A Room with a View, Part 2 of 15

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Just search Sleepy History in your preferred podcast player. Good evening, and welcome to the Sleepy Book Shelf, where we put down our worries from the day and pick up a good book. I'm your host, Elizabeth, and I'm so glad you've chosen to be here tonight. This evening we'll be returning to a room with a view. But before we begin, let's take a moment to relax and prepare for sleep. Notice how your body feels against your bed, and where you may still be holding onto tension from the day. Take a long, gentle stretch, and then allow those muscles to soften completely. Now let's take a few slow, deep breaths together. Inhale, gathering up any lingering thoughts or worries, and exhale, letting them drift away. Once more, inhale slowly, and exhale completely. Lovely. Last time, Lucy Honeychurch and her cousin, Charlotte Bartlett, arrived at the pension Bertolini in Florence, only to discover that their promised rooms overlooked a gloomy courtyard instead of the Arno River. Tired and disappointed, they settled into the very English atmosphere of the pension. At dinner, an unconventional guest named Mr. Emerson unexpectedly offered to exchange rooms with them so they could enjoy the better view. Charlotte was shocked, while Lucy felt quietly moved by his kindness. Mr. Emerson's son, George, spoke very little, but Lucy sensed something thoughtful and unusual about him. The mood improved when the reverend Mr. Bebe arrived at the pension. Lucy was delighted to recognise him from home, and with his encouragement, the other guests warmly welcomed the two cousins and filled the evening with advice about Florence and Italy. Eventually, after much hesitation from Charlotte, the Emerson's offer was accepted, and later that night, as Lucy looked out onto the moonlit city, Ms. Bartlett found an unusual note pinned above the wash stand in what was George Emerson's room. Tonight, we pick up the next day as Lucy prepares to explore Florence. So just lie back and relax as I turn to the next pages of A Room With A View. Chapter 2 In Santa Croce with No Bedica It was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a bright, bare room with a flaw of red tiles, which look clean, though they are not, with a painted ceiling whereon pink griffins and blue amorene sport in a forest of yellow violins and bassoons. It was pleasant too to fling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in unfamiliar fastenings, to lean out into sunshine with beautiful hills and trees and marble churches opposite and close below the Arno, gurgling against the embankment of the road. Over the river, men were at work with spades and sieves on the sandy foreshore, and on the river was a boat, also diligently employed for some mysterious end. An electric tram came rushing underneath the window. No one was inside it except one tourist, but its platforms were overflowing with Italians who preferred to stand. Children tried to hang on behind, and the conductor with no malice spat in their faces to make them let go. Then soldiers appeared, good-looking, undersized men, wearing each a knapsack covered with mangy fur and a great coat which had been cut for some larger soldier. Beside them walked officers, looking foolish and fierce, and before them went little boys, turning somersaults in time with the band. The tram car became entangled in their ranks 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 of an archway. Indeed, if it had not been for the good advice of an old man who 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 of giotto or the corruption of the papacy might return remembering nothing but the blue sky and the men and women who live under it. So it was as well that Miss Bartlett should tap and come in, and having commented on Lucy's leaving the door unlocked, and on her leaning out of the window before she was fully dressed, should urge her to hasten herself, or the best of the day would be gone. By the time Lucy was ready, her cousin had done her breakfast and was listening to the clever lady among the crumbs. A conversation then ensued on not unfamiliar lines. Miss Bartlett was, after all, a wee bit tired, and thought they had better spend the morning settling in, unless Lucy would like at all to go out. Lucy would rather like to go out, as it was her first day in Florence. But of course, she could go alone. Miss Bartlett could not allow this. Of course, she would accompany Lucy everywhere. Oh, certainly not. Lucy would stop with her cousin. Oh, no, that would never do. Oh, yes. At this point, the clever lady broke in. If it is Mrs. Grandi who is troubling you, I do assure you that you can neglect the good person. Being English, Miss Honey Church will be perfectly safe. Italians understand. A dear friend of mine, Contessa Barroncelli, has two daughters, and when she cannot send a maid to school with them, she lets them go in sailor hats instead. Everyone takes them for English, you see, especially if their hair is strained tightly behind. Miss Bartlett was unconvinced by the safety of Contessa Barroncelli's daughters. She was determined to take Lucy herself, her head not being so very bad. The clever lady then said that she was going to spend a long morning in Santa Croce, and if Lucy would come too, she would be delighted. I will take you by a dear, dirty back way, Miss Honey Church, and if you bring me luck, we shall have an adventure. Lucy said that this was most kind, and at once opened the Badeca to see where Santa Croce was. Tut, tut, Miss Lucy, I hope we shall soon immense a Petru from the Badeca. He does but touch the surface of things. As to the true Italy, he does not even dream of it. The true Italy is only to be found by patient observation. This sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried over her breakfast and started with her new friend in high spirits. Italy was coming at last. The cockney senora and her works had vanished like a bad dream. Miss Lavish, for that was the clever lady's name, turned to the right along the sunny Lungano. How delightfully warm. But a wind down the side streets cut like a knife, didn't it? Ponte alle Grazzi, particularly interesting, mentioned by Dante. San Miniatto, beautiful as well as interesting. The crucifix that kissed a murderer, Miss Honey Church would remember the story. The men on the river were fishing. Untrue, but then so is most information. Then Miss Lavish darted under the arch, way of the white bullocks and she stopped and she cried. A smell, a true Florentine smell. Every city let me teach you has its own smell. Is it a very nice smell? Said Lucy, who had inherited from her mother a distaste to dirt. What doesn't come to Italy for niceness? Was the retort, one comes for life. Bon giorno, bon giorno. Bowing right and left. Look at that adorable 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's grace. It was a treat for the girl to be with anyone so clever and so cheerful. And a blue military cloak such as an Italian officer wears only increased the sense of festivity. Bon giorno. Take the word of an old woman, Miss Lucy. You will never repent of a little civility to your inferiors. Oh, that is the true democracy. Though I am a real radical as well. Huh? There. Now you're shocked. Indeed I'm not. exclaimed Lucy. We are radicals too. Out and out. My father always voted for Mr Gladstone until he was dreadful about Ireland. I see. I see. And now you have gone over to the enemy? Please. If my father was alive, I'm sure he would vote radical again now that Ireland is all right. And as it is, the glass over our frontal was broken last election and Freddie is sure it was the Tories. But Mother says nonsense. A tramp. Shameful. A manufacturing district, I suppose? No. In the Surrey Hills, about five miles from Dawking, looking over the wheeled. Miss Lavish seemed interested and slackened her trot. What a delightful part. I know it so well. It is full of the very nicest people. Do you know Sir Harry Ortsway? A radical if ever there was. Very well indeed. And old Mrs Butterworth, the philanthropist. Why she rents a field of ours. How funny. Miss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky and murmured. Oh, you have property in Surrey. Hardly any, said Lucy, fearful of being thought a snob. Only 30 acres. Just the garden. All downhill and some fields. Miss Lavish was not disgusted and said it was just the size of her aunt's Suffolk estate. Italy receded. They tried to remember the last name of Lady Louisa, someone who had taken a house near Summer Street the other year. But she had not liked it, which was odd of her. And just as Miss Lavish had got the name, she broke off and exclaimed, Oh, bless us. Bless us and save us. We've lost the way. Certainly they had seemed a long time in reaching Santa Croce. The tower of which had been plainly visible from the landing window. But Miss Lavish had said so much about knowing her Florence by heart that Lucy had followed her with no misgivings. Oh, lost. Lost. My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we have taken 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 is what 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 to look at your beedica. Give it to me. I shan't let you carry it. We will simply drift. Accordingly, they drifted through a series of those grey brown streets, neither commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of the city abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent of Lady Louisa and became discontented herself. For one ravishing moment, Italy appeared. She stood in the square of Anunziata and saw in the living terracotta those divine babies whom no cheap reproduction can ever stale. There they stood, with their shining limbs bursting from the garments of charity, and their strong white arms extended against the circlates of heaven. Lucy thought she had never seen anything more beautiful. But Miss Lavish, with a shriek of dismay, dragged her forward, declaring that they were out of their path now by at least a mile. The hour was approaching at which the continental breakfast begins, or rather ceases to tell, and the ladies brought some hot chestnut paste out of a little shop because it looked so typical. It tasted partly of the paper in which it was wrapped, partly of hair oil, partly of the great unknown. But it gave them strength to drift into another piazza, large and dusty on the farther side of which rose a black and white facade of surpassing ugliness. Miss Lavish spoke to it dramatically. It was Santa Croce. The adventure was over. Stop a minute. Get those two people go on, or I shall have to speak to them. I do detest conventional intercourse. Nasty. They are going into the church, too. The British are abroad. We sat opposite them at dinner last night. They have given us their rooms. They were so very kind. Look at their figures. Laughed Miss Lavish. They walk through mightily like a pair of cows, which is very naughty of me, but I would like to set an examination paper at Dover and turn back every tourist who couldn't pass it. What would you ask us? Miss Lavish laid her hand pleasantly on Lucy's arm as if to suggest that she at all events would get full marks. In this exalted mood, they reached the steps of the great church and were about to enter it when Miss 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 cloak flapping in the wind. Nor did she slacken speed till she caught up to an old man with white whiskers and nipped him playfully upon the arm. Lucy waited for nearly 10 minutes, then she began to get tired. The beggars worried her, the dust blew in her eyes, and she remembered that a young girl ought not to loiter in public places. She descended slowly into the piazza with the intention of rejoining Miss Lavish, who really was almost too original. But at that moment, Miss Lavish and her local colour box moved also and disappeared down a side street, both gesticulating largely. Tears of indignation came to Lucy's eyes, partly because Miss Lavish had jilted her, partly because she had taken her bedica. How could she find her way home? How could she find her way about in Santa Croucher? Her first morning was ruined and she might never be in Florence again. A few minutes ago, she had been all high spirits, talking as a woman of culture and half persuading herself that she was full of originality. Now she entered the church, depressed and humiliated, not even able to remember whether it was built by the Franciscans or the Dominicans. Of course, it must be a wonderful building, but how like a barn and how very cold. Of course, it contained frescoes by Giotto, in the presence of whose tactile values she was capable of feeling what was proper. But who was to tell her which they were? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling to be enthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date. There was no one even to tell her which of all the sepulchral slabs that paved the nave and transept was the one that was really beautiful, one that had been most praised by Mr Ruskin. Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on her, and instead of acquiring information, she began to be happy. She puzzled out the Italian notices, the notices that forbade people to introduce dogs into the church, the notice that prayed people in the interest of health and out of respect to the sacred edifice in which they found themselves, not to spit. She watched the tourists, their noses were as red as their beidicas so cold was the Santa Croce. She beheld the horrible fate that overtook three papists, two he-babies and a she-baby, who began their career by sowsing each other with the holy water and then proceeded to the Machiavelli Memorial, dripping at Hallowed. Advancing towards it, very slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone with their fingers, with their handkerchiefs from their heads, and then retreated. What could this mean? They did it again and again. Then Lucy realized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for some saint, hoping to acquire virtue. Punishment quickly followed. The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of the sepulchral slabs, so much admired by Mr Ruskin, and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop. Protestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the prelate's upturned toes. Hateful bishop! exclaimed the voice of old Mr Emerson, who had darted forward 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 ought to be. Intolerable bishop! The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadful people who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him not 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 they told Mr Emerson and Lucy set it erect, it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately, an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious virtue which mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little boy's backbone 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 than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who can make their fellow creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe. 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 was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and if possible to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. That woman understands everything, was Mr Emerson's reply. But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church? No, cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. I came here with Miss Lavish. He was going to explain everything, and just by the door, it is too bad. She simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come in by myself. Why shouldn't you? said Mr Emerson. Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself? Said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time. But Miss Lavish has even taken away my badica. Badica? said Mr Emerson. I'm glad it's that, you minded. It's worth minding the loss of a badica. That's worth minding. Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea and was not sure whether it would lead her. If you've known Badica, said the son, you'd better join us. Was this where 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 not suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with the child and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. I hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience. My dear, said the old man gently. I think that you are repeating what you have heard other people say. You are pretending to be touchy, but you are not really. Stop being so tiresome and tell me instead what part of the church you want to see. To take you to it will be a real pleasure. Now this was abominably impertinent and she ought to have been furious, but it is sometimes as difficult to lose one's temper as it is difficult at other times to keep it. Lucy could not get across. Mr. Emerson was an old man and surely a girl might humour him. On the other hand, his son was a young man and she felt that a girl ought to be offended with him or at all events be offended before him. It was at him that she gazed before replying. I am not touchy, I hope. It is the duot that I want to see. If you will kindly tell me which they are. The son nodded with a look of somber satisfaction. He led the way to the Perusci Chapel. There was a hint of the teacher about him. She felt like a child in school who had answered a question rightly. The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation and out of them 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 the church of Santa Croce, how it was built by faith in the full fervour of medievalism before any taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Observe how giotto in these frescoes, now unhappily ruined by restoration, is untroubled by the snares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, more pathetic, beautiful, true? How little we feel avails knowledge and technical cleverness against a man who truly feels. No, exclaimed Mr. Emerson in much too loud a voice for church. Remember nothing of the sword, built by faith indeed. That simply means the workmen weren't paid properly. And as for the frescoes, I see no truth in them. Look at that fat man in blue. He must weigh as much as I do, 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 shifted uneasily, and so did Lucy. She was sure that she would not be with these men, but they had cast a spell over her. They were so serious, and so 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 to heaven by myself than be pushed by cherubs, and if I got there I should like my friends to lean out of it. Just as they do him. You will never go up, said his father. We will not, dear boy, will lie at peace in the earth and bore us, and our names will disappear, as surely as our work survives. Well, some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint, whoever he 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 two parties, but 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 guidebooks in their hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little old ladies of the pension Bertolini, Miss Teresa, and Miss Catherine Allen. Stop! cried Miss Darmason. 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 life of St. Francis. George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton Curate. George went into the next chapel and returned, saying, Perhaps he is. I don't remember. Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. Is that Mr. Ego? Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? Alvix, Sotius, I shall go and say we are sorry. I hadn't, I bet. Then perhaps he will come back. He will not come back, said George. But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize to the reverend Cuthbert Ego. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear the lecture again interrupted. The anxious, aggressive voice of the old man. The curt, injured replies of his opponent. The son, who took every little contra-tom, as if it were a tragedy who is listening also. My father has that effect on nearly everyone. He informed her. He would 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 people because he loves them. Then they find him out and are offended or frightened. How silly of them, said Lucy. Though in her heart she sympathized. I think that a kind action done tactfully. Tact? He threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wrong answer. She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel. For a young man, his face was rugged. And until the shadows fell upon it, hard. In shadowed, it sprang into tenderness. She saw him once again at Rome. On the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Carrying a burden of acorns. Healthy. And muscular. He yet gave her the feeling of grayness. A tragedy that might only find solution in the night. The feeling soon passed. It was unlike her to have entertained anything so subtle. Born of silence and of unknown emotion, it passed when Mr. Emerson returned. And she could re-enter the world of rapid talk, which was alone familiar to her. We snobbed. Asked his son, tranquilly. But we have spoiled the pleasure of I don't know how many people. They won't come back. Fall of innate sympathy. Quickness to perceive good in others. A vision of the brotherhood of the people. A vision of the brotherhood of man. Scraps on the lecture of St. Francis came floating round the partition wall. Don't let us spoil yours. He continued to Lucy. Have you looked at those saints? Yes, said Lucy. They are lovely. Do you know which is the tombstone that 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 wandered not unpleasantly about Santa Croce. Which, though it is like a barn, has harvested many beautiful things inside its walls. There were also beggars to avoid and guides to dodge round the pillars. And an old lady with her dog. And here and there a priest, modestly edging to his mass through the groups of tourists. But Mr. Emerson was only half interested. He watched the lecturer whose success he believed he had impaired. And then he anxiously watched his son. Why will he look at that frisco? He said uneasily. I saw nothing in it. I liked Giotto. She replied. It is so wonderful. What do they say about his tactile values? Though I like things like the, um, the Della Rabia babies better. And so you ward a baby is worth a dozen at the same. And my baby's worth the whole of Paradise. 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 one to give him? And think how he has been brought up free from all the things that he has done. The superstition and ignorance that lead men to hate one another in the name of God. With such an education as that, I thought he was bound to grow up happy. She was no theologian, but she felt that here was a very foolish old man, as well as a very irreligious one. She also felt that her mother might not like her talking to that kind of person and that Charlotte would object most strongly. What are we to do with him? He asked. He comes out for his holiday to Italy and behaves like that. Like the little child who ought to have been playing and who hurt himself upon the tombstone. Eh? What did you say? Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said, Now don't be stupid over this. I don't require you to fall in love with my boy, but I do think you might try and understand him. You are nearer his age, and if you let yourself go, I'm sure you are sensible. You might help me. He is known to so few women and you have the time. You stop here several weeks, I suppose. But let yourself go. You are inclined to get muddled if I may judge from last night. Let yourself go. 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. By understanding George, you may learn to understand yourself. It will be good 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. And it is quite true. They don't. Oh, Mr. Amerson, whatever do you mean? In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realised he was quoting poetry, he said, From far, from evened morning and yawned twelve-winded sky, the stuff of life do knit me, blue hither. Here am I. When George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds and that we shall return to them. That all life, perhaps, is a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow. Miss Honeychurch assented. Then make my boy think like ours. Make him realise that by the side of the everlasting way, there is a yes, a transitory yes, a transitory yes, if you like, but a yes. Suddenly she laughed. Surely one ought to laugh. A young man, melancholy, because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind or a yes or something. Very sorry. She cried. You'll think me, I'm feeling, but... But... Then she became matronly. Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano, and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him. You ought to try the alps or the lakes. 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 him, and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed her at all. She regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago, aesthetically, before she lost Badeca. The dear George now striding towards them over the tombstones seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached his face in the shadow. He said, Miss Bartlett. Oh, good gracious me! Said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. Where? Where? In the nave. Oh, I see. Those gossiping Miss Allen's must have... She checked herself. Poor girl. Exploded Mr. Emerson. Poor girl. She could not let this pass, but it was just what she was feeling herself. Poor girl. I fail to understand the point of that remark. I think myself a very fortunate girl, I assure you. I'm thoroughly happy and having a splendid time. Pray don't waste time mourning over me. There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it. Goodbye. Thank you both so much for all your kindness. Oh yes, there does come my cousin. A delightful morning. Santa Croce has a wonderful church. She joined her cousin. Santa Croce. Santa Croce. Santa Croce. Santa Croce. Santa Croce. Santa Croce. Santa Croce. Santa Croce. Santa Croce. Santa Croce. Santa Croce.