Where Angels Fear to Tread
By E. M. Forster.
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I
They were all at Charing Cross to see Lilia off—Philip, Harriet, Irma, Mrs. Herriton herself. Even Mrs. Theobald, squired by Mr. Kingcroft, had braved the journey from Yorkshire to bid her only daughter goodbye. Miss Abbott was likewise attended by numerous relatives, and the sight of so many people talking at once and saying such different things caused Lilia to break into ungovernable peals of laughter.
“Quite an ovation,” she cried, sprawling out of her first-class carriage. “They’ll take us for royalty. Oh, Mr. Kingcroft, get us foot warmers.”
The good-natured young man hurried away, and Philip, taking his place, flooded her with a final stream of advice and injunctions—where to stop, how to learn Italian, when to use mosquito nets, what pictures to look at. “Remember,” he concluded, “that it is only by going off the track that you get to know the country. See the little towns—Gubbio, Pienza, Cortona, San Gemignano, Monteriano. And don’t, let me beg you, go with that awful tourist idea that Italy’s only a museum of antiquities and art. Love and understand the Italians, for the people are more marvellous than the land.”
“How I wish you were coming, Philip,” she said, flattered at the unwonted notice her brother-in-law was giving her.
“I wish I were.” He could have managed it without great difficulty, for his career at the Bar was not so intense as to prevent occasional holidays. But his family disliked his continual visits to the Continent, and he himself often found pleasure in the idea that he was too busy to leave town.
“Goodbye, dear everyone. What a whirl!” She caught sight of her little daughter Irma, and felt that a touch of maternal solemnity was required. “Goodbye, darling. Mind you’re always good, and do what Granny tells you.”
She referred not to her own mother, but to her mother-in-law, Mrs. Herriton, who hated the title of Granny.
Irma lifted a serious face to be kissed, and said cautiously, “I’ll do my best.”
“She is sure to be good,” said Mrs. Herriton, who was standing pensively a little out of the hubbub. But Lilia was already calling to Miss Abbott, a tall, grave, rather nice-looking young lady who was conducting her adieus in a more decorous manner on the platform.
“Caroline, my Caroline! Jump in, or your chaperon will go off without you.”
And Philip, whom the idea of Italy always intoxicated, had started again, telling her of the supreme moments of her coming journey—the Campanile of Airolo, which would burst on her when she emerged from the St. Gothard tunnel, presaging the future; the view of the Ticino and Lago Maggiore as the train climbed the slopes of Monte Cenere; the view of Lugano, the view of Como—Italy gathering thick around her now—the arrival at her first resting place, when, after long driving through dark and dirty streets, she should at last behold, amid the roar of trams and the glare of arc lamps, the buttresses of the cathedral of Milan.
“Handkerchiefs and collars,” screamed Harriet, “in my inlaid box! I’ve lent you my inlaid box.”
“Good old Harry!” She kissed everyone again, and there was a moment’s silence. They all smiled steadily, excepting Philip, who was choking in the fog, and old Mrs. Theobald, who had begun to cry. Miss Abbott got into the carriage. The guard himself shut the door, and told Lilia that she would be all right. Then the train moved, and they all moved with it a couple of steps, and waved their handkerchiefs, and uttered cheerful little cries. At that moment Mr. Kingcroft reappeared, carrying a foot warmer by both ends, as if it was a tea tray. He was sorry that he was too late, and called out in a quivering voice, “Goodbye, Mrs. Charles. May you enjoy yourself, and may God bless you.”
Lilia smiled and nodded, and then the absurd position of the foot warmer overcame her, and she began to laugh again.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” she cried back, “but you do look so funny. Oh, you all look so funny waving! Oh, pray!” And laughing helplessly, she was carried out into the fog.
“High spirits to begin so long a journey,” said Mrs. Theobald, dabbing her eyes.
Mr. Kingcroft solemnly moved his head in token of agreement. “I wish,” said he, “that Mrs. Charles had gotten the foot warmer. These London porters won’t take heed to a country chap.”
“But you did your best,” said Mrs. Herriton. “And I think it simply noble of you to have brought Mrs. Theobald all the way here on such a day as this.” Then, rather hastily, she shook hands, and left him to take Mrs. Theobald all the way back.
Sawston, her own home, was within easy reach of London, and they were not late for tea. Tea was in the dining room, with an egg for Irma, to keep up the child’s spirits. The house seemed strangely quiet
