A Room with a View Page 4

  Chapter IV: Fourth Chapter

  Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as aftermusic. She had not really appreciated the clergyman's wit, nor thesuggestive twitterings of Miss Alan. Conversation was tedious; shewanted something big, and she believed that it would have come to her onthe wind-swept platform of an electric tram. This she might not attempt.It was unladylike. Why? Why were most big things unladylike? Charlottehad once explained to her why. It was not that ladies were inferiorto men; it was that they were different. Their mission was to inspireothers to achievement rather than to achieve themselves. Indirectly, bymeans of tact and a spotless name, a lady could accomplish much. Butif she rushed into the fray herself she would be first censured, thendespised, and finally ignored. Poems had been written to illustrate thispoint.

  There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady. The dragons havegone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our midst. Shereigned in many an early Victorian castle, and was Queen of much earlyVictorian 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 springingup strange desires. She too is enamoured of heavy winds, and vastpanoramas, and green expanses of the sea. She has marked the kingdomof this world, how full it is of wealth, and beauty, and war--a radiantcrust, built around the central fires, spinning towards the recedingheavens. Men, declaring that she inspires them to it, move joyfully overthe surface, having the most delightful meetings with other men, happy,not because they are masculine, but because they are alive. Before theshow breaks up she would like to drop the august title of the EternalWoman, and go there as her transitory self.

  Lucy does not stand for the medieval lady, who was rather an ideal towhich she was bidden to lift her eyes when feeling serious. Nor hasshe any system of revolt. Here and there a restriction annoyed herparticularly, and she would transgress it, and perhaps be sorry that shehad done so. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. She would reallylike to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As she mightnot 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 MissBartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of coursesignified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some ofthe Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felta little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's"Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some GuidoReni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncriticalapproval to every well-known name.

  But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemedstill unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to herto be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly fullof beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was notsurprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that italways left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy.

  "Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the PiazzaSignoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar toher. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late tostrike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god,half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs whoidled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance ofa cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forthupon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour ofunreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An olderperson at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficientwas happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more.

  She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which roseout of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemedno longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainabletreasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her,still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground andstarted towards home.

  Then something did happen.

  Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinquelire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, andone of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towardsLucy 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 betweenthem and trickled down his unshaven chin.

  That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinaryman from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emersonhappened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot wherethe man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caughtsight 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 hadcomplained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another heldher in his arms.

  They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must havecarried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. Sherepeated:

  "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. Thecries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The wholeworld seemed pale and void of its original meaning.

  "How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But nowI 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 outthere in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add toyour kindness by fetching them?"

  He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arosewith 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; sitdown till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "Anddon't move till I come back."

  In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear indreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day,and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when hereturned 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 easytopic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulousover the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Beingstrong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rosewithout his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her,she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled tothem; they refused him.

  "And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italiansare!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying thatItalians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When mycousin 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 thatof 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 allthe time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do withthem." He pointed down-stream. "They've gone." The river swirled underthe bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed betterthat they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean thatthey frightened me." Then the boy verged into a man. "For somethingtremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. Itisn'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 someabstract quest.

  "I want to ask you something before we go in."

  They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbowsagainst the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is attimes a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that havesuggested 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 whatcame over me."

  "I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her attituderepelled him.

  "Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."

  "Oh, all right."

  "And--this is the real point--you know how silly people aregossiping--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 belowthem, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographsinto it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it washopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm byidle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he mighteven 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 sayto him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentencefor himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight inthat beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it,just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had boughtin Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; somethinghad happened to the living: they had come to a situation where charactertells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.

  "Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these accidents dohappen, 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.