A Room with a View

r. 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 carrée 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 ‘Mediæval 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 laws 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.