As yet he could scarcely survey the thing. It was too great. Round the Italian baby who had died in the mud there centred deep passions and high hopes. People had been wicked or wrong in the matter; no one save himself had been trivial. Now the baby had gone, but there remained this vast apparatus4 of pride and pity and love. For the dead, who seemed to take away so much, really take with them nothing that is ours. The passion they have aroused lives after them, easy to transmute5 or to transfer, but well-nigh impossible to destroy. And Philip knew that he was still voyaging on the same magnificent, perilous6 sea, with the sun or the clouds above him, and the tides below.
The course of the moment—that, at all events, was certain. He and no one else must take the news to Gino. It was easy to talk of Harriet’s crime—easy also to blame the negligent8 Perfetta or Mrs. Herriton at home. Every one had contributed—even Miss Abbott and Irma. If one chose, one might consider the catastrophe9 composite or the work of fate. But Philip did not so choose. It was his own fault, due to acknowledged weakness in his own character. Therefore he, and no one else, must take the news of it to Gino.
Nothing prevented him. Miss Abbott was engaged with Harriet, and people had sprung out of the darkness and were conducting them towards some cottage. Philip had only to get into the uninjured carriage and order the driver to return. He was back at Monteriano after a two hours’ absence. Perfetta was in the house now, and greeted him cheerfully. Pain, physical and mental, had made him stupid. It was some time before he realized that she had never missed the child.
Gino was still out. The woman took him to the reception-room, just as she had taken Miss Abbott in the morning, and dusted a circle for him on one of the horsehair chairs. But it was dark now, so she left the guest a little lamp.
“I will be as quick as I can,” she told him. “But there are many streets in Monteriano; he is sometimes difficult to find. I could not find him this morning.”
“Go first to the Caffe Garibaldi,” said Philip, remembering that this was the hour appointed by his friends of yesterday.
He occupied the time he was left alone not in thinking—there was nothing to think about; he simply had to tell a few facts—but in trying to make a sling10 for his broken arm. The trouble was in the elbow-joint11, and as long as he kept this motionless he could go on as usual. But inflammation was beginning, and the slightest jar gave him agony. The sling was not fitted before Gino leapt up the stairs, crying—
“So you are back! How glad I am! We are all waiting—”
Philip had seen too much to be nervous. In low, even tones he told what had happened; and the other, also perfectly12 calm, heard him to the end. In the silence Perfetta called up that she had forgotten the baby’s evening milk; she must fetch it. When she had gone Gino took up the lamp without a word, and they went into the other room.
“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 twitched13 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.”
“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 hovered15 before Philip like an insect. Then it descended16 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 brute17!” exclaimed the Englishman. “Kill me if you like! But just you leave my broken arm alone.”
Then he was seized with remorse18, and knelt beside his adversary19 and tried to revive him. He managed to raise him up, and propped20 his body against his own. He passed his arm round him. Again he was filled with pity and tenderness. He awaited the revival21 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 scrambled22 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 spun23 round with a yell. He had only been pinched on the back, but he knew what was in store for him. He struck out, exhorting24 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 swoop25 above him, and then a low growl26 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 malignity27 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 pinioned28 against the wall, and Gino had trampled29 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 solace30 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 postpone31 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 horrid32 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 exhausted33 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 curiously34 at Philip, whose face, covered with dust and foam35, 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.
She released him, and he approached Philip slowly. His eyes were filling with trouble. He bent37 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, crouched38 above him. Miss Abbott herself came forward and lifted her friend in her arms.
Miss Abbott laid him tenderly on the couch and wiped his face. Then she said gravely to them both, “This thing stops here.”
“Remember,” she continued, “there is to be no revenge. I will have no more intentional42 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 jug43.
Gino spoke for the first time. “Put the milk on the table,” he said. “It will not be wanted in the other room.” The peril7 was over at last. A great sob44 shook the whole body, another followed, and then he gave a piercing cry of woe45, 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 majesty46, as if they discerned the boundaries of sorrow, and saw unimaginable tracts47 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 inadequate48 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 worthy49 of the things she had revealed. Quietly, without hysterical50 prayers or banging of drums, he underwent conversion51. 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 determined52 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 spasm53 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.”
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1
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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2
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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3
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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transmute
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| vt.使变化，使改变 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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8
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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10
sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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13
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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14
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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15
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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16
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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18
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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19
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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22
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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23
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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24
exhorting
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的现在分词 ) | |
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25
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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26
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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27
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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28
pinioned
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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30
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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31
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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32
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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33
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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34
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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35
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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36
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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37
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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38
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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40
hilariously
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41
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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42
intentional
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| adj.故意的，有意（识）的 | |
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43
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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44
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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45
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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46
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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47
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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48
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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49
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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50
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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51
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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52
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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53
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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