A Room with a View

  Chapter II: In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

  It was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a brightbare room, with a floor of red tiles which look clean though they arenot; with a painted ceiling whereon pink griffins and blue amorini sportin a forest of yellow violins and bassoons. It was pleasant, too, tofling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in unfamiliar fastenings,to lean out into sunshine with beautiful hills and trees and marblechurches opposite, and close below, the Arno, gurgling against theembankment of the road.

  Over the river men were at work with spades and sieves on the sandyforeshore, and on the river was a boat, also diligently employed forsome mysterious end. An electric tram came rushing underneath thewindow. No one was inside it, except one tourist; but its platforms wereoverflowing with Italians, who preferred to stand. Children tried tohang on behind, and the conductor, with no malice, spat in their facesto make them let go. Then soldiers appeared--good-looking, undersizedmen--wearing each a knapsack covered with mangy fur, and a great-coatwhich had been cut for some larger soldier. Beside them walked officers,looking foolish and fierce, and before them went little boys, turningsomersaults in time with the band. The tramcar became entangled in theirranks, 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 ofan archway. Indeed, if it had not been for the good advice of an old manwho 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 ofGiotto, or the corruption of the Papacy, may return remembering nothingbut the blue sky and the men and women who live under it. So it was aswell that Miss Bartlett should tap and come in, and having commented onLucy's leaving the door unlocked, and on her leaning out of the windowbefore she was fully dressed, should urge her to hasten herself, or thebest of the day would be gone. By the time Lucy was ready her cousinhad done her breakfast, and was listening to the clever lady among thecrumbs.

  A conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar lines. Miss Bartlettwas, after all, a wee bit tired, and thought they had better spend themorning settling in; unless Lucy would at all like to go out? Lucy wouldrather like to go out, as it was her first day in Florence, but, ofcourse, she could go alone. Miss Bartlett could not allow this. Ofcourse she would accompany Lucy everywhere. Oh, certainly not; Lucywould 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 youcan neglect the good person. Being English, Miss Honeychurch will beperfectly safe. Italians understand. A dear friend of mine, ContessaBaroncelli, has two daughters, and when she cannot send a maid to schoolwith them, she lets them go in sailor-hats instead. Every one takesthem for English, you see, especially if their hair is strained tightlybehind."

  Miss Bartlett was unconvinced by the safety of Contessa Baroncelli'sdaughters. She was determined to take Lucy herself, her head not beingso very bad. The clever lady then said that she was going to spend along morning in Santa Croce, and if Lucy would come too, she would bedelighted.

  "I will take you by a dear dirty back way, Miss Honeychurch, and if youbring me luck, we shall have an adventure."

  Lucy said that this was most kind, and at once opened the Baedeker, tosee 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 doesnot even dream of it. The true Italy is only to be found by patientobservation."

  This sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried over her breakfast, andstarted 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 rightalong the sunny Lung' Arno. How delightfully warm! But a wind downthe side streets cut like a knife, didn't it? Ponte alleGrazie--particularly interesting, mentioned by Dante. SanMiniato--beautiful as well as interesting; the crucifix that kisseda murderer--Miss Honeychurch would remember the story. The men on theriver were fishing. (Untrue; but then, so is most information.) ThenMiss Lavish darted under the archway of the white bullocks, and shestopped, and she cried:

  "A smell! a true Florentine smell! Every city, let me teach you, has itsown smell."

  "Is it a very nice smell?" said Lucy, who had inherited from her mothera distaste to dirt.

  "One doesn't come to Italy for niceness," was the retort; "one comes forlife. Buon giorno! Buon giorno!" bowing right and left. "Look at thatadorable 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'sgrace. It was a treat for the girl to be with any one so clever and socheerful; 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 willnever repent of a little civility to your inferiors. That is thetrue democracy. Though I am a real Radical as well. There, now you'reshocked."

  "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 aboutIreland."

  "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 Radicalagain now that Ireland is all right. And as it is, the glass over ourfront door was broken last election, and Freddy is sure it was theTories; but mother says nonsense, a tramp."

  "Shameful! A manufacturing district, I suppose?"

  "No--in the Surrey hills. About five miles from Dorking, looking overthe Weald."

  Miss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened her trot.

  "What a delightful part; I know it so well. It is full of the verynicest people. Do you know Sir Harry Otway--a Radical if ever therewas?"

  "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, youhave property in Surrey?"

  "Hardly any," said Lucy, fearful of being thought a snob. "Only thirtyacres--just the garden, all downhill, and some fields."

  Miss Lavish was not disgusted, and said it was just the size of heraunt's Suffolk estate. Italy receded. They tried to remember the lastname of Lady Louisa someone, who had taken a house near Summer Streetthe other year, but she had not liked it, which was odd of her. And justas 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 towerof which had been plainly visible from the landing window. But MissLavish had said so much about knowing her Florence by heart, that Lucyhad followed her with no misgivings.

  "Lost! lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we havetaken 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 iswhat 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 tolook at your Baedeker. Give it to me; I shan't let you carry it. We willsimply drift."

  Accordingly they drifted through a series of those grey-brown streets,neither commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of thecity abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent of LadyLouisa, and became discontented herself. For one ravishing moment Italyappeared. She stood in the Square of the Annunziata and saw in theliving terra-cotta those divine babies whom no cheap reproduction canever stale. There they stood, with their shining limbs bursting fromthe garments of charity, an
d their strong white arms extended againstcirclets of heaven. Lucy thought she had never seen anything morebeautiful; but Miss Lavish, with a shriek of dismay, dragged herforward, declaring that they were out of their path now by at least amile.

  The hour was approaching at which the continental breakfast begins, orrather ceases, to tell, and the ladies bought some hot chestnut pasteout of a little shop, because it looked so typical. It tasted partlyof the paper in which it was wrapped, partly of hair oil, partly of thegreat unknown. But it gave them strength to drift into another Piazza,large and dusty, on the farther side of which rose a black-and-whitefacade of surpassing ugliness. Miss Lavish spoke to it dramatically. Itwas Santa Croce. The adventure was over.

  "Stop a minute; let those two people go on, or I shall have to speak tothem. I do detest conventional intercourse. Nasty! they are going intothe church, too. Oh, the Britisher abroad!"

  "We sat opposite them at dinner last night. They have given us theirrooms. They were so very kind."

  "Look at their figures!" laughed Miss Lavish. "They walk through myItaly like a pair of cows. It's very naughty of me, but I would liketo set an examination paper at Dover, and turn back every tourist whocouldn't pass it."

  "What would you ask us?"

  Miss Lavish laid her hand pleasantly on Lucy's arm, as if to suggestthat she, at all events, would get full marks. In this exalted mood theyreached the steps of the great church, and were about to enter it whenMiss 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 cloakflapping in the wind; nor did she slacken speed till she caught up anold man with white whiskers, and nipped him playfully upon the arm.

  Lucy waited for nearly ten minutes. Then she began to get tired. Thebeggars worried her, the dust blew in her eyes, and she remembered thata young girl ought not to loiter in public places. She descended slowlyinto the Piazza with the intention of rejoining Miss Lavish, who wasreally almost too original. But at that moment Miss Lavish and herlocal-colour box moved also, and disappeared down a side street, bothgesticulating largely. Tears of indignation came to Lucy's eyes partlybecause Miss Lavish had jilted her, partly because she had taken herBaedeker. How could she find her way home? How could she find her wayabout in Santa Croce? Her first morning was ruined, and she might neverbe in Florence again. A few minutes ago she had been all high spirits,talking as a woman of culture, and half persuading herself that shewas full of originality. Now she entered the church depressed andhumiliated, not even able to remember whether it was built by theFranciscans or the Dominicans. Of course, it must be a wonderfulbuilding. But how like a barn! And how very cold! Of course, itcontained frescoes by Giotto, in the presence of whose tactile valuesshe was capable of feeling what was proper. But who was to tellher which they were? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling to beenthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date. There wasno one even to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that pavedthe nave and transepts, was the one that was really beautiful, the onethat had been most praised by Mr. Ruskin.

  Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on her, and, instead ofacquiring information, she began to be happy. She puzzled out theItalian notices--the notices that forbade people to introduce dogs intothe church--the notice that prayed people, in the interest of health andout of respect to the sacred edifice in which they found themselves,not to spit. She watched the tourists; their noses were as red as theirBaedekers, so cold was Santa Croce. She beheld the horrible fate thatovertook three Papists--two he-babies and a she-baby--who began theircareer by sousing each other with the Holy Water, and then proceeded tothe Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed. Advancing towards itvery slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone withtheir fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and thenretreated. What could this mean? They did it again and again. Then Lucyrealized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for some saint, hopingto acquire virtue. Punishment followed quickly. The smallest he-babystumbled over one of the sepulchral slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin,and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop. Protestantas she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily uponthe prelate's upturned toes.

  "Hateful bishop!" exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had dartedforward 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 oughtto be. Intolerable bishop!"

  The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadfulpeople who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told himnot 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 anItalian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to therescue. By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, shestiffened 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 thanall the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe inthose who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of theuniverse--"

  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 wasdetermined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate,and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some graciousreference to the pleasant rooms.

  "That woman understands everything," was Mr. Emerson's reply. "But whatare you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with thechurch?"

  "No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with MissLavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--it is toobad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to comein by myself."

  "Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson.

  "Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing theyoung 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 worthminding, the loss of a Baedeker. THAT'S worth minding."

  Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was notsure whither it would lead her.

  "If you've no Baedeker," said the son, "you'd better join us." Was thiswhere 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 notsuppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with thechild, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. Ihope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience."

  "My dear," said the old man gently, "I think that you are repeating whatyou have heard older people say. You are pretending to be touchy; butyou are not really. Stop being so tiresome, and tell me instead whatpart of the church you want to see. To take you to it will be a realpleasure."

  Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she ought to have beenfurious. But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one's temper as itis 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 otherhand, his son was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to beoffended with him, or at all events be offended before him. It was athim that she gazed before replying.

  "I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if youwill kindly tell me which they are."

  The son nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the way tothe Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of the teacher about him. She feltlike a child in school who had
answered a question rightly.

  The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation, and out ofthem 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, beforeany taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Observe how Giotto in thesefrescoes--now, unhappily, ruined by restoration--is untroubled by thesnares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, morepathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge andtechnical 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 meansthe workmen weren't paid properly. And as for the frescoes, I see notruth in them. Look at that fat man in blue! He must weigh as much as Ido, 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 shifteduneasily, and so did Lucy. She was sure that she ought not to be withthese men; but they had cast a spell over her. They were so serious andso 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 toheaven by myself than be pushed by cherubs; and if I got there I shouldlike 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, willlie at peace in the earth that bore us, and our names will disappear assurely as our work survives."

  "Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint, whoeverhe 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 twoparties. 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. Theyfiled out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little oldladies 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 lifeof St. Francis.

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

  George went into the next chapel and returned, saying "Perhaps he is. Idon'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 goand 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 theRev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hearthe lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive voice of the oldman, the curt, injured replies of his opponent. The son, who took everylittle contretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening also.

  "My father has that effect on nearly everyone," he informed her. "Hewill 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 peoplebecause he loves them; and they find him out, and are offended, orfrightened."

  "How silly of them!" said Lucy, though in her heart she sympathized; "Ithink that a kind action done tactfully--"

  "Tact!"

  He threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wronganswer. She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel.For a young man his face was rugged, and--until the shadows fell uponit--hard. Enshadowed, it sprang into tenderness. She saw him once againat Rome, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, carrying a burden ofacorns. Healthy and muscular, he yet gave her the feeling of greyness,of tragedy that might only find solution in the night. The feeling soonpassed; it was unlike her to have entertained anything so subtle. Bornof silence and of unknown emotion, it passed when Mr. Emerson returned,and she could re-enter the world of rapid talk, which was alone familiarto her.

  "Were you snubbed?" asked his son tranquilly.

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

  "...full of innate sympathy...quickness to perceive good inothers...vision of the brotherhood of man..." Scraps of the lecture onSt. Francis came floating round the partition wall.

  "Don't let us spoil yours," he continued to Lucy. "Have you looked atthose saints?"

  "Yes," said Lucy. "They are lovely. Do you know which is the tombstonethat 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 wanderednot unpleasantly about Santa Croce, which, though it is like a barn,has harvested many beautiful things inside its walls. There were alsobeggars to avoid and guides to dodge round the pillars, and an old ladywith her dog, and here and there a priest modestly edging to hisMass through the groups of tourists. But Mr. Emerson was only halfinterested. He watched the lecturer, whose success he believed he hadimpaired, and then he anxiously watched his son.

  "Why will he look at that fresco?" he said uneasily. "I saw nothing init."

  "I like Giotto," she replied. "It is so wonderful what they say abouthis tactile values. Though I like things like the Della Robbia babiesbetter."

  "So you ought. A baby is worth a dozen saints. And my baby's worth thewhole 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 oneto give him? And think how he has been brought up--free from all thesuperstition and ignorance that lead men to hate one another in the nameof God. With such an education as that, I thought he was bound to growup happy."

  She was no theologian, but she felt that here was a very foolish oldman, as well as a very irreligious one. She also felt that her mothermight not like her talking to that kind of person, and that Charlottewould object most strongly.

  "What are we to do with him?" he asked. "He comes out for his holiday toItaly, and behaves--like that; like the little child who ought to havebeen playing, and who hurt himself upon the tombstone. Eh? What did yousay?"

  Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said:

  "Now don't be stupid over this. I don't require you to fall in love withmy boy, but I do think you might try and understand him. You are nearerhis age, and if you let yourself go I am sure you are sensible. Youmight 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 areinclined to get muddled, if I may judge from last night. Let yourselfgo. 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. Byunderstanding George you may learn to understand yourself. It will begood 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 quotingpoetry, 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 thatwe come from
the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all lifeis perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. Butwhy should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, andwork 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 ofthe everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but aYes."

  Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholybecause 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 noparticular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forgetthem at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for mybrother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or theLakes."

  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 himand that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed herat all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelingswere as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago esthetically,before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards themover the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached, hisface in the shadow. He said:

  "Miss Bartlett."

  "Oh, good gracious me!" said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeingthe whole of life in a new perspective. "Where? Where?"

  "In the nave."

  "I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have--" She checkedherself.

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

  She could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feelingherself.

  "Poor girl? I fail to understand the point of that remark. I thinkmyself a very fortunate girl, I assure you. I'm thoroughly happy, andhaving a splendid time. Pray don't waste time mourning over me. There'senough 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! theredoes come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderfulchurch."

  She joined her cousin.