A Room with a View

  Chapter XV: The Disaster Within

  The Sunday after Miss Bartlett's arrival was a glorious day, like mostof the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking upthe green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom ofmist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on theheights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselvesunchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and ineither arose the tinkle of church bells.

  The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, whichlay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherentsounds, as of females preparing for worship. "The men say they won'tgo"--"Well, I don't blame them"--Minnie says, "need she go?"--"Tellher, no nonsense"--"Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!"--"Dearest Lucia, may Itrespass upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that sheat all events was one for church.

  The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but byApollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladieswhenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe downat Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; onGeorge Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete thecatalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. Theladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engendershadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morningby the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging thecaress.

  Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerisedress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At herthroat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--anengagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns alittle--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying notto cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she mayfrown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apolloand the western hills.

  "Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelfand leaving it about to spoil?"

  "It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading."

  "But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo."

  Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under aLoggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare timeto solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadfulhow little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, likethe Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morningshe had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecilhad said, "What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?" And this toohad lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and thedear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivableelsewhere, the dear sun.

  "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?"

  She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into aSunday fluster.

  "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgarclinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nicebright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped.(Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press.Minnie!"

  "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions.

  "Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse"--it was always the horse,never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is sheso long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses.Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!"

  Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--andthe Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn'tsee why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? Theyoung men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs.Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion MissBartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling downthe stairs.

  "Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing butsovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--"

  "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovelyfrock! You put us all to shame."

  "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wearthem?" said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria andplaced herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued,and then they drove off.

  "Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil.

  Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "churchand so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He hadsaid that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want tooverhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxyCecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of aspiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, thatmight grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subjectpained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow theEmersons were different.

  She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages downthe road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite CissieVilla. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found fatherand son smoking in the garden.

  "Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that heknows me already."

  He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced themformally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said howglad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was gladtoo; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind withMr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, andasked him how he liked his new house.

  "Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice;she had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though,that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Womenmind such a thing. I am very much upset about it."

  "I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurchuneasily.

  "Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person,"said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "Hethought we should be artistic. He is disappointed."

  "And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer togive it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy.

  "Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoidcensuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned,though his name was never mentioned.

  "So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet itdoes seem so unkind."

  "There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George,watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages.

  "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why allthis twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?"

  "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certainamount of light," he continued in measured tones. "We cast a shadowon something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place toplace to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a placewhere you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do verymuch harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine."

  "Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!"

  "Eh--?"

  "I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving likethat to poor Freddy."

  George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother wouldget on rather well.

  "No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is hisphilosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note ofInterrogation first."

  "What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looksforward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mindtennis on Sunday--?"

  "George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguishbetween Sunday--"

  "Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That'ssettled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son
we should be sopleased."

  He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potterabout in these days.

  She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to theMiss Alans."

  "I know," said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. Thekindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him cameout suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of themorning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had neverspoken against affection.

  Miss Bartlett approached.

  "You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly."You met her with my daughter in Florence."

  "Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of thegarden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria.Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertoliniagain, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was theold, old battle of the room with the view.

  George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and wasashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I--I'll come upto tennis if I can manage it," and went into the house. Perhaps anythingthat he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straightto her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy asgirls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. Toone of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was atruth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threwher photographs into the River Arno.

  "George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great treat forpeople if his son would talk to them. "George has been in such goodspirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon."

  Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made herreckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will." Thenshe went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn't been told;I knew it was all right." Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they droveaway.

  Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florenceescapade; yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she hadsighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greetedit with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses' hoofs sang atune to her: "He has not told, he has not told." Her brain expanded themelody: "He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It wasnot an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone." She raised herhand to her cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! Buthe has not told. He will not tell."

  She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret betweenus two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She was even glad that MissBartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening atFlorence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big orlittle, was guarded.

  Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpretedher joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt sosafe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:

  "The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improvedenormously."

  "How are my proteges?" asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them,and had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to WindyCorner for educational purposes.

  "Proteges!" she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationshipwhich Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. Hehad no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl's soul yearned.

  "You shall see for yourself how your proteges are. George Emerson iscoming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Onlydon't--" She nearly said, "Don't protect him." But the bell was ringingfor lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention toher remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte.

  Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Someone had to be soothed--either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being notvisible to the mortal eye--a Being who whispered to her soul: "Itwill not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London toentertain the grandchildren of celebrated men." But to-day she felt shehad received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brotherhere. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning, wouldnever be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked herto play. She had seen Gluck's Armide that year, and played from memorythe music of the enchanted garden--the music to which Renaud approaches,beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, neverwanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Suchmusic is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive,and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: "Now play us the othergarden--the one in Parsifal."

  She closed the instrument.

  "Not very dutiful," said her mother's voice.

  Fearing that she had offended Cecil, she turned quickly round. ThereGeorge was. He had crept in without interrupting her.

  "Oh, I had no idea!" she exclaimed, getting very red; and then, withouta word of greeting, she reopened the piano. Cecil should have theParsifal, and anything else that he liked.

  "Our performer has changed her mind," said Miss Bartlett, perhapsimplying, she will play the music to Mr. Emerson. Lucy did not knowwhat to do nor even what she wanted to do. She played a few bars of theFlower Maidens' song very badly and then she stopped.

  "I vote tennis," said Freddy, disgusted at the scrappy entertainment.

  "Yes, so do I." Once more she closed the unfortunate piano. "I vote youhave a men's four."

  "All right."

  "Not for me, thank you," said Cecil. "I will not spoil the set." Henever realized that it may be an act of kindness in a bad player to makeup a fourth.

  "Oh, come along Cecil. I'm bad, Floyd's rotten, and so I dare say'sEmerson."

  George corrected him: "I am not bad."

  One looked down one's nose at this. "Then certainly I won't play," saidCecil, while Miss Bartlett, under the impression that she was snubbingGeorge, added: "I agree with you, Mr. Vyse. You had much better notplay. Much better not."

  Minnie, rushing in where Cecil feared to tread, announced that she wouldplay. "I shall miss every ball anyway, so what does it matter?" ButSunday intervened and stamped heavily upon the kindly suggestion.

  "Then it will have to be Lucy," said Mrs. Honeychurch; "you must fallback on Lucy. There is no other way out of it. Lucy, go and change yourfrock."

  Lucy's Sabbath was generally of this amphibious nature. She kept itwithout hypocrisy in the morning, and broke it without reluctance inthe afternoon. As she changed her frock, she wondered whether Cecil wassneering at her; really she must overhaul herself and settle everythingup before she married him.

  Mr. Floyd was her partner. She liked music, but how much better tennisseemed. How much better to run about in comfortable clothes than to sitat the piano and feel girt under the arms. Once more music appeared toher the employment of a child. George served, and surprised her by hisanxiety to win. She remembered how he had sighed among the tombs atSanta Croce because things wouldn't fit; how after the death of thatobscure Italian he had leant over the parapet by the Arno and said toher: "I shall want to live, I tell you." He wanted to live now, to winat tennis, to stand for all he was worth in the sun--the sun which hadbegun to decline and was shining in her eyes; and he did win.

  Ah, how beautiful the Weald looked! The hills stood out above itsradiance, as Fiesole stands above the Tuscan Plain, and the South Downs,if one chose, were the mountains of Carrara. She might be forgetting herItaly, but she was noticing more things in her England. One could playa new game with the view, and try to find in its innumerable folds sometown or village that would do for Florence. Ah, how beautiful the Wealdlooked!

  But now Cecil claimed her. He chanced to be in a lucid critical mood,and would not sympathize with exaltation. He had been rather a nuisanceall through the tennis, for the novel that he was reading was so badthat he was obliged to read it aloud to others. He would stroll roundthe precincts of the court and call out: "I say, liste
n to this, Lucy.Three split infinitives."

  "Dreadful!" said Lucy, and missed her stroke. When they had finishedtheir set, he still went on reading; there was some murder scene, andreally everyone must listen to it. Freddy and Mr. Floyd were obliged tohunt for a lost ball in the laurels, but the other two acquiesced.

  "The scene is laid in Florence."

  "What fun, Cecil! Read away. Come, Mr. Emerson, sit down after all yourenergy." She had "forgiven" George, as she put it, and she made a pointof being pleasant to him.

  He jumped over the net and sat down at her feet asking: "You--and areyou tired?"

  "Of course I'm not!"

  "Do you mind being beaten?"

  She was going to answer, "No," when it struck her that she did mind,so she answered, "Yes." She added merrily, "I don't see you're sucha splendid player, though. The light was behind you, and it was in myeyes."

  "I never said I was."

  "Why, you did!"

  "You didn't attend."

  "You said--oh, don't go in for accuracy at this house. We allexaggerate, and we get very angry with people who don't."

  "'The scene is laid in Florence,'" repeated Cecil, with an upward note.

  Lucy recollected herself.

  "'Sunset. Leonora was speeding--'"

  Lucy interrupted. "Leonora? Is Leonora the heroine? Who's the book by?"

  "Joseph Emery Prank. 'Sunset. Leonora speeding across the square. Praythe saints she might not arrive too late. Sunset--the sunset of Italy.Under Orcagna's Loggia--the Loggia de' Lanzi, as we sometimes call itnow--'"

  Lucy burst into laughter. "'Joseph Emery Prank' indeed! Why it's MissLavish! It's Miss Lavish's novel, and she's publishing it under somebodyelse's name."

  "Who may Miss Lavish be?"

  "Oh, a dreadful person--Mr. Emerson, you remember Miss Lavish?"

  Excited by her pleasant afternoon, she clapped her hands.

  George looked up. "Of course I do. I saw her the day I arrived at SummerStreet. It was she who told me that you lived here."

  "Weren't you pleased?" She meant "to see Miss Lavish," but when he bentdown to the grass without replying, it struck her that she could meansomething else. She watched his head, which was almost resting againsther knee, and she thought that the ears were reddening. "No wonder thenovel's bad," she added. "I never liked Miss Lavish. But I suppose oneought to read it as one's met her."

  "All modern books are bad," said Cecil, who was annoyed at herinattention, and vented his annoyance on literature. "Every one writesfor money in these days."

  "Oh, Cecil--!"

  "It is so. I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer."

  Cecil, this afternoon seemed such a twittering sparrow. The ups anddowns in his voice were noticeable, but they did not affect her. She haddwelt amongst melody and movement, and her nerves refused to answer tothe clang of his. Leaving him to be annoyed, she gazed at the black headagain. She did not want to stroke it, but she saw herself wanting tostroke it; the sensation was curious.

  "How do you like this view of ours, Mr. Emerson?"

  "I never notice much difference in views."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Because they're all alike. Because all that matters in them is distanceand air."

  "H'm!" said Cecil, uncertain whether the remark was striking or not.

  "My father"--he looked up at her (and he was a little flushed)--"saysthat there is only one perfect view--the view of the sky straight overour heads, and that all these views on earth are but bungled copies ofit."

  "I expect your father has been reading Dante," said Cecil, fingering thenovel, which alone permitted him to lead the conversation.

  "He told us another day that views are really crowds--crowds of treesand houses and hills--and are bound to resemble each other, like humancrowds--and that the power they have over us is sometimes supernatural,for the same reason."

  Lucy's lips parted.

  "For a crowd is more than the people who make it up. Something getsadded to it--no one knows how--just as something has got added to thosehills."

  He pointed with his racquet to the South Downs.

  "What a splendid idea!" she murmured. "I shall enjoy hearing your fathertalk again. I'm so sorry he's not so well."

  "No, he isn't well."

  "There's an absurd account of a view in this book," said Cecil. "Alsothat men fall into two classes--those who forget views and those whoremember them, even in small rooms."

  "Mr. Emerson, have you any brothers or sisters?"

  "None. Why?"

  "You spoke of 'us.'"

  "My mother, I was meaning."

  Cecil closed the novel with a bang.

  "Oh, Cecil--how you made me jump!"

  "I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer."

  "I can just remember us all three going into the country for the day andseeing as far as Hindhead. It is the first thing that I remember."

  Cecil got up; the man was ill-bred--he hadn't put on his coat aftertennis--he didn't do. He would have strolled away if Lucy had notstopped him.

  "Cecil, do read the thing about the view."

  "Not while Mr. Emerson is here to entertain us."

  "No--read away. I think nothing's funnier than to hear silly things readout loud. If Mr. Emerson thinks us frivolous, he can go."

  This struck Cecil as subtle, and pleased him. It put their visitor inthe position of a prig. Somewhat mollified, he sat down again.

  "Mr. Emerson, go and find tennis balls." She opened the book. Cecilmust have his reading and anything else that he liked. But her attentionwandered to George's mother, who--according to Mr. Eager--had beenmurdered in the sight of God and--according to her son--had seen as far asHindhead.

  "Am I really to go?" asked George.

  "No, of course not really," she answered.

  "Chapter two," said Cecil, yawning. "Find me chapter two, if it isn'tbothering you."

  Chapter two was found, and she glanced at its opening sentences.

  She thought she had gone mad.

  "Here--hand me the book."

  She heard her voice saying: "It isn't worth reading--it's too sillyto read--I never saw such rubbish--it oughtn't to be allowed to beprinted."

  He took the book from her.

  "'Leonora,'" he read, "'sat pensive and alone. Before her lay the richchampaign of Tuscany, dotted over with many a smiling village. Theseason was spring.'"

  Miss Lavish knew, somehow, and had printed the past in draggled prose,for Cecil to read and for George to hear.

  "'A golden haze,'" he read. He read: "'Afar off the towers of Florence,while the bank on which she sat was carpeted with violets. Allunobserved Antonio stole up behind her--'"

  Lest Cecil should see her face she turned to George and saw his face.

  He read: "'There came from his lips no wordy protestation such as formallovers use. No eloquence was his, nor did he suffer from the lack of it.He simply enfolded her in his manly arms.'"

  "This isn't the passage I wanted," he informed them, "there is anothermuch funnier, further on." He turned over the leaves.

  "Should we go in to tea?" said Lucy, whose voice remained steady.

  She led the way up the garden, Cecil following her, George last. Shethought a disaster was averted. But when they entered the shrubberyit came. The book, as if it had not worked mischief enough, hadbeen forgotten, and Cecil must go back for it; and George, who lovedpassionately, must blunder against her in the narrow path.

  "No--" she gasped, and, for the second time, was kissed by him.

  As if no more was possible, he slipped back; Cecil rejoined her; theyreached the upper lawn alone.