should like to know how long, if you can remember."
She entered into elaborate calculations on her fingers.
"Exactly eleven days," she said at last.
"How long have you been here?"
More calculations, while he tapped irritably with his
foot. "Close on three weeks."
"Did you know him before you came?"
"No."
"Oh! Who is he?"
"A native of the place."
The second silence took place. They had left the plain
now and were climbing up the outposts of the hills, the
olive-trees still accompanying. The driver, a jolly fat
man, had got out to ease the horses, and was walking by the
side of the carriage.
"I understood they met at the hotel."
"It was a mistake of Mrs. Theobald's."
"I also understand that he is a member of the Italian nobility."
She did not reply.
"May I be told his name?"
Miss Abbott whispered, "Carella." But the driver heard
her, and a grin split over his face. The engagement must be
known already.
"Carella? Conte or Marchese, or what?"
"Signor," said Miss Abbott, and looked helplessly aside.
"Perhaps I bore you with these questions. If so, I will
stop."
"Oh, no, please; not at all. I am here--my own idea--to
give all information which you very naturally--and to see if
somehow--please ask anything you like."
"Then how old is he?"
"Oh, quite young. Twenty-one, I believe."
There burst from Philip the exclamation, "Good Lord!"
"One would never believe it," said Miss Abbott,
flushing. "He looks much older."
"And is he good-looking?" he asked, with gathering sarcasm.
She became decisive. "Very good-looking. All his
features are good, and he is well built--though I dare say
English standards would find him too short."
Philip, whose one physical advantage was his height,
felt annoyed at her implied indifference to it.
"May I conclude that you like him?"
She replied decisively again, "As far as I have seen
him, I do."
At that moment the carriage entered a little wood, which
lay brown and sombre across the cultivated hill. The trees
of the wood were small and leafless, but noticeable for
this--that their stems stood in violets as rocks stand in the
summer sea. There are such violets in England, but not so
many. Nor are there so many in Art, for no painter has the
courage. The cart-ruts were channels, the hollow lagoons;
even the dry white margin of the road was splashed, like a
causeway soon to be submerged under the advancing tide of
spring. Philip paid no attention at the time: he was
thinking what to say next. But his eyes had registered the
beauty, and next March he did not forget that the road to
Monteriano must traverse innumerable flowers.
"As far as I have seen him, I do like him," repeated
Miss Abbott, after a pause.
He thought she sounded a little defiant, and crushed her
at once.
"What is he, please? You haven't told me that. What's
his position?"
She opened her mouth to speak, and no sound came from
it. Philip waited patiently. She tried to be audacious,
and failed pitiably.
"No position at all. He is kicking his heels, as my
father would say. You see, he has only just finished his
military service."
"As a private?"
"I suppose so. There is general conscription. He was
in the Bersaglieri, I think. Isn't that the crack regiment?"
"The men in it must be short and broad. They must also
be able to walk six miles an hour."
She looked at him wildly, not understanding all that he
said, but feeling that he was very clever. Then she
continued her defence of Signor Carella.
"And now, like most young men, he is looking out for
something to do."
"Meanwhile?"
"Meanwhile, like most young men, he lives with his
people--father, mother, two sisters, and a tiny tot of a brother."
There was a grating sprightliness about her that drove
him nearly mad. He determined to silence her at last.
"One more question, and only one more. What is his father?"
"His father," said Miss Abbott. "Well, I don't suppose
you'll think it a good match. But that's not the point. I
mean the point is not--I mean that social differences--love,
after all--not but what--I'
Philip ground his teeth together and said nothing.
"Gentlemen sometimes judge hardly. But I feel that you,
and at all events your mother--so really good in every sense,
so really unworldly--after all, love-marriages are made in heaven."
"Yes, Miss Abbott, I know. But I am anxious to hear
heaven's choice. You arouse my curiosity. Is my
sister-in-law to marry an angel?"
"Mr. Herriton, don't--please, Mr. Herriton--a dentist.
His father's a dentist."
Philip gave a cry of personal disgust and pain. He
shuddered all over, and edged away from his companion. A
dentist! A dentist at Monteriano. A dentist in fairyland!
False teeth and laughing gas and the tilting chair at a
place which knew the Etruscan League, and the Pax Romana,
and Alaric himself, and the Countess Matilda, and the Middle
Ages, all fighting and holiness, and the Renaissance, all
fighting and beauty! He thought of Lilia no longer. He was
anxious for himself: he feared that Romance might die.
Romance only dies with life. No pair of pincers will
ever pull it out of us. But there is a spurious sentiment
which cannot resist the unexpected and the incongruous and
the grotesque. A touch will loosen it, and the sooner it
goes from us the better. It was going from Philip now, and
therefore he gave the cry of pain.
"I cannot think what is in the air," he began. "If
Lilia was determined to disgrace us, she might have found a
less repulsive way. A boy of medium height with a pretty
face, the son of a dentist at Monteriano. Have I put it
correctly? May I surmise that he has not got one penny?
May I also surmise that his social position is nil?
Furthermore--"
"Stop! I'll tell you no more."
"Really, Miss Abbott, it is a little late for
reticence. You have equipped me admirably!"
"I'll tell you not another word!" she cried, with a
spasm of terror. Then she got out her handkerchief, and
seemed as if she would shed tears. After a silence, which
he intended to symbolize to her the dropping of a curtain on
the scene, he began to talk of other subjects.
They were among olives again, and the wood with its
beauty and wildness had passed away. But as they climbed
higher the country opened out, and there appeared, high on a
hill to the right, Monteriano. The hazy green of the olives
rose up to its walls, and it seemed to float in isolation
between trees and sky, like some fantastic ship city of a
dream. Its colour was brown, and it revealed not a single
house--nothing but the narrow circle of the walls, and behind
them seventeen towers--all that was left of the fifty-two
that had filled the city in her prime. Some were only
stumps, some were inclining stiffly to their fall, some were
still erect, piercing like masts into the blue. It was
impossible to praise it as beautiful, but it was also
impossible to damn it as quaint.
Meanwhile Philip talked continually, thinking this to be
great evidence of resource and tact. It showed Miss Abbott
that he had probed her to the bottom, but was able to
conquer his disgust, and by sheer force of intellect
continue to be as agreeable and amusing as ever. He did not
know that he talked a good deal of nonsense, and that the
sheer force of his intellect was weakened by the sight of
Monteriano, and by the thought of dentistry within those walls.
The town above them swung to the left, to the right, to
the left again, as the road wound upward through the trees,
and the towers began to glow in the descending sun. As they
drew near, Philip saw the heads of people gathering black
upon the walls, and he knew well what was happening--how the
news was spreading that a stranger was in sight, and the
beggars were aroused from their content and bid to adjust
their deformities; how the alabaster man was running for his
wares, and the Authorized Guide running for his peaked cap
and his two cards of recommendation--one from Miss M'Gee,
Maida Vale, the other, less valuable, from an Equerry to the
Queen of Peru; how some one else was running to tell the
landlady of the Stella d'Italia to put on her pearl necklace
and brown boots and empty the slops from the spare bedroom;
and how the landlady was running to tell Lilia and her boy
that their fate was at hand.
Perhaps it was a pity Philip had talked so profusely.
He had driven Miss Abbott half demented, but he had given
himself no time to concert a plan. The end came so
suddenly. They emerged from the trees on to the terrace
before the walk, with the vision of half Tuscany radiant in
the sun behind them, and then they turned in through the
Siena gate, and their journey was over. The Dogana men
admitted them with an air of gracious welcome, and they
clattered up the narrow dark street, greeted by that mixture
of curiosity and kindness which makes each Italian arrival
so wonderful.
He was stunned and knew not what to do. At the hotel he
received no ordinary reception. The landlady wrung him by
the hand; one person snatched his umbrella, another his bag;
people pushed each other out of his way. The entrance
seemed blocked with a crowd. Dogs were barking, bladder
whistles being blown, women waving their handkerchiefs,
excited children screaming on the stairs, and at the top of
the stairs was Lilia herself, very radiant, with her best
blouse on.
"Welcome!" she cried. "Welcome to Monteriano!" He
greeted her, for he did not know what else to do, and a
sympathetic murmur rose from the crowd below.
"You told me to come here," she continued, "and I don't
forget it. Let me introduce Signor Carella!"
Philip discerned in the comer behind her a young man who
might eventually prove handsome and well-made, but certainly
did not seem so then. He was half enveloped in the drapery
of a cold dirty curtain, and nervously stuck out a hand,
which Philip took and found thick and damp. There were more
murmurs of approval from the stairs.
"Well, din-din's nearly ready," said Lilia. "Your
room's down the passage, Philip. You needn't go changing."
He stumbled away to wash his hands, utterly crushed by
her effrontery.
"Dear Caroline!" whispered Lilia as soon as he had
gone. "What an angel you've been to tell him! He takes it
so well. But you must have had a MAUVAIS QUART D'HEURE."
Miss Abbott's long terror suddenly turned into acidity.
"I've told nothing," she snapped. "It's all for you--and if
it only takes a quarter of an hour you'll be lucky!"
Dinner was a nightmare. They had the smelly dining-room
to themselves. Lilia, very smart and vociferous, was at the
head of the table; Miss Abbott, also in her best, sat by
Philip, looking, to his irritated nerves, more like the
tragedy confidante every moment. That scion of the Italian
nobility, Signor Carella, sat opposite. Behind him loomed a
bowl of goldfish, who swam round and round, gaping at the guests.
The face of Signor Carella was twitching too much for
Philip to study it. But he could see the hands, which were
not particularly clean, and did not get cleaner by fidgeting
amongst the shining slabs of hair. His starched cuffs were
not clean either, and as for his suit, it had obviously been
bought for the occasion as something really English--a
gigantic check, which did not even fit. His handkerchief he
had forgotten, but never missed it. Altogether, he was
quite unpresentable, and very lucky to have a father who was
a dentist in Monteriano. And why, even Lilia--But as soon as
the meal began it furnished Philip with an explanation.
For the youth was hungry, and his lady filled his plate
with spaghetti, and when those delicious slippery worms were
flying down his throat, his face relaxed and became for a
moment unconscious and calm. And Philip had seen that face
before in Italy a hundred times--seen it and loved it, for it
was not merely beautiful, but had the charm which is the
rightful heritage of all who are born on that soil. But he
did not want to see it opposite him at dinner. It was not
the face of a gentleman.
Conversation, to give it that name, was carried on in a
mixture of English and Italian. Lilia had picked up hardly
any of the latter language, and Signor Carella had not yet
learnt any of the former. Occasionally Miss Abbott had to
act as interpreter between the lovers, and the situation
became uncouth and revolting in the extreme. Yet Philip was
too cowardly to break forth and denounce the engagement. He
thought he should be more effective with Lilia if he had her
alone, and pretended to himself that he must hear her
defence before giving judgment.
Signor Carella, heartened by the spaghetti and the
throat-rasping wine, attempted to talk, and, looking
politely towards Philip, said, "England is a great country.
The Italians love England and the English."
Philip, in no mood for international amenities, merely bowed.
"Italy too," the other continued a little resentfully,
"is a great country. She has produced many famous men--for
example Garibaldi and Dante. The latter wrote the
'Inferno,' the 'Purgatorio,' the 'Paradiso.' The 'Inferno'
is the most beautiful." And with the complacent tone of one
who has received a solid education, he quoted the opening
lines--
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
Che la diritta via era smarrita--
a quotation which was more apt than he supposed.
Lilia glanced at Philip to see whether he noticed that
she was marrying no ignoramus. Anxious to exhibit all the
good qualities of her betrothed, she abruptly introduced the
subject of pallone, in which, it appeared, he was a
proficient player. He suddenly became shy and developed a
conceited grin--the grin of the village yokel whose cricket
score is mentioned before a stranger. Philip himself had
loved to watch pallone, that entrancing combination of
lawn-tennis and fives. But he did not expect to love it
quite so much again.
"Oh, look!" exclaimed Lilia, "the poor wee fish!"
A starved cat had been worrying them all for pieces of
the purple quivering beef they were trying to swallow.
Signor Carella, with the brutality so common in Italians,
had caught her by the paw and flung her away from him. Now
she had climbed up to the bowl and was trying to hook out
the fish. He got up, drove her off, and finding a large
glass stopper by the bowl, entirely plugged up the aperture
with it.
"But may not the fish die?" said Miss Abbott. "They
have no air."
"Fish live on water, not on air," he replied in a
knowing voice, and sat down. Apparently he was at his ease
again, for he took to spitting on the floor. Philip glanced
at Lilia but did not detect her wincing. She talked bravely
till the end of the disgusting meal, and then got up saying,
"Well, Philip, I am sure you are ready for by-bye. We shall
meet at twelve o'clock lunch tomorrow, if we don't meet
before. They give us caffe later in our rooms."
It was a little too impudent. Philip replied, "I should
like to see you now, please, in my room, as I have come all
the way on business." He heard Miss Abbott gasp. Signor
Carella, who was lighting a rank cigar, had not understood.
It was as he expected. When he was alone with Lilia he
lost all nervousness. The remembrance of his long
intellectual supremacy strengthened him, and he began volubly--
"My. dear Lilia, don't let's have a scene. Before I
arrived I thought I might have to question you. It is
unnecessary. I know everything. Miss Abbott has told me a
certain amount, and the rest I see for myself."
"See for yourself?" she exclaimed, and he remembered
afterwards that she had flushed crimson.
"That he is probably a ruffian and certainly a cad."
"There are no cads in Italy," she said quickly.
He was taken aback. It was one of his own remarks. And
she further upset him by adding, "He is the son of a
dentist. Why not?"
"Thank you for the information. I know everything, as I
told you before. I am also aware of the social position of
an Italian who pulls teeth in a minute provincial town."
He was not aware of it, but he ventured to conclude that
it was pretty, low. Nor did Lilia contradict him. But she
was sharp enough to say, "Indeed, Philip, you surprise me.
I understood you went in for equality and so on."
"And I understood that Signor Carella was a member of
the Italian nobility.
"Well, we put it like that in the telegram so as not to
shock dear Mrs. Herriton. But it is true. He is a younger
branch. Of course families ramify--just as in yours there is
your cousin Joseph." She adroitly picked out the only
undesirable member of the Herriton clan. "Gino's father is
courtesy itself, and rising rapidly in his profession. This
very month he leaves Monteriano, and sets up at Poggibonsi.
And for my own poor part, I think what people are is what
matters, but I don't suppose you'll agree. And I should
like you to know that Gino's uncle is a priest--the same as a
clergyman at home."
Philip was aware of the social position of an Italian
priest, and said so much about it that Lilia interrupted him
with, "Well, his cousin's a lawyer at Rome."
"What kind of 'lawyer'?"
"Why, a lawyer just like you are--except that he has lots
to do and can never get away."
The remark hurt more than he cared to show. He changed
his method, and in a gentle, conciliating tone delivered the
following speech:--
"The whole thing is like a bad dream--so bad that it
cannot go on. If there was one redeeming feature about the
man I might be uneasy. As it is I can trust to time. For
the moment, Lilia, he has taken you in, but you will find
him out soon. It is not possible that you, a lady,
accustomed to ladies and gentlemen, will tolerate a man
whose position is--well, not equal to the son of the
servants' dentist in Coronation Place. I am not blaming you
now. But I blame the glamour of Italy--I have felt it
myself, you know--and I greatly blame Miss Abbott."
"Caroline! Why blame her? What's all this to do with Caroline?"
"Because we expected her to--" He saw that the answer
would involve him in difficulties, and, waving his hand,
continued, "So I am confident, and you in your heart agree,
that this engagement will not last. Think of your life at
home--think of Irma! And I'll also say think of us; for you
know, Lilia, that we count you more than a relation. I
should feel I was losing my own sister if you did this, and
my mother would lose a daughter."
She seemed touched at last, for she turned away her face
and said, "I can't break it off now!"
"Poor Lilia," said he, genuinely moved. "I know it may
be painful. But I have come to rescue you, and, book-worm
though I may be, I am not frightened to stand up to a
bully. He's merely an insolent boy. He thinks he can keep
you to your word by threats. He will be different when he
sees he has a man to deal with."
What follows should be prefaced with some simile--the
simile of a powder-mine, a thunderbolt, an earthquake--for it
blew Philip up in the air and flattened him on the ground
and swallowed him up in the depths. Lilia turned on her
gallant defender and said--
"For once in my life I'll thank you to leave me alone.
I'll thank your mother too. For twelve years you've trained
me and tortured me, and I'll stand it no more. Do you think
I'm a fool? Do you think I never felt? Ah! when I came to
your house a poor young bride, how you all looked me
over--never a kind word--and discussed me, and thought I might
just do; and your mother corrected me, and your sister
snubbed me, and you said funny things about me to show how
clever you were! And when Charles died I was still to run
in strings for the honour of your beastly family, and I was
to be cooped up at Sawston and learn to keep house, and all
my chances spoilt of marrying again. No, thank you! No,
thank you! 'Bully?' 'Insolent boy?' Who's that, pray, but
you? But, thank goodness, I can stand up against the world
now, for I've found Gino, and this time I marry for love!"
The coarseness and truth of her attack alike overwhelmed
him. But her supreme insolence found him words, and he too
burst forth.
"Yes! and I forbid you to do it! You despise me,
perhaps, and think I'm feeble. But you're mistaken. You
are ungrateful and impertinent and contemptible, but I will
save you in order to save Irma and our name. There is going
to be such a row in this town that you and he'll be sorry
you came to it. I shall shrink from nothing, for my blood
is up. It is unwise of you to laugh. I forbid you to marry
Carella, and I shall tell him so now."
"Do," she cried. "Tell him so now. Have it out with
him. Gino! Gino! Come in! Avanti! Fra Filippo forbids
the banns!"
Gino appeared so quickly that he must have been
listening outside the door.
"Fra Filippo's blood's up. He shrinks from nothing.
Oh, take care he doesn't hurt you!" She swayed about in
vulgar imitation of Philip's walk, and then, with a proud
glance at the square shoulders of her betrothed, flounced
out of the room.
Did she intend them to fight? Philip had no intention
of doing so; and no more, it seemed, had Gino, who stood
nervously in the middle of the room with twitching lips and eyes.
"Please sit down, Signor Carella," said Philip in
Italian. "Mrs. Herriton is rather agitated, but there is no
reason we should not be calm. Might I offer you a
cigarette? Please sit down."
He refused the cigarette and the chair, and remained
standing in the full glare of the lamp. Philip, not averse
to such assistance, got his own face into shadow.
For a long time he was silent. It might impress Gino,
and it also gave him time to collect himself. He would not
this time fall into the error of blustering, which he had
caught so unaccountably from Lilia. He would make his power
felt by restraint.
Why, when he looked up to begin, was Gino convulsed with
silent laughter? It vanished immediately; but he became
nervous, and was even more pompous than he intended.
"Signor Carella, I will be frank with you. I have come
to prevent you marrying Mrs. Herriton, because I see you
will both be unhappy together. She is English, you are
Italian; she is accustomed to one thing, you to another.
And--pardon me if I say it--she is rich and you are poor."
"I am not marrying her because she is rich," was the
sulky reply.
"I never suggested that for a moment," said Philip
courteously. "You are honourable, I am sure; but are you
wise? And let me remind you that we want her with us at
home. Her little daughter will be motherless, our home will
be broken up. If you grant my request you will earn our
thanks--and you will not be without a reward for your
disappointment."
"Reward--what reward?" He bent over the back of a chair
and looked earnestly at Philip. They were coming to terms
pretty quickly. Poor Lilia!
Philip said slowly, "What about a thousand lire?"
His soul went forth into one exclamation, and then he
was silent, with gaping lips. Philip would have given
double: he had expected a bargain.
"You can have them tonight."
He found words, and said, "It is too late."
"But why?"
"Because--" His voice broke. Philip watched his face,--a
face without refinement perhaps, but not without
expression,--watched it quiver and re-form and dissolve from
emotion into emotion. There was avarice at one moment, and
insolence, and politeness, and stupidity, and cunning--and
let us hope that sometimes there was love. But gradually
one emotion dominated, the most unexpected of all; for his
chest began to heave and his eyes to wink and his mouth to
twitch, and suddenly he stood erect and roared forth his
whole being in one tremendous laugh.
Philip sprang up, and Gino, who had flung wide his arms
to let the glorious creature go, took him by the shoulders
and shook him, and said, "Because we are
married--married--married as soon as I knew you were, coming.
There was no time to tell you. Oh. oh! You have come all
the way for nothing. Oh! And oh, your generosity!"
Suddenly he became grave, and said, "Please pardon me; I am
rude. I am no better than a peasant, and I--" Here he saw
Philip's face, and it was too much for him. He gasped and
exploded and crammed his hands into his mouth and spat them
out in another explosion, and gave Philip an aimless push,
which toppled him on to the bed. He uttered a horrified
Oh! and then gave up, and bolted away down the passage,
shrieking like a child, to tell the joke to his wife.
For a time Philip lay on the bed, pretending to himself
that he was hurt grievously. He could scarcely see for
temper, and in the passage he ran against Miss Abbott, who
promptly burst into tears.
"I sleep at the Globo," he told her, "and start for
Sawston tomorrow morning early. He has assaulted me. I
could prosecute him. But shall not."
"I can't stop here," she sobbed. "I daren't stop here.
You will have to take me with you!" _
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