Chapter 2

WhenthebewilderedtouristalightsatthestationofMonteriano,hefindshimselfinthemiddleofthecountry.Thereareafewhousesroundtherailway,andmanymoredottedovertheplainandtheslopesofthehills,butofatown,mediaevalorotherwise,nottheslightestsign.Hemusttakewhatissuitablytermeda“legno”—apieceofwood—anddriveupeightmilesofexcellentroadintothemiddleages.Foritisimpossible,aswellassacrilegious,tobeasquickasBaedeker. ItwasthreeintheafternoonwhenPhiliplefttherealmsofcommonsense.Hewassowearywithtravellingthathehadfallenasleepinthetrain.Hisfellow-passengershadtheusualItaliangiftofdivination,andwhenMonterianocametheyknewhewantedtogothere,anddroppedhimout.Hisfeetsankintothehotasphaltoftheplatform,andinadreamhewatchedthetraindepart,whiletheporterwhooughttohavebeencarryinghisbag,ranupthelineplayingtouch-you-lastwiththeguard.Alas!hewasinnohumourforItaly.Bargainingforalegnoboredhimunutterably.ThemanaskedsixlireandthoughPhilipknewthatforeightmilesitshouldscarcelybemorethanfour,yethewasabouttogivewhathewasasked,andsomakethemandiscontentedandunhappyfortherestoftheday.Hewassavedfromthissocialblunderbyloudshouts,andlookinguptheroadsawonecrackinghiswhipandwavinghisreinsanddrivingtwohorsesfuriously,andbehindhimthereappearedtheswayingfigureofawoman,holdingstar-fishfashionontoanythingshecouldtouch.ItwasMissAbbott,whohadjustreceivedhisletterfromMilanannouncingthetimeofhisarrival,andhadhurrieddowntomeethim. HehadknownMissAbbottforyears,andhadneverhadmuchopinionaboutheronewayortheother.Shewasgood,quiet,dull,andamiable,andyoungonlybecauseshewastwenty-three:therewasnothinginherappearanceormannertosuggestthefireofyouth.AllherlifehadbeenspentatSawstonwithadullandamiablefather,andherpleasant,pallidface,bentonsomerespectablecharity,wasafamiliarobjectoftheSawstonstreets.Whyshehadeverwishedtoleavethemwassurprisingbutasshetrulysaid,“IamJohnBulltothebackbone,yetIdowanttoseeItaly,justonce.Everybodysaysitismarvellous,andthatonegetsnoideaofitfrombooksatall.”ThecuratesuggestedthatayearwasalongtimeandMissAbbott,withdecorousplayfulness,answeredhim,“Oh,butyoumustletmehavemyfling!Ipromisetohaveitonce,andonceonly.Itwillgivemethingstothinkaboutandtalkaboutfortherestofmylife.”ThecuratehadconsentedsohadMr.Abbott.Andhereshewasinalegno,solitary,dusty,frightened,withasmuchtoanswerandtoanswerforasthemostdashingadventuresscoulddesire. Theyshookhandswithoutspeaking.ShemaderoomforPhilipandhisluggageamidsttheloudindignationoftheunsuccessfuldriver,whomitrequiredthecombinedeloquenceofthestation-masterandthestationbeggartoconfute.Thesilencewasprolongeduntiltheystarted.Forthreedayshehadbeenconsideringwhatheshoulddo,andstillmorewhatheshouldsay.Hehadinventedadozenimaginaryconversations,inallofwhichhislogicandeloquenceprocuredhimcertainvictory.Buthowtobegin?Hewasintheenemy’scountry,andeverything—thehotsun,thecoldairbehindtheheat,theendlessrowsofolive-trees,regularyetmysterious—seemedhostiletotheplacidatmosphereofSawstoninwhichhisthoughtstookbirth.Attheoutsethemadeonegreatconcession.Ifthematchwasreallysuitable,andLiliawerebentonit,hewouldgivein,andtrusttohisinfluencewithhismothertosetthingsright.HewouldnothavemadetheconcessioninEnglandbuthereinItaly,Lilia,howeverwilfulandsilly,wasatalleventsgrowingtobeahumanbeing. “Arewetotalkitovernow?”heasked. “Certainly,please,”saidMissAbbott,ingreatagitation.“Ifyouwillbesoverykind.” “Thenhowlonghasshebeenengaged?” Herfacewasthatofaperfectfool—afoolinterror. “Ashorttime—quiteashorttime,”shestammered,asiftheshortnessofthetimewouldreassurehim. “Ishouldliketoknowhowlong,ifyoucanremember.” Sheenteredintoelaboratecalculationsonherfingers.“Exactlyelevendays,”shesaidatlast. “Howlonghaveyoubeenhere?” Morecalculations,whilehetappedirritablywithhisfoot.“Closeonthreeweeks.” “Didyouknowhimbeforeyoucame?” “No.” “Oh!Whoishe?” “Anativeoftheplace.” Thesecondsilencetookplace.Theyhadlefttheplainnowandwereclimbinguptheoutpostsofthehills,theolive-treesstillaccompanying.Thedriver,ajollyfatman,hadgotouttoeasethehorses,andwaswalkingbythesideofthecarriage. “Iunderstoodtheymetatthehotel.” “ItwasamistakeofMrs.Theobald’s.” “IalsounderstandthatheisamemberoftheItaliannobility.” Shedidnotreply. “MayIbetoldhisname?” MissAbbottwhispered,“Carella.”Butthedriverheardher,andagrinsplitoverhisface.Theengagementmustbeknownalready. “Carella?ConteorMarchese,orwhat?” “Signor,”saidMissAbbott,andlookedhelplesslyaside. “PerhapsIboreyouwiththesequestions.Ifso,Iwillstop.” “Oh,no,pleasenotatall.Iamhere—myownidea—togiveallinformationwhichyouverynaturally—andtoseeifsomehow—pleaseaskanythingyoulike.” “Thenhowoldishe?” “Oh,quiteyoung.Twenty-one,Ibelieve.” ThereburstfromPhiliptheexclamation,“GoodLord!” “Onewouldneverbelieveit,”saidMissAbbott,flushing.“Helooksmucholder.” “Andishegood-looking?”heasked,withgatheringsarcasm. She