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  • CHAPTER I: The Bertolini

  • "The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no business at all.

  • She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are

  • north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart.

  • Oh, Lucy!"

  • "And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora's

  • unexpected accent. "It might be London."

  • She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at

  • the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the

  • English people; at the portraits of the

  • late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily

  • framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that

  • was the only other decoration of the wall.

  • "Charlotte, don't you feel, too, that we might be in London?

  • I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside.

  • I suppose it is one's being so tired."

  • "This meat has surely been used for soup," said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.

  • "I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her

  • letter would have looked over the Arno.

  • The Signora had no business to do it at all.

  • Oh, it is a shame!"

  • "Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you

  • shouldn't have a view." Lucy felt that she had been selfish.

  • "Charlotte, you mustn't spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too.

  • I meant that.

  • The first vacant room in the front--" "You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of

  • whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of generosity to

  • which she made many a tactful allusion.

  • "No, no. You must have it." "I insist on it.

  • Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy." "She would never forgive me."

  • The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish.

  • They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled.

  • Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-

  • bred people whom one does meet abroad-- leant forward over the table and actually

  • intruded into their argument.

  • He said: "I have a view, I have a view."

  • Miss Bartlett was startled.

  • Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and

  • often did not find out that they would "do" till they had gone.

  • She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him.

  • He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes.

  • There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of

  • senility.

  • What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on

  • to his clothes. These did not attract her.

  • He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim.

  • So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: "A view?

  • Oh, a view!

  • How delightful a view is!" "This is my son," said the old man; "his

  • name's George. He has a view too."

  • "Ah," said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.

  • "What I mean," he continued, "is that you can have our rooms, and we'll have yours.

  • We'll change."

  • The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers.

  • Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said "Thank you

  • very much indeed; that is out of the question."

  • "Why?" said the old man, with both fists on the table.

  • "Because it is quite out of the question, thank you."

  • "You see, we don't like to take--" began Lucy.

  • Her cousin again repressed her. "But why?" he persisted.

  • "Women like looking at a view; men don't."

  • And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son,

  • saying, "George, persuade them!" "It's so obvious they should have the

  • rooms," said the son.

  • "There's nothing else to say." He did not look at the ladies as he spoke,

  • but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful.

  • Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as "quite a

  • scene," and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the

  • contest widened and deepened till it dealt,

  • not with rooms and views, but with--well, with something quite different, whose

  • existence she had not realized before.

  • Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not

  • change? What possible objection had she?

  • They would clear out in half an hour.

  • Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless

  • in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross.

  • Her face reddened with displeasure.

  • She looked around as much as to say, "Are you all like this?"

  • And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging

  • over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating "We are not; we are

  • genteel."

  • "Eat your dinner, dear," she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that

  • she had once censured. Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd

  • people opposite.

  • "Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure.

  • To-morrow we will make a change." Hardly had she announced this fell decision

  • when she reversed it.

  • The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but

  • attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table, cheerfully apologizing

  • for his lateness.

  • Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: "Oh, oh!

  • Why, it's Mr. Beebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely!

  • Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now, however bad the rooms are.

  • Oh!" Miss Bartlett said, with more restraint:

  • "How do you do, Mr. Beebe?

  • I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at

  • Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter's that very cold Easter."

  • The clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember the ladies quite

  • as clearly as they remembered him.

  • But he came forward pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was

  • beckoned by Lucy.

  • "I AM so glad to see you," said the girl, who was in a state of spiritual starvation,

  • and would have been glad to see the waiter if her cousin had permitted it.

  • "Just fancy how small the world is.

  • Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny."

  • "Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street," said Miss Bartlett, filling

  • up the gap, "and she happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have

  • just accepted the living--"

  • "Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn't know that I knew you at

  • Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: 'Mr. Beebe is--'"

  • "Quite right," said the clergyman.

  • "I move into the Rectory at Summer Street next June.

  • I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood."

  • "Oh, how glad I am!

  • The name of our house is Windy Corner." Mr. Beebe bowed.

  • "There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it's not often we get him

  • to ch---- The church is rather far off, I mean."

  • "Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner."

  • "I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it."

  • He preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than to Miss

  • Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons.

  • He asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that

  • she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and

  • he was first in the field.

  • "Don't neglect the country round," his advice concluded.

  • "The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or

  • something of that sort."

  • "No!" cried a voice from the top of the table.

  • "Mr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must

  • go to Prato."

  • "That lady looks so clever," whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin.

  • "We are in luck." And, indeed, a perfect torrent of

  • information burst on them.

  • People told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams, how to

  • get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter, how much the place

  • would grow upon them.

  • The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusiastically, that they would do.

  • Whichever way they looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them.

  • And above all rose the voice of the clever lady, crying: "Prato!

  • They must go to Prato. That place is too sweetly squalid for

  • words.

  • I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know."

  • The young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then returned moodily to

  • his plate.

  • Obviously he and his father did not do. Lucy, in the midst of her success, found

  • time to wish they did.

  • It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when she

  • rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.

  • The father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow, but by

  • raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across something.

  • She hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains--

  • curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth.

  • Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and

  • supported by 'Enery, her little boy, and Victorier, her daughter.

  • It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace

  • and geniality of the South.

  • And even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort

  • of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really Italy?

  • Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which had the

  • colour and the contours of a tomato.

  • She was talking to Mr. Beebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards

  • and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible

  • obstacle.

  • "We are most grateful to you," she was saying.

  • "The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a

  • peculiarly mauvais quart d'heure."

  • He expressed his regret. "Do you, by any chance, know the name of an

  • old man who sat opposite us at dinner?" "Emerson."

  • "Is he a friend of yours?"

  • "We are friendly--as one is in pensions." "Then I will say no more."

  • He pressed her very slightly, and she said more.

  • "I am, as it were," she concluded, "the chaperon of my young cousin, Lucy, and it

  • would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know

  • nothing.

  • His manner was somewhat unfortunate. I hope I acted for the best."

  • "You acted very naturally," said he.

  • He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: "All the same, I don't think

  • much harm would have come of accepting." "No harm, of course.

  • But we could not be under an obligation."

  • "He is rather a peculiar man." Again he hesitated, and then said gently:

  • "I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show

  • gratitude.

  • He has the merit--if it is one--of saying exactly what he means.

  • He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them.

  • He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite.

  • It is so difficult--at least, I find it difficult--to understand people who speak

  • the truth."

  • Lucy was pleased, and said: "I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that

  • people will be nice." "I think he is; nice and tiresome.

  • I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect--I may say

  • I hope--you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather

  • than deplores.

  • When he first came here he not unnaturally put people's backs up.

  • He has no tact and no manners--I don't mean by that that he has bad manners--and he

  • will not keep his opinions to himself.

  • We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we

  • thought better of it." "Am I to conclude," said Miss Bartlett,

  • "that he is a Socialist?"

  • Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips.

  • "And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?"

  • "I hardly know George, for he hasn't learnt to talk yet.

  • He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains.

  • Of course, he has all his father's mannerisms, and it is quite possible that

  • he, too, may be a Socialist." "Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett.

  • "So you think I ought to have accepted their offer?

  • You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?"

  • "Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested that."

  • "But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?"

  • He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from

  • his seat to go to the smoking-room. "Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon

  • as he had disappeared.

  • "Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure.

  • I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening,

  • as well as all dinner-time."

  • "He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember.

  • He seems to see good in every one. No one would take him for a clergyman."

  • "My dear Lucia--"

  • "Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh;

  • Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man."

  • "Funny girl!

  • How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe."

  • "I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy." "I think every one at Windy Corner will

  • approve; it is the fashionable world.

  • I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times."

  • "Yes," said Lucy despondently.

  • There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself,

  • or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow

  • world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine.

  • She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered.

  • Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added "I am

  • afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion."

  • And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more

  • careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being

  • poor."

  • Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very

  • benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had

  • sat.

  • Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been

  • to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister's

  • health, the necessity of closing the bed-

  • room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning.

  • She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of

  • attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding

  • tempestuously at the other end of the room.

  • It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice,

  • when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea, though one

  • better than something else.

  • "But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English."

  • "Yet our rooms smell," said poor Lucy. "We dread going to bed."

  • "Ah, then you look into the court."

  • She sighed. "If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful!

  • We were so sorry for you at dinner." "I think he was meaning to be kind."

  • "Undoubtedly he was," said Miss Bartlett.

  • "Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature.

  • Of course, I was holding back on my cousin's account."

  • "Of course," said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too

  • careful with a young girl. Lucy tried to look demure, but could not

  • help feeling a great fool.

  • No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it.

  • "About old Mr. Emerson--I hardly know.

  • No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things

  • which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time--beautiful?"

  • "Beautiful?" said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word.

  • "Are not beauty and delicacy the same?" "So one would have thought," said the other

  • helplessly.

  • "But things are so difficult, I sometimes think."

  • She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely

  • pleasant.

  • "Miss Bartlett," he cried, "it's all right about the rooms.

  • I'm so glad.

  • Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I

  • encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you.

  • He would be so pleased."

  • "Oh, Charlotte," cried Lucy to her cousin, "we must have the rooms now.

  • The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be."

  • Miss Bartlett was silent.

  • "I fear," said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, "that I have been officious.

  • I must apologize for my interference." Gravely displeased, he turned to go.

  • Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: "My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant

  • in comparison with yours.

  • It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am

  • only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out

  • of their rooms, I will do it.

  • Would you then, Mr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and

  • then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?"

  • She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and

  • silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female

  • sex, bowed, and departed with her message.

  • "Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this.

  • I do not wish the acceptance to come from you.

  • Grant me that, at all events."

  • Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously:

  • "Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead."

  • The young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so

  • low were their chairs. "My father," he said, "is in his bath, so

  • you cannot thank him personally.

  • But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes

  • out." Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath.

  • All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first.

  • Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the

  • secret delight of Lucy.

  • "Poor young man!" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.

  • "How angry he is with his father about the rooms!

  • It is all he can do to keep polite."

  • "In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready," said Mr. Beebe.

  • Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to

  • write up his philosophic diary.

  • "Oh, dear!" breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven

  • had entered the apartment.

  • "Gentlemen sometimes do not realize--" Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed

  • to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly

  • realize played a principal part.

  • Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature.

  • Taking up Baedeker's Handbook to Northern Italy, she committed to memory the most

  • important dates of Florentine History.

  • For she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow.

  • Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh,

  • and said:

  • "I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir.

  • I will superintend the move." "How you do do everything," said Lucy.

  • "Naturally, dear.

  • It is my affair." "But I would like to help you."

  • "No, dear." Charlotte's energy!

  • And her unselfishness!

  • She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing

  • herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel.

  • And yet--there was a rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance

  • might not have been less delicate and more beautiful.

  • At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.

  • "I want to explain," said Miss Bartlett, "why it is that I have taken the largest

  • room.

  • Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you; but I happen to know that it

  • belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it."

  • Lucy was bewildered.

  • "If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation

  • to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way,

  • and I know where things lead to.

  • However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this."

  • "Mother wouldn't mind I'm sure," said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and

  • unsuspected issues.

  • Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished

  • her good-night.

  • It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened

  • the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had

  • enabled her to see the lights dancing in

  • the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato, and the foot-hills of the Apennines, black

  • against the rising moon.

  • Miss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and

  • then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there

  • were any oubliettes or secret entrances.

  • It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which

  • was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation.

  • Nothing more.

  • "What does it mean?" she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a

  • candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became

  • menacing, obnoxious, portentous with evil.

  • She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had

  • no right to do so, since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson.

  • So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to

  • keep it clean for him.

  • Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her

  • habit, and went to bed.

  • >

  • CHAPTER II: In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

  • It was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a bright bare room, with

  • a floor of red tiles which look clean though they are not; with a painted ceiling

  • whereon pink griffins and blue amorini

  • sport in a forest of yellow violins and bassoons.

  • It was pleasant, too, to fling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in unfamiliar

  • fastenings, to lean out into sunshine with beautiful hills and trees and marble

  • churches opposite, and close below, the

  • Arno, gurgling against the embankment of the road.

  • Over the river men were at work with spades and sieves on the sandy foreshore, and on

  • the river was a boat, also diligently employed for some mysterious end.

  • An electric tram came rushing underneath the window.

  • No one was inside it, except one tourist; but its platforms were overflowing with

  • Italians, who preferred to stand.

  • Children tried to hang on behind, and the conductor, with no malice, spat in their

  • faces to make them let go.

  • Then soldiers appeared--good-looking, undersized men--wearing each a knapsack

  • covered with mangy fur, and a great-coat which had been cut for some larger soldier.

  • Beside them walked officers, looking foolish and fierce, and before them went

  • little boys, turning somersaults in time with the band.

  • The tramcar became entangled in their ranks, and moved on painfully, like a

  • caterpillar in a swarm of ants. One of the little boys fell down, and some

  • white bullocks came out of an archway.

  • Indeed, if it had not been for the good advice of an old man who was selling

  • button-hooks, the road might never have got clear.

  • Over such trivialities as these many a valuable hour may slip away, and the

  • traveller who has gone to Italy to study the tactile values of Giotto, or the

  • corruption of the Papacy, may return

  • remembering nothing but the blue sky and the men and women who live under it.

  • So it was as well that Miss Bartlett should tap and come in, and having commented on

  • Lucy's leaving the door unlocked, and on her leaning out of the window before she

  • was fully dressed, should urge her to

  • hasten herself, or the best of the day would be gone.

  • By the time Lucy was ready her cousin had done her breakfast, and was listening to

  • the clever lady among the crumbs.

  • A conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar lines.

  • Miss Bartlett was, after all, a wee bit tired, and thought they had better spend

  • the morning settling in; unless Lucy would at all like to go out?

  • Lucy would rather like to go out, as it was her first day in Florence, but, of course,

  • she could go alone. Miss Bartlett could not allow this.

  • Of course she would accompany Lucy everywhere.

  • Oh, certainly not; Lucy would stop with her cousin.

  • Oh, no! that would never do.

  • Oh, yes! At this point the clever lady broke in.

  • "If it is Mrs. Grundy who is troubling you, I do assure you that you can neglect the

  • good person.

  • Being English, Miss Honeychurch will be perfectly safe.

  • Italians understand.

  • A dear friend of mine, Contessa Baroncelli, has two daughters, and when she cannot send

  • a maid to school with them, she lets them go in sailor-hats instead.

  • Every one takes them for English, you see, especially if their hair is strained

  • tightly behind." Miss Bartlett was unconvinced by the safety

  • of Contessa Baroncelli's daughters.

  • She was determined to take Lucy herself, her head not being so very bad.

  • The clever lady then said that she was going to spend a long morning in Santa

  • Croce, and if Lucy would come too, she would be delighted.

  • "I will take you by a dear dirty back way, Miss Honeychurch, and if you bring me luck,

  • we shall have an adventure."

  • Lucy said that this was most kind, and at once opened the Baedeker, to see where

  • Santa Croce was. "Tut, tut!

  • Miss Lucy!

  • I hope we shall soon emancipate you from Baedeker.

  • He does but touch the surface of things. As to the true Italy--he does not even

  • dream of it.

  • The true Italy is only to be found by patient observation."

  • This sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried over her breakfast, and started

  • with her new friend in high spirits.

  • Italy was coming at last. The Cockney Signora and her works had

  • vanished like a bad dream.

  • Miss Lavish--for that was the clever lady's name--turned to the right along the sunny

  • Lung' Arno. How delightfully warm!

  • But a wind down the side streets cut like a knife, didn't it?

  • Ponte alle Grazie--particularly interesting, mentioned by Dante.

  • San Miniato--beautiful as well as interesting; the crucifix that kissed a

  • murderer--Miss Honeychurch would remember the story.

  • The men on the river were fishing.

  • (Untrue; but then, so is most information.) Then Miss Lavish darted under the archway

  • of the white bullocks, and she stopped, and she cried:

  • "A smell! a true Florentine smell!

  • Every city, let me teach you, has its own smell."

  • "Is it a very nice smell?" said Lucy, who had inherited from her mother a distaste to

  • dirt.

  • "One doesn't come to Italy for niceness," was the retort; "one comes for life.

  • Buon giorno! Buon giorno!" bowing right and left.

  • "Look at that adorable wine-cart!

  • How the driver stares at us, dear, simple soul!"

  • So Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of the city of Florence, short,

  • fidgety, and playful as a kitten, though without a kitten's grace.

  • It was a treat for the girl to be with any one so clever and so cheerful; and a blue

  • military cloak, such as an Italian officer wears, only increased the sense of

  • festivity.

  • "Buon giorno! Take the word of an old woman, Miss Lucy:

  • you will never repent of a little civility to your inferiors.

  • That is the true democracy.

  • Though I am a real Radical as well. There, now you're shocked."

  • "Indeed, I'm not!" exclaimed Lucy. "We are Radicals, too, out and out.

  • My father always voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he was so dreadful about Ireland."

  • "I see, I see. And now you have gone over to the enemy."

  • "Oh, please--!

  • If my father was alive, I am sure he would vote Radical again now that Ireland is all

  • right.

  • And as it is, the glass over our front door was broken last election, and Freddy is

  • sure it was the Tories; but mother says nonsense, a tramp."

  • "Shameful!

  • A manufacturing district, I suppose?" "No--in the Surrey hills.

  • About five miles from Dorking, looking over the Weald."

  • Miss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened her trot.

  • "What a delightful part; I know it so well. It is full of the very nicest people.

  • Do you know Sir Harry Otway--a Radical if ever there was?"

  • "Very well indeed." "And old Mrs. Butterworth the

  • philanthropist?"

  • "Why, she rents a field of us! How funny!"

  • Miss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky, and murmured: "Oh, you have property

  • in Surrey?"

  • "Hardly any," said Lucy, fearful of being thought a snob.

  • "Only thirty acres--just the garden, all downhill, and some fields."

  • Miss Lavish was not disgusted, and said it was just the size of her aunt's Suffolk

  • estate. Italy receded.

  • They tried to remember the last name of Lady Louisa some one, who had taken a house

  • near Summer Street the other year, but she had not liked it, which was odd of her.

  • And just as Miss Lavish had got the name, she broke off and exclaimed:

  • "Bless us! Bless us and save us!

  • We've lost the way."

  • Certainly they had seemed a long time in reaching Santa Croce, the tower of which

  • had been plainly visible from the landing window.

  • But Miss Lavish had said so much about knowing her Florence by heart, that Lucy

  • had followed her with no misgivings. "Lost! lost!

  • My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we have taken a wrong turning.

  • How those horrid Conservatives would jeer at us!

  • What are we to do?

  • Two lone females in an unknown town. Now, this is what I call an adventure."

  • Lucy, who wanted to see Santa Croce, suggested, as a possible solution, that

  • they should ask the way there.

  • "Oh, but that is the word of a craven! And no, you are not, not, NOT to look at

  • your Baedeker. Give it to me; I shan't let you carry it.

  • We will simply drift."

  • Accordingly they drifted through a series of those grey-brown streets, neither

  • commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of the city abounds.

  • Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent of Lady Louisa, and became discontented

  • herself. For one ravishing moment Italy appeared.

  • She stood in the Square of the Annunziata and saw in the living terra-cotta those

  • divine babies whom no cheap reproduction can ever stale.

  • There they stood, with their shining limbs bursting from the garments of charity, and

  • their strong white arms extended against circlets of heaven.

  • Lucy thought she had never seen anything more beautiful; but Miss Lavish, with a

  • shriek of dismay, dragged her forward, declaring that they were out of their path

  • now by at least a mile.

  • The hour was approaching at which the continental breakfast begins, or rather

  • ceases, to tell, and the ladies bought some hot chestnut paste out of a little shop,

  • because it looked so typical.

  • It tasted partly of the paper in which it was wrapped, partly of hair oil, partly of

  • the great unknown.

  • But it gave them strength to drift into another Piazza, large and dusty, on the

  • farther side of which rose a black-and- white facade of surpassing ugliness.

  • Miss Lavish spoke to it dramatically.

  • It was Santa Croce. The adventure was over.

  • "Stop a minute; let those two people go on, or I shall have to speak to them.

  • I do detest conventional intercourse.

  • Nasty! they are going into the church, too. Oh, the Britisher abroad!"

  • "We sat opposite them at dinner last night. They have given us their rooms.

  • They were so very kind."

  • "Look at their figures!" laughed Miss Lavish.

  • "They walk through my Italy like a pair of cows.

  • It's very naughty of me, but I would like to set an examination paper at Dover, and

  • turn back every tourist who couldn't pass it."

  • "What would you ask us?"

  • Miss Lavish laid her hand pleasantly on Lucy's arm, as if to suggest that she, at

  • all events, would get full marks.

  • In this exalted mood they reached the steps of the great church, and were about to

  • enter it when Miss Lavish stopped, squeaked, flung up her arms, and cried:

  • "There goes my local-colour box!

  • I must have a word with him!"

  • And in a moment she was away over the Piazza, her military cloak flapping in the

  • wind; nor did she slacken speed till she caught up an old man with white whiskers,

  • and nipped him playfully upon the arm.

  • Lucy waited for nearly ten minutes. Then she began to get tired.

  • The beggars worried her, the dust blew in her eyes, and she remembered that a young

  • girl ought not to loiter in public places.

  • She descended slowly into the Piazza with the intention of rejoining Miss Lavish, who

  • was really almost too original.

  • But at that moment Miss Lavish and her local-colour box moved also, and

  • disappeared down a side street, both gesticulating largely.

  • Tears of indignation came to Lucy's eyes partly because Miss Lavish had jilted her,

  • partly because she had taken her Baedeker. How could she find her way home?

  • How could she find her way about in Santa Croce?

  • Her first morning was ruined, and she might never be in Florence again.

  • A few minutes ago she had been all high spirits, talking as a woman of culture, and

  • half persuading herself that she was full of originality.

  • Now she entered the church depressed and humiliated, not even able to remember

  • whether it was built by the Franciscans or the Dominicans.

  • Of course, it must be a wonderful building.

  • But how like a barn! And how very cold!

  • Of course, it contained frescoes by Giotto, in the presence of whose tactile values she

  • was capable of feeling what was proper.

  • But who was to tell her which they were? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling to

  • be enthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date.

  • There was no one even to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved the

  • nave and transepts, was the one that was really beautiful, the one that had been

  • most praised by Mr. Ruskin.

  • Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on her, and, instead of acquiring

  • information, she began to be happy.

  • She puzzled out the Italian notices--the notices that forbade people to introduce

  • dogs into the church--the notice that prayed people, in the interest of health

  • and out of respect to the sacred edifice in which they found themselves, not to spit.

  • She watched the tourists; their noses were as red as their Baedekers, so cold was

  • Santa Croce.

  • She beheld the horrible fate that overtook three Papists--two he-babies and a she-

  • baby--who began their career by sousing each other with the Holy Water, and then

  • proceeded to the Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed.

  • Advancing towards it very slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone

  • with their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and then

  • retreated.

  • What could this mean? They did it again and again.

  • Then Lucy realized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for some saint, hoping to

  • acquire virtue.

  • Punishment followed quickly. The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of

  • the sepulchral slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin, and entangled his feet in the

  • features of a recumbent bishop.

  • Protestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late.

  • He fell heavily upon the prelate's upturned toes.

  • "Hateful bishop!" exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had darted forward

  • also. "Hard in life, hard in death.

  • Go out into the sunshine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is

  • where you ought to be. Intolerable bishop!"

  • The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadful people who

  • picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him not to be

  • superstitious.

  • "Look at him!" said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. "Here's a mess: a baby hurt, cold, and

  • frightened! But what else can you expect from a

  • church?"

  • The child's legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr. Emerson and Lucy set

  • it erect it collapsed with a roar.

  • Fortunately an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the

  • rescue.

  • By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little

  • boy's back-bone and imparted strength to his knees.

  • He stood.

  • Still gibbering with agitation, he walked away.

  • "You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson. "You have done more than all the relics in

  • the world.

  • I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures

  • happy. There is no scheme of the universe--"

  • He paused for a phrase.

  • "Niente," said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers.

  • "I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy.

  • In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons.

  • She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if

  • possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant

  • rooms.

  • "That woman understands everything," was Mr. Emerson's reply.

  • "But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church?

  • Are you through with the church?"

  • "No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance.

  • "I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--

  • it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come

  • in by myself."

  • "Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson. "Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?"

  • said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time.

  • "But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker."

  • "Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's THAT you minded.

  • It's worth minding, the loss of a Baedeker.

  • THAT'S worth minding." Lucy was puzzled.

  • She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her.

  • "If you've no Baedeker," said the son, "you'd better join us."

  • Was this where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her dignity.

  • "Thank you very much, but I could not think of that.

  • I hope you do not suppose that I came to join on to you.

  • I really came to help with the child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your

  • rooms last night. I hope that you have not been put to any

  • great inconvenience."

  • "My dear," said the old man gently, "I think that you are repeating what you have

  • heard older people say. You are pretending to be touchy; but you

  • are not really.

  • Stop being so tiresome, and tell me instead what part of the church you want to see.

  • To take you to it will be a real pleasure." Now, this was abominably impertinent, and

  • she ought to have been furious.

  • But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one's temper as it is difficult at other

  • times to keep it. Lucy could not get cross.

  • Mr. Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl might humour him.

  • On the other hand, his son was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to be

  • offended with him, or at all events be offended before him.

  • It was at him that she gazed before replying.

  • "I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if

  • you will kindly tell me which they are."

  • The son nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led

  • the way to the Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of the teacher about him.

  • She felt like a child in school who had answered a question rightly.

  • The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation, and out of them rose

  • the voice of a lecturer, directing them how to worship Giotto, not by tactful

  • valuations, but by the standards of the spirit.

  • "Remember," he was saying, "the facts about this church of Santa Croce; how it was

  • built by faith in the full fervour of medievalism, before any taint of the

  • Renaissance had appeared.

  • Observe how Giotto in these frescoes--now, unhappily, ruined by restoration--is

  • untroubled by the snares of anatomy and perspective.

  • Could anything be more majestic, more pathetic, beautiful, true?

  • How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical cleverness against a man who

  • truly feels!"

  • "No!" exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church.

  • "Remember nothing of the sort! Built by faith indeed!

  • That simply means the workmen weren't paid properly.

  • And as for the frescoes, I see no truth in them.

  • Look at that fat man in blue!

  • He must weigh as much as I do, and he is shooting into the sky like an air balloon."

  • He was referring to the fresco of the "Ascension of St. John."

  • Inside, the lecturer's voice faltered, as well it might.

  • The audience shifted uneasily, and so did Lucy.

  • She was sure that she ought not to be with these men; but they had cast a spell over

  • her. They were so serious and so strange that

  • she could not remember how to behave.

  • "Now, did this happen, or didn't it? Yes or no?"

  • George replied: "It happened like this, if it happened at

  • all.

  • I would rather go up to heaven by myself than be pushed by cherubs; and if I got

  • there I should like my friends to lean out of it, just as they do here."

  • "You will never go up," said his father.

  • "You and I, dear boy, will lie at peace in the earth that bore us, and our names will

  • disappear as surely as our work survives."

  • "Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint, whoever he is, going

  • up. It did happen like that, if it happened at

  • all."

  • "Pardon me," said a frigid voice. "The chapel is somewhat small for two

  • parties. We will incommode you no longer."

  • The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock, for they

  • held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their hands.

  • They filed out of the chapel in silence.

  • Amongst them were the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini--Miss Teresa and

  • Miss Catherine Alan. "Stop!" cried Mr. Emerson.

  • "There's plenty of room for us all.

  • Stop!" The procession disappeared without a word.

  • Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St.

  • Francis.

  • "George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate."

  • George went into the next chapel and returned, saying "Perhaps he is.

  • I don't remember."

  • "Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am.

  • It's that Mr. Eager. Why did he go?

  • Did we talk too loud?

  • How vexatious. I shall go and say we are sorry.

  • Hadn't I better? Then perhaps he will come back."

  • "He will not come back," said George.

  • But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize to the Rev.

  • Cuthbert Eager.

  • Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear the lecture again interrupted,

  • the anxious, aggressive voice of the old man, the curt, injured replies of his

  • opponent.

  • The son, who took every little contretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening

  • also. "My father has that effect on nearly every

  • one," he informed her.

  • "He will try to be kind." "I hope we all try," said she, smiling

  • nervously. "Because we think it improves our

  • characters.

  • But he is kind to people because he loves them; and they find him out, and are

  • offended, or frightened."

  • "How silly of them!" said Lucy, though in her heart she sympathized; "I think that a

  • kind action done tactfully--" "Tact!"

  • He threw up his head in disdain.

  • Apparently she had given the wrong answer. She watched the singular creature pace up

  • and down the chapel. For a young man his face was rugged, and--

  • until the shadows fell upon it--hard.

  • Enshadowed, it sprang into tenderness. She saw him once again at Rome, on the

  • ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, carrying a burden of acorns.

  • Healthy and muscular, he yet gave her the feeling of greyness, of tragedy that might

  • only find solution in the night. The feeling soon passed; it was unlike her

  • to have entertained anything so subtle.

  • Born of silence and of unknown emotion, it passed when Mr. Emerson returned, and she

  • could re-enter the world of rapid talk, which was alone familiar to her.

  • "Were you snubbed?" asked his son tranquilly.

  • "But we have spoilt the pleasure of I don't know how many people.

  • They won't come back."

  • "...full of innate sympathy...quickness to perceive good in others...vision of the

  • brotherhood of man..." Scraps of the lecture on St. Francis came

  • floating round the partition wall.

  • "Don't let us spoil yours," he continued to Lucy.

  • "Have you looked at those saints?" "Yes," said Lucy.

  • "They are lovely.

  • Do you know which is the tombstone that is praised in Ruskin?"

  • He did not know, and suggested that they should try to guess it.

  • George, rather to her relief, refused to move, and she and the old man wandered not

  • unpleasantly about Santa Croce, which, though it is like a barn, has harvested

  • many beautiful things inside its walls.

  • There were also beggars to avoid and guides to dodge round the pillars, and an old lady

  • with her dog, and here and there a priest modestly edging to his Mass through the

  • groups of tourists.

  • But Mr. Emerson was only half interested. He watched the lecturer, whose success he

  • believed he had impaired, and then he anxiously watched his son.

  • "Why will he look at that fresco?" he said uneasily.

  • "I saw nothing in it." "I like Giotto," she replied.

  • "It is so wonderful what they say about his tactile values.

  • Though I like things like the Della Robbia babies better."

  • "So you ought.

  • A baby is worth a dozen saints. And my baby's worth the whole of Paradise,

  • and as far as I can see he lives in Hell." Lucy again felt that this did not do.

  • "In Hell," he repeated.

  • "He's unhappy." "Oh, dear!" said Lucy.

  • "How can he be unhappy when he is strong and alive?

  • What more is one to give him?

  • And think how he has been brought up--free from all the superstition and ignorance

  • that lead men to hate one another in the name of God.

  • With such an education as that, I thought he was bound to grow up happy."

  • She was no theologian, but she felt that here was a very foolish old man, as well as

  • a very irreligious one.

  • She also felt that her mother might not like her talking to that kind of person,

  • and that Charlotte would object most strongly.

  • "What are we to do with him?" he asked.

  • "He comes out for his holiday to Italy, and behaves--like that; like the little child

  • who ought to have been playing, and who hurt himself upon the tombstone.

  • Eh? What did you say?"

  • Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said:

  • "Now don't be stupid over this.

  • I don't require you to fall in love with my boy, but I do think you might try and

  • understand him. You are nearer his age, and if you let

  • yourself go I am sure you are sensible.

  • You might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the

  • time. You stop here several weeks, I suppose?

  • But let yourself go.

  • You are inclined to get muddled, if I may judge from last night.

  • Let yourself go.

  • Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them

  • out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them.

  • By understanding George you may learn to understand yourself.

  • It will be good for both of you." To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no

  • answer.

  • "I only know what it is that's wrong with him; not why it is."

  • "And what is it?" asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.

  • "The old trouble; things won't fit."

  • "What things?" "The things of the universe.

  • It is quite true. They don't."

  • "Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?"

  • In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:

  • "'From far, from eve and morning, And yon twelve-winded sky,

  • The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I'

  • George and I both know this, but why does it distress him?

  • We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life

  • is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness.

  • But why should this make us unhappy?

  • Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice.

  • I don't believe in this world sorrow." Miss Honeychurch assented.

  • "Then make my boy think like us.

  • Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a

  • transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes." Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to

  • laugh.

  • A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or

  • a wind, or a Yes, or something! "I'm very sorry," she cried.

  • "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--" Then she became matronly.

  • "Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby?

  • Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and

  • collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother.

  • Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or the Lakes."

  • The old man's face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand.

  • This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had impressed him and that he

  • was thanking her for it.

  • Indeed, he no longer alarmed her at all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but quite

  • silly.

  • Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago esthetically,

  • before she lost Baedeker.

  • The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable

  • and absurd. He approached, his face in the shadow.

  • He said:

  • "Miss Bartlett." "Oh, good gracious me!" said Lucy, suddenly

  • collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective.

  • "Where?

  • Where?" "In the nave."

  • "I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must

  • have--" She checked herself.

  • "Poor girl!" exploded Mr. Emerson. "Poor girl!"

  • She could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.

  • "Poor girl?

  • I fail to understand the point of that remark.

  • I think myself a very fortunate girl, I assure you.

  • I'm thoroughly happy, and having a splendid time.

  • Pray don't waste time mourning over me. There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't

  • there, without trying to invent it.

  • Good-bye. Thank you both so much for all your

  • kindness. Ah, yes! there does come my cousin.

  • A delightful morning!

  • Santa Croce is a wonderful church." She joined her cousin.

  • >

  • CHAPTER III: Music, Violets, and the Letter "S"

  • It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid

  • world when she opened the piano.

  • She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or

  • a slave.

  • The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom

  • breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected.

  • The commonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without effort,

  • whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, and thinking how we could

  • worship him and love him, would he but

  • translate his visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions.

  • Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom.

  • Lucy had done so never.

  • She was no dazzling executante; her runs were not at all like strings of pearls, and

  • she struck no more right notes than was suitable for one of her age and situation.

  • Nor was she the passionate young lady, who performs so tragically on a summer's

  • evening with the window open.

  • Passion was there, but it could not be easily labelled; it slipped between love

  • and hatred and jealousy, and all the furniture of the pictorial style.

  • And she was tragical only in the sense that she was great, for she loved to play on the

  • side of Victory. Victory of what and over what--that is more

  • than the words of daily life can tell us.

  • But that some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragic no one can gainsay; yet they

  • can triumph or despair as the player decides, and Lucy had decided that they

  • should triumph.

  • A very wet afternoon at the Bertolini permitted her to do the thing she really

  • liked, and after lunch she opened the little draped piano.

  • A few people lingered round and praised her playing, but finding that she made no

  • reply, dispersed to their rooms to write up their diaries or to sleep.

  • She took no notice of Mr. Emerson looking for his son, nor of Miss Bartlett looking

  • for Miss Lavish, nor of Miss Lavish looking for her cigarette-case.

  • Like every true performer, she was intoxicated by the mere feel of the notes:

  • they were fingers caressing her own; and by touch, not by sound alone, did she come to

  • her desire.

  • Mr. Beebe, sitting unnoticed in the window, pondered this illogical element in Miss

  • Honeychurch, and recalled the occasion at Tunbridge Wells when he had discovered it.

  • It was at one of those entertainments where the upper classes entertain the lower.

  • The seats were filled with a respectful audience, and the ladies and gentlemen of

  • the parish, under the auspices of their vicar, sang, or recited, or imitated the

  • drawing of a champagne cork.

  • Among the promised items was "Miss Honeychurch.

  • Piano.

  • Beethoven," and Mr. Beebe was wondering whether it would be Adelaida, or the march

  • of The Ruins of Athens, when his composure was disturbed by the opening bars of Opus

  • III.

  • He was in suspense all through the introduction, for not until the pace

  • quickens does one know what the performer intends.

  • With the roar of the opening theme he knew that things were going extraordinarily; in

  • the chords that herald the conclusion he heard the hammer strokes of victory.

  • He was glad that she only played the first movement, for he could have paid no

  • attention to the winding intricacies of the measures of nine-sixteen.

  • The audience clapped, no less respectful.

  • It was Mr. Beebe who started the stamping; it was all that one could do.

  • "Who is she?" he asked the vicar afterwards.

  • "Cousin of one of my parishioners.

  • I do not consider her choice of a piece happy.

  • Beethoven is so usually simple and direct in his appeal that it is sheer perversity

  • to choose a thing like that, which, if anything, disturbs."

  • "Introduce me."

  • "She will be delighted. She and Miss Bartlett are full of the

  • praises of your sermon." "My sermon?" cried Mr. Beebe.

  • "Why ever did she listen to it?"

  • When he was introduced he understood why, for Miss Honeychurch, disjoined from her

  • music stool, was only a young lady with a quantity of dark hair and a very pretty,

  • pale, undeveloped face.

  • She loved going to concerts, she loved stopping with her cousin, she loved iced

  • coffee and meringues. He did not doubt that she loved his sermon

  • also.

  • But before he left Tunbridge Wells he made a remark to the vicar, which he now made to

  • Lucy herself when she closed the little piano and moved dreamily towards him:

  • "If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very exciting both

  • for us and for her." Lucy at once re-entered daily life.

  • "Oh, what a funny thing!

  • Some one said just the same to mother, and she said she trusted I should never live a

  • duet." "Doesn't Mrs. Honeychurch like music?"

  • "She doesn't mind it.

  • But she doesn't like one to get excited over anything; she thinks I am silly about

  • it. She thinks--I can't make out.

  • Once, you know, I said that I liked my own playing better than any one's.

  • She has never got over it. Of course, I didn't mean that I played

  • well; I only meant--"

  • "Of course," said he, wondering why she bothered to explain.

  • "Music--" said Lucy, as if attempting some generality.

  • She could not complete it, and looked out absently upon Italy in the wet.

  • The whole life of the South was disorganized, and the most graceful nation

  • in Europe had turned into formless lumps of clothes.

  • The street and the river were dirty yellow, the bridge was dirty grey, and the hills

  • were dirty purple.

  • Somewhere in their folds were concealed Miss Lavish and Miss Bartlett, who had

  • chosen this afternoon to visit the Torre del Gallo.

  • "What about music?" said Mr. Beebe.

  • "Poor Charlotte will be sopped," was Lucy's reply.

  • The expedition was typical of Miss Bartlett, who would return cold, tired,

  • hungry, and angelic, with a ruined skirt, a pulpy Baedeker, and a tickling cough in her

  • throat.

  • On another day, when the whole world was singing and the air ran into the mouth,

  • like wine, she would refuse to stir from the drawing-room, saying that she was an

  • old thing, and no fit companion for a hearty girl.

  • "Miss Lavish has led your cousin astray. She hopes to find the true Italy in the wet

  • I believe."

  • "Miss Lavish is so original," murmured Lucy.

  • This was a stock remark, the supreme achievement of the Pension Bertolini in the

  • way of definition.

  • Miss Lavish was so original. Mr. Beebe had his doubts, but they would

  • have been put down to clerical narrowness. For that, and for other reasons, he held

  • his peace.

  • "Is it true," continued Lucy in awe-struck tone, "that Miss Lavish is writing a book?"

  • "They do say so." "What is it about?"

  • "It will be a novel," replied Mr. Beebe, "dealing with modern Italy.

  • Let me refer you for an account to Miss Catharine Alan, who uses words herself more

  • admirably than any one I know."

  • "I wish Miss Lavish would tell me herself. We started such friends.

  • But I don't think she ought to have run away with Baedeker that morning in Santa

  • Croce.

  • Charlotte was most annoyed at finding me practically alone, and so I couldn't help

  • being a little annoyed with Miss Lavish." "The two ladies, at all events, have made

  • it up."

  • He was interested in the sudden friendship between women so apparently dissimilar as

  • Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish. They were always in each other's company,

  • with Lucy a slighted third.

  • Miss Lavish he believed he understood, but Miss Bartlett might reveal unknown depths

  • of strangeness, though not perhaps, of meaning.

  • Was Italy deflecting her from the path of prim chaperon, which he had assigned to her

  • at Tunbridge Wells?

  • All his life he had loved to study maiden ladies; they were his specialty, and his

  • profession had provided him with ample opportunities for the work.

  • Girls like Lucy were charming to look at, but Mr. Beebe was, from rather profound

  • reasons, somewhat chilly in his attitude towards the other sex, and preferred to be

  • interested rather than enthralled.

  • Lucy, for the third time, said that poor Charlotte would be sopped.

  • The Arno was rising in flood, washing away the traces of the little carts upon the

  • foreshore.

  • But in the south-west there had appeared a dull haze of yellow, which might mean

  • better weather if it did not mean worse.

  • She opened the window to inspect, and a cold blast entered the room, drawing a

  • plaintive cry from Miss Catharine Alan, who entered at the same moment by the door.

  • "Oh, dear Miss Honeychurch, you will catch a chill!

  • And Mr. Beebe here besides. Who would suppose this is Italy?

  • There is my sister actually nursing the hot-water can; no comforts or proper

  • provisions."

  • She sidled towards them and sat down, self- conscious as she always was on entering a

  • room which contained one man, or a man and one woman.

  • "I could hear your beautiful playing, Miss Honeychurch, though I was in my room with

  • the door shut. Doors shut; indeed, most necessary.

  • No one has the least idea of privacy in this country.

  • And one person catches it from another." Lucy answered suitably.

  • Mr. Beebe was not able to tell the ladies of his adventure at Modena, where the

  • chambermaid burst in upon him in his bath, exclaiming cheerfully, "Fa niente, sono

  • vecchia."

  • He contented himself with saying: "I quite agree with you, Miss Alan.

  • The Italians are a most unpleasant people.

  • They pry everywhere, they see everything, and they know what we want before we know

  • it ourselves. We are at their mercy.

  • They read our thoughts, they foretell our desires.

  • From the cab-driver down to--to Giotto, they turn us inside out, and I resent it.

  • Yet in their heart of hearts they are--how superficial!

  • They have no conception of the intellectual life.

  • How right is Signora Bertolini, who exclaimed to me the other day: 'Ho, Mr.

  • Beebe, if you knew what I suffer over the children's edjucaishion.

  • HI won't 'ave my little Victorier taught by a hignorant Italian what can't explain

  • nothink!'" Miss Alan did not follow, but gathered that

  • she was being mocked in an agreeable way.

  • Her sister was a little disappointed in Mr. Beebe, having expected better things from a

  • clergyman whose head was bald and who wore a pair of russet whiskers.

  • Indeed, who would have supposed that tolerance, sympathy, and a sense of humour

  • would inhabit that militant form?

  • In the midst of her satisfaction she continued to sidle, and at last the cause

  • was disclosed.

  • From the chair beneath her she extracted a gun-metal cigarette-case, on which were

  • powdered in turquoise the initials "E. L." "That belongs to Lavish." said the

  • clergyman.

  • "A good fellow, Lavish, but I wish she'd start a pipe."

  • "Oh, Mr. Beebe," said Miss Alan, divided between awe and mirth.

  • "Indeed, though it is dreadful for her to smoke, it is not quite as dreadful as you

  • suppose.

  • She took to it, practically in despair, after her life's work was carried away in a

  • landslip. Surely that makes it more excusable."

  • "What was that?" asked Lucy.

  • Mr. Beebe sat back complacently, and Miss Alan began as follows: "It was a novel--and

  • I am afraid, from what I can gather, not a very nice novel.

  • It is so sad when people who have abilities misuse them, and I must say they nearly

  • always do.

  • Anyhow, she left it almost finished in the Grotto of the Calvary at the Capuccini

  • Hotel at Amalfi while she went for a little ink.

  • She said: 'Can I have a little ink, please?'

  • But you know what Italians are, and meanwhile the Grotto fell roaring on to the

  • beach, and the saddest thing of all is that she cannot remember what she has written.

  • The poor thing was very ill after it, and so got tempted into cigarettes.

  • It is a great secret, but I am glad to say that she is writing another novel.

  • She told Teresa and Miss Pole the other day that she had got up all the local colour--

  • this novel is to be about modern Italy; the other was historical--but that she could

  • not start till she had an idea.

  • First she tried Perugia for an inspiration, then she came here--this must on no account

  • get round. And so cheerful through it all!

  • I cannot help thinking that there is something to admire in every one, even if

  • you do not approve of them." Miss Alan was always thus being charitable

  • against her better judgment.

  • A delicate pathos perfumed her disconnected remarks, giving them unexpected beauty,

  • just as in the decaying autumn woods there sometimes rise odours reminiscent of

  • spring.

  • She felt she had made almost too many allowances, and apologized hurriedly for

  • her toleration.

  • "All the same, she is a little too--I hardly like to say unwomanly, but she

  • behaved most strangely when the Emersons arrived."

  • Mr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an anecdote which he knew she would be

  • unable to finish in the presence of a gentleman.

  • "I don't know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss Pole, the lady who

  • has so much yellow hair, takes lemonade. That old Mr. Emerson, who puts things very

  • strangely--"

  • Her jaw dropped. She was silent.

  • Mr. Beebe, whose social resources were endless, went out to order some tea, and

  • she continued to Lucy in a hasty whisper:

  • "Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity,

  • he called it--and he may have meant to be kind.

  • I must say I forgot myself and laughed; it was so sudden.

  • As Teresa truly said, it was no laughing matter.

  • But the point is that Miss Lavish was positively ATTRACTED by his mentioning S.,

  • and said she liked plain speaking, and meeting different grades of thought.

  • She thought they were commercial travellers--'drummers' was the word she

  • used--and all through dinner she tried to prove that England, our great and beloved

  • country, rests on nothing but commerce.

  • Teresa was very much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese, saying as she did

  • so: 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute you better than I,' and pointed to

  • that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson.

  • Then Miss Lavish said: 'Tut! The early Victorians.'

  • Just imagine! 'Tut! The early Victorians.'

  • My sister had gone, and I felt bound to speak.

  • I said: 'Miss Lavish, I am an early Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will

  • hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.'

  • It was horrible speaking.

  • I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go, and I

  • must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply.

  • But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep voice: 'Quite

  • so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.'

  • The woman!

  • I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on

  • account of S. having been mentioned in the first place.

  • But that was not all.

  • After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said: 'Miss Alan, I am going into the

  • smoking-room to talk to those two nice men. Come, too.'

  • Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation, and she had the

  • impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas, and said that she had

  • four brothers, all University men, except

  • one who was in the army, who always made a point of talking to commercial travellers."

  • "Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned.

  • "Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, every one, and finally said: 'I shall go alone.'

  • She went.

  • At the end of five minutes she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and

  • began playing patience." "Whatever happened?" cried Lucy.

  • "No one knows.

  • No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and

  • Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling."

  • "Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice?

  • I do so want to know." Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she

  • should settle the question for herself.

  • "No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not

  • mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think?

  • Is he nice?"

  • The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly.

  • Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:

  • "I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of

  • the violets." "Violets?

  • Oh, dear!

  • Who told you about the violets? How do things get round?

  • A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr.

  • Eager's lecture at Santa Croce.

  • Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad.

  • No, I have quite changed. I do NOT like the Emersons.

  • They are not nice."

  • Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce

  • the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed.

  • He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them.

  • Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans,

  • who stood for good breeding, were following her.

  • Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation, would scarcely be civil.

  • The case of Lucy was different.

  • She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered

  • that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex her, to

  • show her the world from their own strange

  • standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys.

  • This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl: he

  • would rather it should fail.

  • After all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy

  • things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner.

  • Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the Emersons

  • were nice; not that she saw anything of them now.

  • Even their seats at dinner had been moved.

  • "But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady

  • inquisitively. "Only once.

  • Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite politely, of course."

  • "Most right of her. They don't understand our ways.

  • They must find their level."

  • Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under.

  • They had given up their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father

  • was almost as silent as the son.

  • He wondered whether he would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they

  • left--some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them.

  • It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories.

  • Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the colours on the

  • trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its muddy solidity and began to

  • twinkle.

  • There were a few streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery

  • light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in

  • the declining sun.

  • "Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief.

  • "All the galleries are shut." "I think I shall go out," said Lucy.

  • "I want to go round the town in the circular tram--on the platform by the

  • driver." Her two companions looked grave.

  • Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to

  • say: "I wish we could.

  • Unluckily I have letters.

  • If you do want to go out alone, won't you be better on your feet?"

  • "Italians, dear, you know," said Miss Alan. "Perhaps I shall meet some one who reads me

  • through and through!"

  • But they still looked disapproval, and she so far conceded to Mr. Beebe as to say that

  • she would only go for a little walk, and keep to the street frequented by tourists.

  • "She oughtn't really to go at all," said Mr. Beebe, as they watched her from the

  • window, "and she knows it. I put it down to too much Beethoven."

  • >

  • CHAPTER IV: Fourth Chapter

  • Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as

  • after music.

  • She had not really appreciated the clergyman's wit, nor the suggestive

  • twitterings of Miss Alan.

  • Conversation was tedious; she wanted something big, and she believed that it

  • would have come to her on the wind-swept platform of an electric tram.

  • This she might not attempt.

  • It was unladylike. Why?

  • Why were most big things unladylike? Charlotte had once explained to her why.

  • It was not that ladies were inferior to men; it was that they were different.

  • Their mission was to inspire others to achievement rather than to achieve

  • themselves.

  • Indirectly, by means of tact and a spotless name, a lady could accomplish much.

  • But if she rushed into the fray herself she would be first censured, then despised, and

  • finally ignored.

  • Poems had been written to illustrate this point.

  • There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady.

  • The dragons have gone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our

  • midst.

  • She reigned in many an early Victorian castle, and was Queen of much early

  • Victorian song.

  • It is sweet to protect her in the intervals of business, sweet to pay her honour when

  • she has cooked our dinner well. But alas! the creature grows degenerate.

  • In her heart also there are springing up strange desires.

  • She too is enamoured of heavy winds, and vast panoramas, and green expanses of the

  • sea.

  • She has marked the kingdom of this world, how full it is of wealth, and beauty, and

  • war--a radiant crust, built around the central fires, spinning towards the

  • receding heavens.

  • Men, declaring that she inspires them to it, move joyfully over the surface, having

  • the most delightful meetings with other men, happy, not because they are masculine,

  • but because they are alive.

  • Before the show breaks up she would like to drop the august title of the Eternal Woman,

  • and go there as her transitory self.

  • Lucy does not stand for the medieval lady, who was rather an ideal to which she was

  • bidden to lift her eyes when feeling serious.

  • Nor has she any system of revolt.

  • Here and there a restriction annoyed her particularly, and she would transgress it,

  • and perhaps be sorry that she had done so. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive.

  • She would really like to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved.

  • As she might not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop.

  • There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus."

  • Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss Bartlett

  • had persuaded her to do without it.

  • (A pity in art of course signified the nude.)

  • Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the

  • Apoxyomenos, were added to it.

  • She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's

  • "Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas.

  • For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every well-

  • known name. But though she spent nearly seven lire, the

  • gates of liberty seemed still unopened.

  • She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her to be conscious of it.

  • "The world," she thought, "is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could

  • come across them."

  • It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it

  • always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy.

  • "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza

  • Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to her.

  • The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to strike it.

  • Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his

  • fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled together on its marge.

  • The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but

  • immortal, looking forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind.

  • It was the hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real.

  • An older person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient was

  • happening to him, and rest content.

  • Lucy desired more. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower

  • of the palace, which rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold.

  • It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable

  • treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky.

  • Its brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she bent them

  • to the ground and started towards home. Then something did happen.

  • Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt.

  • "Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!"

  • They sparred at each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest.

  • He frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important

  • message for her.

  • He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between them and

  • trickled down his unshaven chin. That was all.

  • A crowd rose out of the dusk.

  • It hid this extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain.

  • Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot

  • where the man had been.

  • How very odd! Across something.

  • Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed

  • above her, fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.

  • She thought: "Oh, what have I done?"

  • "Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes.

  • George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything.

  • She had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held her in

  • his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the

  • Uffizi Arcade.

  • He must have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust

  • his knees. She repeated:

  • "Oh, what have I done?"

  • "You fainted." "I--I am very sorry."

  • "How are you now?" "Perfectly well--absolutely well."

  • And she began to nod and smile.

  • "Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping."

  • He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it.

  • The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily.

  • The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning.

  • "How very kind you have been!

  • I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well.

  • I can go alone, thank you." His hand was still extended.

  • "Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly.

  • "What photographs?" "I bought some photographs at Alinari's.

  • I must have dropped them out there in the square."

  • She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add to your kindness by fetching

  • them?"

  • He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy

  • arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.

  • "Miss Honeychurch!"

  • She stopped with her hand on her heart. "You sit still; you aren't fit to go home

  • alone." "Yes, I am, thank you so very much."

  • "No, you aren't.

  • You'd go openly if you were." "But I had rather--"

  • "Then I don't fetch your photographs." "I had rather be alone."

  • He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead; sit down till you are

  • rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him.

  • "And don't move till I come back."

  • In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams.

  • The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to

  • earth.

  • How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square?

  • Again the thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?"--the thought that she,

  • as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary.

  • He returned, and she talked of the murder.

  • Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she

  • became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes

  • before.

  • Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood.

  • She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she

  • walked firmly enough towards the Arno.

  • There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.

  • "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italians are!--and gave

  • himself up to the police!

  • Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather

  • childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti

  • yesterday--What was that?"

  • He had thrown something into the stream. "What did you throw in?"

  • "Things I didn't want," he said crossly. "Mr. Emerson!"

  • "Well?"

  • "Where are the photographs?" He was silent.

  • "I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."

  • "I didn't know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious

  • boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first

  • time.

  • "They were covered with blood. There!

  • I'm glad I've told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering

  • what to do with them."

  • He pointed down-stream. "They've gone."

  • The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it

  • seemed better that they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that

  • they frightened me."

  • Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has happened; I

  • must face it without getting muddled. It isn't exactly that a man has died."

  • Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.

  • "It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it is."

  • "Mr. Emerson--"

  • He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.

  • "I want to ask you something before we go in."

  • They were close to their pension.

  • She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment.

  • He did likewise.

  • There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have

  • suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:

  • "I have behaved ridiculously."

  • He was following his own thoughts. "I was never so much ashamed of myself in

  • my life; I cannot think what came over me." "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she

  • felt that her attitude repelled him.

  • "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, all right."

  • "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are gossiping--ladies

  • especially, I am afraid--you understand what I mean?"

  • "I'm afraid I don't."

  • "I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?"

  • "Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."

  • "Thank you so much.

  • And would you--" She could not carry her request any

  • further. The river was rushing below them, almost

  • black in the advancing night.

  • He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason.

  • It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man.

  • He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even

  • kind; he might even have a high opinion of her.

  • But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by

  • awe.

  • It was useless to say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the

  • sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that

  • beautiful picture.

  • She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the

  • photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop.

  • It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they

  • had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the

  • branching paths of Youth.

  • "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents do happen, and

  • then one returns to the old life!" "I don't."

  • Anxiety moved her to question him.

  • His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live."

  • "But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"

  • "I shall want to live, I say."

  • Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was

  • suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.

  • >

  • CHAPTER V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing

  • It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn."

  • She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged

  • account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr.

  • George Emerson.

  • She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also.

  • They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who

  • seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions.

  • It might have been most unpleasant.

  • Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one.

  • For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone.

  • None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment.

  • Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to

  • himself the remark of "Too much Beethoven."

  • But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered

  • it.

  • This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed

  • by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she

  • was thinking right or wrong.

  • At breakfast next morning she took decisive action.

  • There were two plans between which she had to choose.

  • Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American

  • ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch

  • join the party?

  • Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous

  • afternoon.

  • But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money,

  • fetching letters, and other irksome duties- -all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish

  • this morning and could easily accomplish alone.

  • "No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth.

  • "It's very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you.

  • I had much rather."

  • "Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth

  • a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy.

  • How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always!

  • But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to

  • her.

  • She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along the Lung' Arno.

  • The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour.

  • Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it.

  • She then made her usual remark, which was "How I do wish Freddy and your mother could

  • see this, too!"

  • Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.

  • "Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del

  • Gallo party.

  • I feared you would repent you of your choice."

  • Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent.

  • Yesterday had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down

  • easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable

  • to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo.

  • Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it.

  • She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations.

  • But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained.

  • Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza

  • Signoria.

  • She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would

  • have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of

  • ghosts.

  • The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had

  • the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly.

  • The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought

  • would work up into a book. "Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss

  • Bartlett.

  • "After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"

  • "Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck.

  • Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the

  • beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.

  • "But perhaps you would rather not?"

  • "I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not."

  • The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl

  • should feel deeply.

  • "It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish "literary hacks are shameless creatures.

  • I believe there's no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn't pry."

  • She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in

  • realism.

  • Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o'clock collecting

  • material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of

  • course one always had to adapt.

  • The two men had quarrelled over a five- franc note.

  • For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise

  • the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.

  • "What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett.

  • "Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.

  • "I do hope she's nice."

  • That desideratum would not be omitted. "And what is the plot?"

  • Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot.

  • But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.

  • "I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish concluded.

  • "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people.

  • Of course, this is the barest outline.

  • There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the

  • neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters.

  • And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British

  • tourist." "Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss

  • Bartlett.

  • "I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons."

  • Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile. "I confess that in Italy my sympathies are

  • not with my own countrymen.

  • It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so

  • far as I can.

  • For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy

  • such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life."

  • There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded.

  • Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the

  • square.

  • "She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett.

  • "That last remark struck me as so particularly true.

  • It should be a most pathetic novel."

  • Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put

  • into it.

  • Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had

  • her on trial for an ingenue.

  • "She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word," continued Miss

  • Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial would be shocked

  • at her.

  • We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human

  • interest. She told me also that she has a high

  • opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager!

  • Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!"

  • "Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watching you and

  • Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time."

  • "We were chatting to Miss Lavish." His brow contracted.

  • "So I saw. Were you indeed?

  • Andate via! sono occupato!"

  • The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching

  • with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion.

  • Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--a

  • drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by

  • Settignano.

  • There is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on

  • the hillside.

  • The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far better than the hackneyed

  • view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is

  • fond of introducing into his pictures.

  • That man had a decided feeling for landscape.

  • Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day?

  • Ah, the world is too much for us."

  • Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager

  • was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony

  • who had made Florence their home.

  • He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a

  • siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and

  • saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them.

  • Living in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance

  • villas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus

  • attaining to that intimate knowledge, or

  • rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets

  • the coupons of Cook. Therefore an invitation from the chaplain

  • was something to be proud of.

  • Between the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his

  • avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give

  • them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent.

  • Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet.

  • But if it did come to that--how Lucy would enjoy it!

  • A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same.

  • But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew.

  • A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett--even if culminating in a

  • residential tea-party--was no longer the greatest of them.

  • She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly.

  • Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere.

  • "So we shall be a partie carree," said the chaplain.

  • "In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message

  • of purity.

  • Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town!

  • Beautiful as it is, it is the town." They assented.

  • "This very square--so I am told--witnessed yesterday the most sordid of tragedies.

  • To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola there is something portentous in

  • such desecration--portentous and humiliating."

  • "Humiliating indeed," said Miss Bartlett.

  • "Miss Honeychurch happened to be passing through as it happened.

  • She can hardly bear to speak of it." She glanced at Lucy proudly.

  • "And how came we to have you here?" asked the chaplain paternally.

  • Miss Bartlett's recent liberalism oozed away at the question.

  • "Do not blame her, please, Mr. Eager.

  • The fault is mine: I left her unchaperoned."

  • "So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?"

  • His voice suggested sympathetic reproof but at the same time indicated that a few

  • harrowing details would not be unacceptable.

  • His dark, handsome face drooped mournfully towards her to catch her reply.

  • "Practically."

  • "One of our pension acquaintances kindly brought her home," said Miss Bartlett,

  • adroitly concealing the sex of the preserver.

  • "For her also it must have been a terrible experience.

  • I trust that neither of you was at all-- that it was not in your immediate

  • proximity?"

  • Of the many things Lucy was noticing to- day, not the least remarkable was this: the

  • ghoulish fashion in which respectable people will nibble after blood.

  • George Emerson had kept the subject strangely pure.

  • "He died by the fountain, I believe," was her reply.

  • "And you and your friend--"

  • "Were over at the Loggia." "That must have saved you much.

  • You have not, of course, seen the disgraceful illustrations which the gutter

  • Press--This man is a public nuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly well,

  • and yet he goes on worrying me to buy his vulgar views."

  • Surely the vendor of photographs was in league with Lucy--in the eternal league of

  • Italy with youth.

  • He had suddenly extended his book before Miss Bartlett and Mr. Eager, binding their

  • hands together by a long glossy ribbon of churches, pictures, and views.

  • "This is too much!" cried the chaplain, striking petulantly at one of Fra

  • Angelico's angels. She tore.

  • A shrill cry rose from the vendor.

  • The book it seemed, was more valuable than one would have supposed.

  • "Willingly would I purchase--" began Miss Bartlett.

  • "Ignore him," said Mr. Eager sharply, and they all walked rapidly away from the

  • square. But an Italian can never be ignored, least

  • of all when he has a grievance.

  • His mysterious persecution of Mr. Eager became relentless; the air rang with his

  • threats and lamentations. He appealed to Lucy; would not she

  • intercede?

  • He was poor--he sheltered a family--the tax on bread.

  • He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed, he was dissatisfied, he did not leave them

  • until he had swept their minds clean of all thoughts whether pleasant or unpleasant.

  • Shopping was the topic that now ensued.

  • Under the chaplain's guidance they selected many hideous presents and mementoes--florid

  • little picture-frames that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other little frames, more

  • severe, that stood on little easels, and

  • were carven out of oak; a blotting book of vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheap

  • mosaic brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, would never tell from real;

  • pins, pots, heraldic saucers, brown art-

  • photographs; Eros and Psyche in alabaster; St. Peter to match--all of which would have

  • cost less in London. This successful morning left no pleasant

  • impressions on Lucy.

  • She had been a little frightened, both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she knew not

  • why. And as they frightened her, she had,

  • strangely enough, ceased to respect them.

  • She doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist.

  • She doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality and culture as she had been

  • led to suppose.

  • They were tried by some new test, and they were found wanting.

  • As for Charlotte--as for Charlotte she was exactly the same.

  • It might be possible to be nice to her; it was impossible to love her.

  • "The son of a labourer; I happen to know it for a fact.

  • A mechanic of some sort himself when he was young; then he took to writing for the

  • Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton."

  • They were talking about the Emersons.

  • "How wonderfully people rise in these days!" sighed Miss Bartlett, fingering a

  • model of the leaning Tower of Pisa. "Generally," replied Mr. Eager, "one has

  • only sympathy for their success.

  • The desire for education and for social advance--in these things there is something

  • not wholly vile.

  • There are some working men whom one would be very willing to see out here in

  • Florence--little as they would make of it." "Is he a journalist now?"

  • Miss Bartlett asked, "He is not; he made an advantageous marriage."

  • He uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning, and ended with a sigh.

  • "Oh, so he has a wife."

  • "Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder--yes I wonder how he has the

  • effrontery to look me in the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with me.

  • He was in my London parish long ago.

  • The other day in Santa Croce, when he was with Miss Honeychurch, I snubbed him.

  • Let him beware that he does not get more than a snub."

  • "What?" cried Lucy, flushing.

  • "Exposure!" hissed Mr. Eager. He tried to change the subject; but in

  • scoring a dramatic point he had interested his audience more than he had intended.

  • Miss Bartlett was full of very natural curiosity.

  • Lucy, though she wished never to see the Emersons again, was not disposed to condemn

  • them on a single word.

  • "Do you mean," she asked, "that he is an irreligious man?

  • We know that already." "Lucy, dear--" said Miss Bartlett, gently

  • reproving her cousin's penetration.

  • "I should be astonished if you knew all. The boy--an innocent child at the time--I

  • will exclude. God knows what his education and his

  • inherited qualities may have made him."

  • "Perhaps," said Miss Bartlett, "it is something that we had better not hear."

  • "To speak plainly," said Mr. Eager, "it is. I will say no more."

  • For the first time Lucy's rebellious thoughts swept out in words--for the first

  • time in her life. "You have said very little."

  • "It was my intention to say very little," was his frigid reply.

  • He gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal indignation.

  • She turned towards him from the shop counter; her breast heaved quickly.

  • He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of her lips.

  • It was intolerable that she should disbelieve him.

  • "Murder, if you want to know," he cried angrily.

  • "That man murdered his wife!"

  • "How?" she retorted. "To all intents and purposes he murdered

  • her. That day in Santa Croce--did they say

  • anything against me?"

  • "Not a word, Mr. Eager--not a single word." "Oh, I thought they had been libelling me

  • to you. But I suppose it is only their personal

  • charms that makes you defend them."

  • "I'm not defending them," said Lucy, losing her courage, and relapsing into the old

  • chaotic methods. "They're nothing to me."

  • "How could you think she was defending them?" said Miss Bartlett, much discomfited

  • by the unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly listening.

  • "She will find it difficult.

  • For that man has murdered his wife in the sight of God."

  • The addition of God was striking. But the chaplain was really trying to

  • qualify a rash remark.

  • A silence followed which might have been impressive, but was merely awkward.

  • Then Miss Bartlett hastily purchased the Leaning Tower, and led the way into the

  • street.

  • "I must be going," said he, shutting his eyes and taking out his watch.

  • Miss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, and spoke with enthusiasm of the

  • approaching drive.

  • "Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off?"

  • Lucy was recalled to her manners, and after a little exertion the complacency of Mr.

  • Eager was restored.

  • "Bother the drive!" exclaimed the girl, as soon as he had departed.

  • "It is just the drive we had arranged with Mr. Beebe without any fuss at all.

  • Why should he invite us in that absurd manner?

  • We might as well invite him. We are each paying for ourselves."

  • Miss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, was launched by this

  • remark into unexpected thoughts.

  • "If that is so, dear--if the drive we and Mr. Beebe are going with Mr. Eager is

  • really the same as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then I foresee a sad kettle

  • of fish."

  • "How?" "Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish

  • to come, too." "That will mean another carriage."

  • "Far worse.

  • Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it herself.

  • The truth must be told; she is too unconventional for him."

  • They were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank.

  • Lucy stood by the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to answer,

  • or at all events to formulate the questions rioting in her brain.

  • The well-known world had broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic city where

  • people thought and did the most extraordinary things.

  • Murder, accusations of murder, A lady clinging to one man and being rude to

  • another--were these the daily incidents of her streets?

  • Was there more in her frank beauty than met the eye--the power, perhaps, to evoke

  • passions, good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment?

  • Happy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did not matter,

  • seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture with admirable delicacy

  • "where things might lead to," but

  • apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it.

  • Now she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of

  • linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment round her neck.

  • She had been told that this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must

  • only be broached within the walls of the English bank.

  • As she groped she murmured: "Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or

  • Mr. Eager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor

  • out altogether--which they could scarcely do--but in any case we must be prepared.

  • It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances.

  • You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind.

  • A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!"

  • "It is indeed," replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic.

  • "What do you think about it?" asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and

  • buttoning up her dress.

  • "I don't know what I think, nor what I want."

  • "Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn't boring you.

  • Speak the word, and, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-

  • morrow." "Thank you, Charlotte," said Lucy, and

  • pondered over the offer.

  • There were letters for her at the bureau-- one from her brother, full of athletics and

  • biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother's letters could be.

  • She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming

  • up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade,

  • of the semi-detached cottages which were

  • ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway.

  • She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do

  • everything, and where nothing ever happened to her.

  • The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the

  • Sussex Weald--all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures

  • in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveller returns.

  • "And the news?" asked Miss Bartlett.

  • "Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome," said Lucy, giving the news that interested

  • her least. "Do you know the Vyses?"

  • "Oh, not that way back.

  • We can never have too much of the dear Piazza Signoria."

  • "They're nice people, the Vyses. So clever--my idea of what's really clever.

  • Don't you long to be in Rome?"

  • "I die for it!" The Piazza Signoria is too stony to be

  • brilliant.

  • It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting

  • patches of ruddy brick.

  • By an odd chance--unless we believe in a presiding genius of places--the statues

  • that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious

  • bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity.

  • Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something, and

  • though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before.

  • Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a

  • god. "Charlotte!" cried the girl suddenly.

  • "Here's an idea.

  • What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow-- straight to the Vyses' hotel?

  • For I do know what I want. I'm sick of Florence.

  • No, you said you'd go to the ends of the earth!

  • Do! Do!" Miss Bartlett, with equal vivacity,

  • replied:

  • "Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in

  • the hills?"

  • They passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the

  • unpractical suggestion.

  • >

  • CHAPTER VI: The Rev. Arthur Beebe, the Rev. Cuthbert Eager,Mr.Emerson,Mr.George

  • Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish,Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive

  • Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them.

  • It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth all

  • irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master's horses up the stony

  • hill.

  • Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of

  • Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab.

  • And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was

  • his sister--Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the Spring to her

  • mother's cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light.

  • To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one

  • must guard against imposition.

  • But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great

  • favour, the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god.

  • Phaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus enabling himself to drive

  • with his arm round her waist. She did not mind.

  • Mr. Eager, who sat with his back to the horses, saw nothing of the indecorous

  • proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy.

  • The other two occupants of the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and Miss Lavish.

  • For a dreadful thing had happened: Mr. Beebe, without consulting Mr. Eager, had

  • doubled the size of the party.

  • And though Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how the people

  • were to sit, at the critical moment when the carriages came round they lost their

  • heads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy,

  • while Miss Bartlett, with George Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind.

  • It was hard on the poor chaplain to have his partie carree thus transformed.

  • Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated it, was now impossible.

  • Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain style about them, and Mr. Beebe, though

  • unreliable, was a man of parts.

  • But a shoddy lady writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife in the sight of

  • God--they should enter no villa at his introduction.

  • Lucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and nervous amid these explosive

  • ingredients, attentive to Mr. Eager, repressive towards Miss Lavish, watchful of

  • old Mr. Emerson, hitherto fortunately

  • asleep, thanks to a heavy lunch and the drowsy atmosphere of Spring.

  • She looked on the expedition as the work of Fate.

  • But for it she would have avoided George Emerson successfully.

  • In an open manner he had shown that he wished to continue their intimacy.

  • She had refused, not because she disliked him, but because she did not know what had

  • happened, and suspected that he did know. And this frightened her.

  • For the real event--whatever it was--had taken place, not in the Loggia, but by the

  • river. To behave wildly at the sight of death is

  • pardonable.

  • But to discuss it afterwards, to pass from discussion into silence, and through

  • silence into sympathy, that is an error, not of a startled emotion, but of the whole

  • fabric.

  • There was really something blameworthy (she thought) in their joint contemplation of

  • the shadowy stream, in the common impulse which had turned them to the house without

  • the passing of a look or word.

  • This sense of wickedness had been slight at first.

  • She had nearly joined the party to the Torre del Gallo.

  • But each time that she avoided George it became more imperative that she should

  • avoid him again.

  • And now celestial irony, working through her cousin and two clergymen, did not

  • suffer her to leave Florence till she had made this expedition with him through the

  • hills.

  • Meanwhile Mr. Eager held her in civil converse; their little tiff was over.

  • "So, Miss Honeychurch, you are travelling? As a student of art?"

  • "Oh, dear me, no--oh, no!"

  • "Perhaps as a student of human nature," interposed Miss Lavish, "like myself?"

  • "Oh, no. I am here as a tourist."

  • "Oh, indeed," said Mr. Eager.

  • "Are you indeed?

  • If you will not think me rude, we residents sometimes pity you poor tourists not a

  • little--handed about like a parcel of goods from Venice to Florence, from Florence to

  • Rome, living herded together in pensions or

  • hotels, quite unconscious of anything that is outside Baedeker, their one anxiety to

  • get 'done' or 'through' and go on somewhere else.

  • The result is, they mix up towns, rivers, palaces in one inextricable whirl.

  • You know the American girl in Punch who says: 'Say, poppa, what did we see at

  • Rome?'

  • And the father replies: 'Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the yaller dog.'

  • There's travelling for you. Ha! ha! ha!"

  • "I quite agree," said Miss Lavish, who had several times tried to interrupt his

  • mordant wit.

  • "The narrowness and superficiality of the Anglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a

  • menace." "Quite so.

  • Now, the English colony at Florence, Miss Honeychurch--and it is of considerable

  • size, though, of course, not all equally--a few are here for trade, for example.

  • But the greater part are students.

  • Lady Helen Laverstock is at present busy over Fra Angelico.

  • I mention her name because we are passing her villa on the left.

  • No, you can only see it if you stand--no, do not stand; you will fall.

  • She is very proud of that thick hedge. Inside, perfect seclusion.

  • One might have gone back six hundred years.

  • Some critics believe that her garden was the scene of The Decameron, which lends it

  • an additional interest, does it not?" "It does indeed!" cried Miss Lavish.

  • "Tell me, where do they place the scene of that wonderful seventh day?"

  • But Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honeychurch that on the right lived Mr.

  • Someone Something, an American of the best type--so rare!--and that the Somebody Elses

  • were farther down the hill.

  • "Doubtless you know her monographs in the series of 'Mediaeval Byways'?

  • He is working at Gemistus Pletho.

  • Sometimes as I take tea in their beautiful grounds I hear, over the wall, the electric

  • tram squealing up the new road with its loads of hot, dusty, unintelligent tourists

  • who are going to 'do' Fiesole in an hour in

  • order that they may say they have been there, and I think--think--I think how

  • little they think what lies so near them."

  • During this speech the two figures on the box were sporting with each other

  • disgracefully. Lucy had a spasm of envy.

  • Granted that they wished to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to do so.

  • They were probably the only people enjoying the expedition.

  • The carriage swept with agonizing jolts up through the Piazza of Fiesole and into the

  • Settignano road. "Piano! piano!" said Mr. Eager, elegantly

  • waving his hand over his head.

  • "Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene," crooned the driver, and whipped his horses

  • up again.

  • Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on the subject of

  • Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or was

  • he one of its manifestations?

  • The other carriage was left behind. As the pace increased to a gallop the

  • large, slumbering form of Mr. Emerson was thrown against the chaplain with the

  • regularity of a machine.

  • "Piano! piano!" said he, with a martyred look at Lucy.

  • An extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat.

  • Phaethon, who for some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just

  • succeeded.

  • A little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was most

  • unpleasant.

  • The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered to disentangle themselves, the boy

  • was to lose his pourboire, the girl was immediately to get down.

  • "She is my sister," said he, turning round on them with piteous eyes.

  • Mr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar.

  • Phaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation, but at its

  • manner.

  • At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping had awoke, declared that the

  • lovers must on no account be separated, and patted them on the back to signify his

  • approval.

  • And Miss Lavish, though unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of

  • Bohemianism. "Most certainly I would let them be," she

  • cried.

  • "But I dare say I shall receive scant support.

  • I have always flown in the face of the conventions all my life.

  • This is what I call an adventure."

  • "We must not submit," said Mr. Eager. "I knew he was trying it on.

  • He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook's tourists."

  • "Surely no!" said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing.

  • The other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after

  • this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly.

  • "Leave them alone," Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe.

  • "Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens

  • to sit there?

  • To be driven by lovers--A king might envy us, and if we part them it's more like

  • sacrilege than anything I know." Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard

  • saying that a crowd had begun to collect.

  • Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was

  • determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again.

  • Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep- voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts

  • and boulders to preserve it from monotony.

  • In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which

  • played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more shrilly,

  • till abruptly it was turned off with a click.

  • "Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased.

  • Why should he appeal to Lucy?

  • "Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto.

  • She pointed at the other carriage. Why?

  • For a moment the two girls looked at each other.

  • Then Persephone got down from the box.

  • "Victory at last!" said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started

  • again. "It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson.

  • "It is defeat.

  • You have parted two people who were happy." Mr. Eager shut his eyes.

  • He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him.

  • The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly.

  • He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son.

  • "We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money.

  • He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it.

  • We have no rights over his soul."

  • Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed

  • as typically British speaks out of his character.

  • "He was not driving us well," she said.

  • "He jolted us." "That I deny.

  • It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now.

  • Can you wonder?

  • He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified.

  • And if I were superstitious I'd be frightened of the girl, too.

  • It doesn't do to injure young people.

  • Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?" Miss Lavish bristled.

  • "Most certainly I have.

  • Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo

  • surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?"

  • "The Lord knows.

  • Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet.

  • He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday-- which runs like this: 'Don't go fighting

  • against the Spring.'"

  • Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition.

  • "Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' would render a

  • correct meaning."

  • "The point is, we have warred with it. Look."

  • He pointed to the Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding

  • trees.

  • "Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to admire them.

  • Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man?

  • But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed

  • that the same work eternally through both." No one encouraged him to talk.

  • Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party

  • for their ramble on the hill.

  • A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay

  • between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve,

  • was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain.

  • It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees,

  • which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years

  • before.

  • He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye

  • to business, possibly for the joy of ascending.

  • Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d'Arno and distant Florence, which

  • he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work.

  • But where exactly had he stood?

  • That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now.

  • And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become

  • equally enthusiastic.

  • But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your head, even if

  • you have remembered to look at them before starting.

  • And the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest.

  • The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being

  • only equalled by their desire to go different directions.

  • Finally they split into groups.

  • Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold

  • laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to

  • have topics in common, were left to each other.

  • The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask.

  • In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not

  • Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive.

  • Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had

  • answered "the railway." She was very sorry that she had asked him.

  • She had no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not have

  • asked him.

  • Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man

  • was not very much hurt at her asking him. "The railway!" gasped Miss Lavish.

  • "Oh, but I shall die!

  • Of course it was the railway!" She could not control her mirth.

  • "He is the image of a porter--on, on the South-Eastern."

  • "Eleanor, be quiet," plucking at her vivacious companion.

  • "Hush! They'll hear--the Emersons--"

  • "I can't stop.

  • Let me go my wicked way. A porter--"

  • "Eleanor!" "I'm sure it's all right," put in Lucy.

  • "The Emersons won't hear, and they wouldn't mind if they did."

  • Miss Lavish did not seem pleased at this. "Miss Honeychurch listening!" she said

  • rather crossly.

  • "Pouf! Wouf!

  • You naughty girl! Go away!"

  • "Oh, Lucy, you ought to be with Mr. Eager, I'm sure."

  • "I can't find them now, and I don't want to either."

  • "Mr. Eager will be offended.

  • It is your party." "Please, I'd rather stop here with you."

  • "No, I agree," said Miss Lavish. "It's like a school feast; the boys have

  • got separated from the girls.

  • Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish to converse on high topics unsuited

  • for your ear." The girl was stubborn.

  • As her time at Florence drew to its close she was only at ease amongst those to whom

  • she felt indifferent. Such a one was Miss Lavish, and such for

  • the moment was Charlotte.

  • She wished she had not called attention to herself; they were both annoyed at her

  • remark and seemed determined to get rid of her.

  • "How tired one gets," said Miss Bartlett.

  • "Oh, I do wish Freddy and your mother could be here."

  • Unselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely usurped the functions of

  • enthusiasm.

  • Lucy did not look at the view either. She would not enjoy anything till she was

  • safe at Rome. "Then sit you down," said Miss Lavish.

  • "Observe my foresight."

  • With many a smile she produced two of those mackintosh squares that protect the frame

  • of the tourist from damp grass or cold marble steps.

  • She sat on one; who was to sit on the other?

  • "Lucy; without a moment's doubt, Lucy. The ground will do for me.

  • Really I have not had rheumatism for years.

  • If I do feel it coming on I shall stand. Imagine your mother's feelings if I let you

  • sit in the wet in your white linen." She sat down heavily where the ground

  • looked particularly moist.

  • "Here we are, all settled delightfully. Even if my dress is thinner it will not

  • show so much, being brown. Sit down, dear; you are too unselfish; you

  • don't assert yourself enough."

  • She cleared her throat. "Now don't be alarmed; this isn't a cold.

  • It's the tiniest cough, and I have had it three days.

  • It's nothing to do with sitting here at all."

  • There was only one way of treating the situation.

  • At the end of five minutes Lucy departed in search of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager,

  • vanquished by the mackintosh square.

  • She addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in the carriages, perfuming

  • the cushions with cigars.

  • The miscreant, a bony young man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with

  • the courtesy of a host and the assurance of a relative.

  • "Dove?" said Lucy, after much anxious thought.

  • His face lit up. Of course he knew where, Not so far either.

  • His arm swept three-fourths of the horizon.

  • He should just think he did know where. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead

  • and then pushed them towards her, as if oozing with visible extract of knowledge.

  • More seemed necessary.

  • What was the Italian for "clergyman"? "Dove buoni uomini?" said she at last.

  • Good? Scarcely the adjective for those noble

  • beings!

  • He showed her his cigar. "Uno--piu--piccolo," was her next remark,

  • implying "Has the cigar been given to you by Mr. Beebe, the smaller of the two good

  • men?"

  • She was correct as usual.

  • He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it to make it stay quiet, dusted the carriage,

  • arranged his hair, remoulded his hat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather

  • less than a quarter of a minute was ready to conduct her.

  • Italians are born knowing the way.

  • It would seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but as a chess-

  • board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces as well as the squares.

  • Any one can find places, but the finding of people is a gift from God.

  • He only stopped once, to pick her some great blue violets.

  • She thanked him with real pleasure.

  • In the company of this common man the world was beautiful and direct.

  • For the first time she felt the influence of Spring.

  • His arm swept the horizon gracefully; violets, like other things, existed in

  • great profusion there; "would she like to see them?"

  • "Ma buoni uomini."

  • He bowed. Certainly.

  • Good men first, violets afterwards.

  • They proceeded briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and

  • thicker.

  • They were nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing round

  • them, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into countless pieces.

  • He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the pliant boughs.

  • She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness.

  • Not a step, not a twig, was unimportant to her.

  • "What is that?" There was a voice in the wood, in the

  • distance behind them.

  • The voice of Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders.

  • An Italian's ignorance is sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge.

  • She could not make him understand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen.

  • The view was forming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, other

  • hills.

  • "Eccolo!" he exclaimed. At the same moment the ground gave way, and

  • with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her.

  • She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to

  • end. "Courage!" cried her companion, now

  • standing some six feet above.

  • "Courage and love." She did not answer.

  • From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view, and violets ran down in rivulets

  • and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree

  • stems collecting into pools in the hollows,

  • covering the grass with spots of azure foam.

  • But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head,

  • the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth.

  • Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.

  • But he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.

  • George had turned at the sound of her arrival.

  • For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven.

  • He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue

  • waves. The bushes above them closed.

  • He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.

  • Before she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called, "Lucy!

  • Lucy! Lucy!"

  • The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.

  • >

  • CHAPTER VII: They Return

  • Some complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon.

  • What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover.

  • Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye.

  • Charlotte had repulsed him with much small talk.

  • Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him.

  • Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions

  • for the return home.

  • There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment.

  • Pan had been amongst them--not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two

  • thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and

  • unsuccessful picnics.

  • Mr. Beebe had lost every one, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which

  • he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett.

  • Lucy had lost Mr. Eager.

  • Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square.

  • Phaethon had lost the game. That last fact was undeniable.

  • He climbed on to the box shivering, with his collar up, prophesying the swift

  • approach of bad weather. "Let us go immediately," he told them.

  • "The signorino will walk."

  • "All the way? He will be hours," said Mr. Beebe.

  • "Apparently. I told him it was unwise."

  • He would look no one in the face; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him.

  • He alone had played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the others had

  • used scraps of their intelligence.

  • He alone had divined what things were, and what he wished them to be.

  • He alone had interpreted the message that Lucy had received five days before from the

  • lips of a dying man.

  • Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave--she could interpret it also.

  • Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly, and perhaps too

  • late.

  • The thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, seldom affect the lives of his employers.

  • He was the most competent of Miss Bartlett's opponents, but infinitely the

  • least dangerous.

  • Once back in the town, he and his insight and his knowledge would trouble English

  • ladies no more.

  • Of course, it was most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in the bushes; he might

  • make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what have we to do with

  • taverns?

  • Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was of drawing-room people that Miss

  • Bartlett thought as she journeyed downwards towards the fading sun.

  • Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was

  • vaguely suspicious. They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.

  • Rain and darkness came on together.

  • The two ladies huddled together under an inadequate parasol.

  • There was a lightning flash, and Miss Lavish who was nervous, screamed from the

  • carriage in front.

  • At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally:

  • "Courage, Miss Honeychurch, courage and faith.

  • If I might say so, there is something almost blasphemous in this horror of the

  • elements.

  • Are we seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all this immense electrical

  • display, is simply called into existence to extinguish you or me?"

  • "No--of course--"

  • "Even from the scientific standpoint the chances against our being struck are

  • enormous.

  • The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other

  • carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer

  • than if we were walking.

  • Courage--courage and faith." Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly

  • pressure of her cousin's hand.

  • At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly

  • it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards.

  • Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would

  • have got in hours of preaching or cross examination.

  • She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence.

  • "Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance.

  • Will you interpret for us?"

  • "George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George went.

  • The boy may lose his way. He may be killed."

  • "Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver is no help.

  • Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly demented."

  • "He may be killed!" cried the old man.

  • "He may be killed!" "Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as

  • he quitted the carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of

  • person invariably breaks down."

  • "What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone.

  • "Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?" "Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing.

  • But--" she pointed at the driver-"HE knows everything.

  • Dearest, had we better? Shall I?"

  • She took out her purse.

  • "It is dreadful to be entangled with low- class people.

  • He saw it all."

  • Tapping Phaethon's back with her guide- book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him

  • a franc. "Va bene," he replied, and accepted it.

  • As well this ending to his day as any.

  • But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him.

  • There was an explosion up the road.

  • The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports

  • had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might

  • have been hurt.

  • They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and

  • sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult.

  • They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other.

  • It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them.

  • For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good.

  • The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they

  • knew it to be unmanly or unladylike.

  • Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been

  • caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer.

  • But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the

  • dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin.

  • "Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me.

  • Kiss me again. Only you can understand me.

  • You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I was developing."

  • "Do not cry, dearest.

  • Take your time." "I have been obstinate and silly--worse

  • than you know, far worse. Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed-

  • -he wouldn't be killed, would he?"

  • The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst

  • along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near

  • to every one.

  • "I trust not. One would always pray against that."

  • "He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before.

  • But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that.

  • I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful.

  • I am a little to blame.

  • I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground

  • all blue, and for a moment he looked like some one in a book."

  • "In a book?"

  • "Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."

  • "And then?" "But, Charlotte, you know what happened

  • then."

  • Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn.

  • With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her.

  • All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.

  • "I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be absolutely truthful."

  • "Don't be troubled, dearest.

  • Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my

  • room." So they re-entered the city with hands

  • clasped.

  • It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others.

  • The storm had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son.

  • Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish.

  • Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight

  • and love.

  • The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening.

  • She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it.

  • All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her

  • mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin.

  • And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.

  • "At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself.

  • I shan't again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don't know

  • what." Miss Alan asked her to play.

  • She refused vehemently.

  • Music seemed to her the employment of a child.

  • She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a

  • long story about lost luggage.

  • When it was over she capped it by a story of her own.

  • Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay.

  • In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale.

  • It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and

  • could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:

  • "Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire.

  • Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."

  • With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl.

  • Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?"

  • She was unprepared for the question.

  • It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything.

  • A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.

  • "What is to be done?

  • A point, dearest, which you alone can settle."

  • The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and

  • chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett's

  • toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door.

  • A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long

  • since dried her eyes.

  • She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and

  • vague, the very ghosts of joy. "It has been raining for nearly four

  • hours," she said at last.

  • Miss Bartlett ignored the remark. "How do you propose to silence him?"

  • "The driver?" "My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."

  • Lucy began to pace up and down the room.

  • "I don't understand," she said at last. She understood very well, but she no longer

  • wished to be absolutely truthful. "How are you going to stop him talking

  • about it?"

  • "I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."

  • "I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type

  • before.

  • They seldom keep their exploits to themselves."

  • "Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.

  • "My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first?

  • Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own

  • remarks.

  • Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one

  • person is an extra reason for liking another?"

  • "Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.

  • "Well, I am no prude.

  • There is no need to call him a wicked young man, but obviously he is thoroughly

  • unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable

  • antecedents and education, if you wish.

  • But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?"

  • An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it

  • part of her, might have proved victorious.

  • "I propose to speak to him," said she. Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine

  • alarm. "You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall

  • never forget it.

  • But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."

  • "And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"

  • "Certainly not.

  • There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no;

  • then it is over. I have been frightened of him.

  • But now I am not one little bit."

  • "But we fear him for you, dear.

  • You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you

  • cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a

  • woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round.

  • This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?"

  • "I can't think," said Lucy gravely.

  • Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more

  • vigorously. "What would have happened if I hadn't

  • arrived?"

  • "I can't think," said Lucy again. "When he insulted you, how would you have

  • replied?" "I hadn't time to think.

  • You came."

  • "Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"

  • "I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence off.

  • She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness.

  • She could not think what she would have done.

  • "Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett.

  • "You will be seen from the road." Lucy obeyed.

  • She was in her cousin's power.

  • She could not modulate out the key of self- abasement in which she had started.

  • Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George

  • and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him.

  • Miss Bartlett became plaintive.

  • "Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I.

  • Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust

  • him.

  • Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's

  • insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead.

  • There are still left some men who can reverence woman."

  • As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them

  • upon the pin cushion.

  • Then she blew into her gloves and said: "It will be a push to catch the morning

  • train, but we must try." "What train?"

  • "The train to Rome."

  • She looked at her gloves critically. The girl received the announcement as

  • easily as it had been given. "When does the train to Rome go?"

  • "At eight."

  • "Signora Bertolini would be upset." "We must face that," said Miss Bartlett,

  • not liking to say that she had given notice already.

  • "She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."

  • "I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable

  • at the Vyses' hotel.

  • Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"

  • "Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she remained motionless

  • and silent.

  • To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream.

  • They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if

  • they were to catch the train to Rome.

  • Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of

  • the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill.

  • Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty

  • trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size.

  • She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for

  • all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old.

  • The girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional

  • impulses to which she could never attribute a cause.

  • She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be

  • happier, if she could give and receive some human love.

  • The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly.

  • She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her arms.

  • Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth.

  • But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love

  • her, but needed her to love.

  • For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:

  • "Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"

  • Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss

  • Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her

  • embrace a little, and she said:

  • "Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!"

  • "You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself, too.

  • I know well how much I vex you at every turn."

  • "But no--" Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role,

  • that of the prematurely aged martyr.

  • "Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the

  • success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do.

  • You want some one younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you.

  • I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned-- only fit to pack and unpack your things."

  • "Please--"

  • "My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often

  • able to leave me at home.

  • I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict

  • them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at

  • all events."

  • "You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly.

  • She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other, heart and soul.

  • They continued to pack in silence.

  • "I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps

  • of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.

  • "Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother.

  • She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster."

  • "But mother will understand.

  • It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn't a disaster either."

  • "It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly.

  • Fur instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?"

  • "Every right." "When I was here for your sake?

  • If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you.

  • Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her."

  • Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:

  • "Why need mother hear of it?" "But you tell her everything?"

  • "I suppose I do generally."

  • "I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it.

  • Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."

  • The girl would not be degraded to this.

  • "Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any

  • way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to.

  • I will never speak of it either to her or to any one."

  • Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close.

  • Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her

  • to her own room. For a moment the original trouble was in

  • the background.

  • George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view

  • which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor

  • condemned him; she did not pass judgment.

  • At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and,

  • ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now,

  • could be heard sighing into a crack in the

  • partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor

  • inconsistent.

  • She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been

  • meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture

  • of a cheerless, loveless world in which the

  • young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced world of precautions

  • and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may

  • judge from those who have used them most.

  • Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered:

  • diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and

  • love.

  • Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without

  • due consideration and precaution against rebuff.

  • And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul.

  • The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters.

  • Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle.

  • Thus it was that, though she saw some one standing in the wet below, he, though he

  • looked up, did not see her.

  • To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed.

  • It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone

  • before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.

  • Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved.

  • At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:

  • "I wish one word with you in the drawing- room, Mr. Emerson, please."

  • Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: "Good-night, Mr. Emerson."

  • His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.

  • Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true.

  • I want not to be muddled.

  • I want to grow older quickly." Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall.

  • "Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get."

  • In the morning they left for Rome.

  • >

CHAPTER I: The Bertolini

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