A Room with a View Read online

  Chapter X: Cecil as a Humourist

  The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps novery splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedentsentitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had builtWindy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,and, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living therehimself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter.Other houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope andothers, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalkbarrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than WindyCorner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, butfrom London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of anindigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wifeaccepted the situation without either pride or humility. "I cannot thinkwhat people are doing," she would say, "but it is extremely fortunatefor the children." She called everywhere; her calls were returned withenthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactlyof their milieu, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr.Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction--which few honest solicitorsdespise--of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable.

  The best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were ratherdull, and Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy.Hitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning--their kindlyaffluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags,orange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt tospeak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceiveit, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests andidentical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outsideit were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as theLondon fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps inthe northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warmhimself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished.Her senses expanded; she felt that there was no one whom she might notget to like, that social barriers were irremovable, doubtless, but notparticularly high. You jump over them just as you jump into a peasant'solive-yard in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returnedwith new eyes.

  So did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not to tolerance, but toirritation. He saw that the local society was narrow, but, insteadof saying, "Does that very much matter?" he rebelled, and tried tosubstitute for it the society he called broad. He did not realize thatLucy had consecrated her environment by the thousand little civilitiesthat create a tenderness in time, and that though her eyes saw itsdefects, her heart refused to despise it entirely. Nor did he realizea more important point--that if she was too great for this society, shewas too great for all society, and had reached the stage where personalintercourse would alone satisfy her. A rebel she was, but not of thekind he understood--a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling-room, butequality beside the man she loved. For Italy was offering her the mostpriceless of all possessions--her own soul.

  Playing bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece to the rector, andaged thirteen--an ancient and most honourable game, which consists instriking tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over the netand immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs. Honeychurch; others are lost. Thesentence is confused, but the better illustrates Lucy's state of mind,for she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the same time.

  "Oh, it has been such a nuisance--first he, then they--no one knowingwhat they wanted, and everyone so tiresome."

  "But they really are coming now," said Mr. Beebe. "I wrote to MissTeresa a few days ago--she was wondering how often the butcher called,and my reply of once a month must have impressed her favourably. Theyare coming. I heard from them this morning.

  "I shall hate those Miss Alans!" Mrs. Honeychurch cried. "Just becausethey're old and silly one's expected to say 'How sweet!' I hatetheir 'if'-ing and 'but'-ing and 'and'-ing. And poor Lucy--serve herright--worn to a shadow."

  Mr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and shouting over thetennis-court. Cecil was absent--one did not play bumble-puppy when hewas there.

  "Well, if they are coming--No, Minnie, not Saturn." Saturn was atennis-ball whose skin was partially unsewn. When in motion his orb wasencircled by a ring. "If they are coming, Sir Harry will let them movein before the twenty-ninth, and he will cross out the clause aboutwhitewashing the ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in thefair wear and tear one.--That doesn't count. I told you not Saturn."

  "Saturn's all right for bumble-puppy," cried Freddy, joining them."Minnie, don't you listen to her."

  "Saturn doesn't bounce."

  "Saturn bounces enough."

  "No, he doesn't."

  "Well; he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil."

  "Hush, dear," said Mrs. Honeychurch.

  "But look at Lucy--complaining of Saturn, and all the time's got theBeautiful White Devil in her hand, ready to plug it in. That's right,Minnie, go for her--get her over the shins with the racquet--get herover the shins!"

  Lucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand.

  Mr. Beebe picked it up, and said: "The name of this ball is VittoriaCorombona, please." But his correction passed unheeded.

  Freddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little girlsto fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie from awell-mannered child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house Cecilheard them, and, though he was full of entertaining news, he did notcome down to impart it, in case he got hurt. He was not a coward andbore necessary pain as well as any man. But he hated the physicalviolence of the young. How right it was! Sure enough it ended in a cry.

  "I wish the Miss Alans could see this," observed Mr. Beebe, just asLucy, who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted off herfeet by her brother.

  "Who are the Miss Alans?" Freddy panted.

  "They have taken Cissie Villa."

  "That wasn't the name--"

  Here his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the grass.An interval elapses.

  "Wasn't what name?" asked Lucy, with her brother's head in her lap.

  "Alan wasn't the name of the people Sir Harry's let to."

  "Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it."

  "Nonsense yourself! I've this minute seen him. He said to me: 'Ahem!Honeychurch,'"--Freddy was an indifferent mimic--"'ahem! ahem! I have atlast procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.' I said, 'ooray, old boy!'and slapped him on the back."

  "Exactly. The Miss Alans?"

  "Rather not. More like Anderson."

  "Oh, good gracious, there isn't going to be another muddle!" Mrs.Honeychurch exclaimed. "Do you notice, Lucy, I'm always right? I saiddon't interfere with Cissie Villa. I'm always right. I'm quite uneasy atbeing always right so often."

  "It's only another muddle of Freddy's. Freddy doesn't even know the nameof the people he pretends have taken it instead."

  "Yes, I do. I've got it. Emerson."

  "What name?"

  "Emerson. I'll bet you anything you like."

  "What a weathercock Sir Harry is," said Lucy quietly. "I wish I hadnever bothered over it at all."

  Then she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe,whose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that THAT wasthe proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong.

  Meanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch fromthe contemplation of her own abilities.

  "Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?"

  "I don't know whether they're any Emersons," retorted Freddy, who wasdemocratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he was naturallyattracted by the idea of equality, and the undeniable fact that thereare different kinds of Emersons annoyed him beyond measure.

  "I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy"--she wassitting up again--"I see you looking down your nose and thinking yourmother's a snob. But there is a righ
t sort and a wrong sort, and it'saffectation to pretend there isn't."

  "Emerson's a common enough name," Lucy remarked.

  She was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she could seethe pine-clad promontories descending one beyond another into the Weald.The further one descended the garden, the more glorious was this lateralview.

  "I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were norelations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray, does thatsatisfy you?"

  "Oh, yes," he grumbled. "And you will be satisfied, too, for they'refriends of Cecil; so"--elaborate irony--"you and the other countryfamilies will be able to call in perfect safety."

  "CECIL?" exclaimed Lucy.

  "Don't be rude, dear," said his mother placidly. "Lucy, don't screech.It's a new bad habit you're getting into."

  "But has Cecil--"

  "Friends of Cecil's," he repeated, "'and so really dee-sire-rebel. Ahem!Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.'"

  She got up from the grass.

  It was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized with her very much. While shebelieved that her snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry Otway,she had borne it like a good girl. She might well "screech" whenshe heard that it came partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was atease--something worse than a tease: he took a malicious pleasurein thwarting people. The clergyman, knowing this, looked at MissHoneychurch with more than his usual kindness.

  When she exclaimed, "But Cecil's Emersons--they can't possibly be thesame ones--there is that--" he did not consider that the exclamationwas strange, but saw in it an opportunity of diverting the conversationwhile she recovered her composure. He diverted it as follows:

  "The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don't suppose itwill prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friendsof Mr. Vyse's. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerestpeople! For our part we liked them, didn't we?" He appealed to Lucy."There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets andfilled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who havefailed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and sopleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine's great stories. 'My dearsister loves flowers,' it began. They found the whole room a mass ofblue--vases and jugs--and the story ends with 'So ungentlemanly and yetso beautiful.' It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect thoseFlorentine Emersons with violets."

  "Fiasco's done you this time," remarked Freddy, not seeing that hissister's face was very red. She could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe sawit, and continued to divert the conversation.

  "These particular Emersons consisted of a father and a son--the sona goodly, if not a good young man; not a fool, I fancy, but veryimmature--pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the father--such asentimental darling, and people declared he had murdered his wife."

  In his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have repeated such gossip,but he was trying to shelter Lucy in her little trouble. He repeated anyrubbish that came into his head.

  "Murdered his wife?" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "Lucy, don't desert us--goon playing bumble-puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have beenthe oddest place. That's the second murderer I've heard of as beingthere. Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop? By-the-by, we really mustask Charlotte here some time."

  Mr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He suggested that his hostesswas mistaken. At the hint of opposition she warmed. She was perfectlysure that there had been a second tourist of whom the same story hadbeen told. The name escaped her. What was the name? Oh, what was thename? She clasped her knees for the name. Something in Thackeray. Shestruck her matronly forehead.

  Lucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in.

  "Oh, don't go!" he cried, and tried to catch her by the ankles.

  "I must go," she said gravely. "Don't be silly. You always overdo itwhen you play."

  As she left them her mother's shout of "Harris!" shivered the tranquilair, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had never put itright. Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves andmade her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil's, with a pair ofnondescript tourists. Hitherto truth had come to her naturally. Shesaw that for the future she must be more vigilant, and be--absolutelytruthful? Well, at all events, she must not tell lies. She hurried upthe garden, still flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would sootheher, she was sure.

  "Cecil!"

  "Hullo!" he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. Heseemed in high spirits. "I was hoping you'd come. I heard you allbear-gardening, but there's better fun up here. I, even I, have won agreat victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith's right--the cause ofComedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, havefound tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don't be angry! Don't beangry! You'll forgive me when you hear it all."

  He looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled herridiculous forebodings at once.

  "I have heard," she said. "Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I supposeI must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing!Certainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I'd rather have nicefriends of yours. But you oughtn't to tease one so."

  "Friends of mine?" he laughed. "But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come!Come here." But she remained standing where she was. "Do you know whereI met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up tosee my mother last week."

  "What an odd place to meet people!" she said nervously. "I don't quiteunderstand."

  "In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring LucaSignorelli--of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and theyrefreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy."

  "But, Cecil--" proceeded hilariously.

  "In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a countrycottage--the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends.I thought, 'What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!' and I tooktheir address and a London reference, found they weren't actualblackguards--it was great sport--and wrote to him, making out--"

  "Cecil! No, it's not fair. I've probably met them before--"

  He bore her down.

  "Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old manwill do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgustingwith his 'decayed gentlewomen.' I meant to read him a lesson some time.No, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you'll agree withme. There ought to be intermarriage--all sorts of things. I believe indemocracy--"

  "No, you don't," she snapped. "You don't know what the word means."

  He stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque."No, you don't!"

  Her face was inartistic--that of a peevish virago.

  "It isn't fair, Cecil. I blame you--I blame you very much indeed. Youhad no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me lookridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize thatit is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you."

  She left him.

  "Temper!" he thought, raising his eyebrows.

  No, it was worse than temper--snobbishness. As long as Lucy thoughtthat his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she hadnot minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of valueeducationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, whowas silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he wouldbring them to Windy Corner.