Where Angels Fear to Tread, E. M. Forster [motivational books for men .txt] 📗

it is less expensive in the long run to part with a little money and to be clear of the baby, he will part with it. If he would lose, he will adopt the tone of the loving father.”

“Dear, you’re shockingly cynical.” After a pause she added, “How would the sum work out?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. But if you wanted to ensure the baby being posted by return, you should have sent a little sum to him. Oh, I’m not cynical⁠—at least I only go by what I know of him. But I am weary of the whole show. Weary of Italy. Weary, weary, weary. Sawston’s a kind, pitiful place, isn’t it? I will go walk in it and seek comfort.”

He smiled as he spoke, for the sake of not appearing serious. When he had left her she began to smile also.

It was to the Abbotts’ that he walked. Mr. Abbott offered him tea, and Caroline, who was keeping up her Italian in the next room, came in to pour it out. He told them that his mother had written to Signor Carella, and they both uttered fervent wishes for her success.

“Very fine of Mrs. Herriton, very fine indeed,” said Mr. Abbott, who, like everyone else, knew nothing of his daughter’s exasperating behaviour. “I’m afraid it will mean a lot of expense. She will get nothing out of Italy without paying.”

“There are sure to be incidental expenses,” said Philip cautiously. Then he turned to Miss Abbott and said, “Do you suppose we shall have difficulty with the man?”

“It depends,” she replied, with equal caution.

“From what you saw of him, should you conclude that he would make an affectionate parent?”

“I don’t go by what I saw of him, but by what I know of him.”

“Well, what do you conclude from that?”

“That he is a thoroughly wicked man.”

“Yet thoroughly wicked men have loved their children. Look at Rodrigo Borgia, for example.”

“I have also seen examples of that in my district.”

With this remark the admirable young woman rose, and returned to keep up her Italian. She puzzled Philip extremely. He could understand enthusiasm, but she did not seem the least enthusiastic. He could understand pure cussedness, but it did not seem to be that either. Apparently she was deriving neither amusement nor profit from the struggle. Why, then, had she undertaken it? Perhaps she was not sincere. Perhaps, on the whole, that was most likely. She must be professing one thing and aiming at another. What the other thing could be he did not stop to consider. Insincerity was becoming his stock explanation for anything unfamiliar, whether that thing was a kindly action or a high ideal.

“She fences well,” he said to his mother afterwards.

“What had you to fence about?” she said suavely. Her son might know her tactics, but she refused to admit that he knew. She still pretended to him that the baby was the one thing she wanted, and had always wanted, and that Miss Abbott was her valued ally.

And when, next week, the reply came from Italy, she showed him no face of triumph. “Read the letters,” she said. “We have failed.”

Gino wrote in his own language, but the solicitors had sent a laborious English translation, where “Preghiatissima Signora” was rendered as “Most Praiseworthy Madam,” and every delicate compliment and superlative⁠—superlatives are delicate in Italian⁠—would have felled an ox. For a moment Philip forgot the matter in the manner; this grotesque memorial of the land he had loved moved him almost to tears. He knew the originals of these lumbering phrases; he also had sent “sincere auguries”; he also had addressed letters⁠—who writes at home?⁠—from the Caffè Garibaldi. “I didn’t know I was still such an ass,” he thought. “Why can’t I realize that it’s merely tricks of expression? A bounder’s a bounder, whether he lives in Sawston or Monteriano.”

“Isn’t it disheartening?” said his mother.

He then read that Gino could not accept the generous offer. His paternal heart would not permit him to abandon this symbol of his deplored spouse. As for the picture postcards, it displeased him greatly that they had been obnoxious. He would send no more. Would Mrs. Herriton, with her notorious kindness, explain this to Irma, and thank her for those which Irma (courteous Miss!) had sent to him?

“The sum works out against us,” said Philip. “Or perhaps he is putting up the price.”

“No,” said Mrs. Herriton decidedly. “It is not that. For some perverse reason he will not part with the child. I must go and tell poor Caroline. She will be equally distressed.”

She returned from the visit in the most extraordinary condition. Her face was red, she panted for breath, there were dark circles round her eyes.

“The impudence!” she shouted. “The cursed impudence! Oh, I’m swearing. I don’t care. That beastly woman⁠—how dare she interfere⁠—I’ll⁠—Philip, dear, I’m sorry. It’s no good. You must go.”

“Go where? Do sit down. What’s happened?” This outburst of violence from his elegant ladylike mother pained him dreadfully. He had not known that it was in her.

“She won’t accept⁠—won’t accept the letter as final. You must go to Monteriano!”

“I won’t!” he shouted back. “I’ve been and I’ve failed. I’ll never see the place again. I hate Italy.”

“If you don’t go, she will.”

“Abbott?”

“Yes. Going alone; would start this evening. I offered to write; she said it was ‘too late!’ Too late! The child, if you please⁠—Irma’s brother⁠—to live with her, to be brought up by her and her father at our very gates, to go to school like a gentleman, she paying. Oh, you’re a man! It doesn’t matter for you. You can laugh. But I know what people say; and that woman goes to Italy this evening.”

He seemed to be inspired. “Then let her go! Let her mess with Italy by herself. She’ll come to grief somehow. Italy’s too dangerous, too⁠—”

“Stop that nonsense, Philip. I will not be disgraced by her. I will have the child. Pay all we’ve got for it. I will have it.”

“Let her go to Italy!” he cried. “Let