a room with a view-第9节

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after　music。　She　had　not　really　appreciated　the　clergyman's　wit；

nor　the　suggestive　twitterings　of　Miss　Alan。　Conversation　was

tedious；　she　wanted　something　big；　and　she　believed　that　it　would

have　come　to　her　on　the　wind…swept　platform　of　an　electric　tram。

This　she　might　not　attempt。　It　was　unladylike。　Why？　Why　were　most

big　things　unladylike？　Charlotte　had　once　explained　to　her　why。

It　was　not　that　ladies　were　inferior　to　men；　it　was　that　they

were　different。　Their　mission　was　to　inspire　others　to

achievement　rather　than　to　achieve　themselves。　Indirectly；　by

means　of　tact　and　a　spotless　name；　a　lady　could　accomplish　much。

But　if　she　rushed　into　the　fray　herself　she　would　be　first

censured；　then　despised；　and　finally　ignored。　Poems　had　been

written　to　illustrate　this　point。



There　is　much　that　is　immortal　in　this　medieval　lady。　The　dragons

have　gone；　and　so　have　the　knights；　but　still　she　lingers　in　our

midst。　She　reigned　in　many　an　early　Victorian　castle；　and　was

Queen　of　much　early　Victorian　song。　It　is　sweet　to　protect　her　in

the　intervals　of　business；　sweet　to　pay　her　honour　when　she　has

cooked　our　dinner　well。　But　alas！　the　creature　grows　degenerate。

In　her　heart　also　there　are　springing　up　strange　desires。　She　too

is　enamoured　of　heavy　winds；　and　vast　panoramas；　and　green

expanses　of　the　sea。　She　has　marked　the　kingdom　of　this　world；

how　full　it　is　of　wealth；　and　beauty；　and　wara　radiant　crust；

built　around　the　central　fires；　spinning　towards　the　receding

heavens。　Men；　declaring　that　she　inspires　them　to　it；　move

joyfully　over　the　surface；　having　the　most　delightful　meetings

with　other　men；　happy；　not　because　they　are　masculine；　but

because　they　are　alive。　Before　the　show　breaks　up　she　would　like

to　drop　the　august　title　of　the　Eternal　Woman；　and　go　there　as

her　transitory　self。



Lucy　does　not　stand　for　the　medieval　lady；　who　was　rather　an

ideal　to　which　she　was　bidden　to　lift　her　eyes　when　feeling

serious。　Nor　has　she　any　system　of　revolt。　Here　and　there　a

restriction　annoyed　her　particularly；　and　she　would　transgress

it；　and　perhaps　be　sorry　that　she　had　done　so。　This　afternoon　she

was　peculiarly　restive。　She　would　really　like　to　do　something　of

which　her　well…wishers　disapproved。　As　she　might　not　go　on　the

electric　tram；　she　went　to　Alinari's　shop。



There　she　bought　a　photograph　of　Botticelli's　〃Birth　of　Venus。〃

Venus；　being　a　pity；　spoilt　the　picture；　otherwise　so　charming；

and　Miss　Bartlett　had　persuaded　her　to　do　without　it。　（A　pity　in

art　of　course　signified　the　nude。）　Giorgione's　〃Tempesta；〃　the

〃Idolino；〃　some　of　the　Sistine　frescoes　and　the　Apoxyomenos；

were　added　to　it。　She　felt　a　little　calmer　then；　and　bought　Fra

Angelico's　〃Coronation；〃　Giotto's　〃Ascension　of　St。　John；〃　some

Della　Robbia　babies；　and　some　Guido　Reni　Madonnas。　For　her　taste

was　catholic；　and　she　extended　uncritical　approval　to　every

well…known　name。



But　though　she　spent　nearly　seven　lire；　the　gates　of　liberty

seemed　still　unopened。　She　was　conscious　of　her　discontent；　it

was　new　to　her　to　be　conscious　of　it。　〃The　world；〃　she　thought；

〃is　certainly　full　of　beautiful　things；　if　only　I　could　come

across　them。〃　It　was　not　surprising　that　Mrs。　Honeychurch

disapproved　of　music；　declaring　that　it　always　left　her　daughter

peevish；　unpractical；　and　touchy。



〃Nothing　ever　happens　to　me；〃　she　reflected；　as　she　entered　the

Piazza　Signoria　and　looked　nonchalantly　at　its　marvels；　now

fairly　familiar　to　her。　The　great　square　was　in　shadow；　the

sunshine　had　come　too　late　to　strike　it。　Neptune　was　already

unsubstantial　in　the　twilight；　half　god；　half　ghost；　and　his

fountain　plashed　dreamily　to　the　men　and　satyrs　who　idled

together　on　its　marge。　The　Loggia　showed　as　the　triple　entrance

of　a　cave；　wherein　many　a　deity；　shadowy；　but　immortal；　looking

forth　upon　the　arrivals　and　departures　of　mankind。　It　was　the

hour　of　unrealitythe　hour；　that　is；　when　unfamiliar　things　are

real。　An　older　person　at　such　an　hour　and　in　such　a　place　might

think　that　sufficient　was　happening　to　him；　and　rest　content。

Lucy　desired　more。



She　fixed　her　eyes　wistfully　on　the　tower　of　the　palace；　which

rose　out　of　the　lower　darkness　like　a　pillar　of　roughened　gold。

It　seemed　no　longer　a　tower；　no　longer　supported　by　earth；　but

some　unattainable　treasure　throbbing　in　the　tranquil　sky。　Its

brightness　mesmerized　her；　still　dancing　before　her　eyes　when　she

bent　them　to　the　ground　and　started　towards　home。



Then　something　did　happen。



Two　Italians　by　the　Loggia　had　been　bickering　about　a　debt。

〃Cinque　lire；〃　they　had　cried；　〃cinque　lire！〃　They　sparred　at

each　other；　and　one　of　them　was　hit　lightly　upon　the　chest。　He

frowned；　he　bent　towards　Lucy　with　a　look　of　interest；　as　if　he

had　an　important　message　for　her。　He　opened　his　lips　to　deliver

it；　and　a　stream　of　red　came　out　between　them　and　trickled　down

his　unshaven　chin。



That　was　all。　A　crowd　rose　out　of　the　dusk。　It　hid　this

extraordinary　man　from　her；　and　bore　him　away　to　the　fountain。

Mr。　George　Emerson　happened　to　be　a　few　paces　away；　looking　at

her　across　the　spot　where　the　man　had　been。　How　very　odd！　Across

something。　Even　as　she　caught　sight　of　him　he　grew　dim；　the

palace　itself　grew　dim；　swayed　above　her；　fell　on　to　her　softly；

slowly；　noiselessly；　and　the　sky　fell　with　it。



She　thought：　〃Oh；　what　have　I　done？〃



〃Oh；　what　have　I　done？〃　she　murmured；　and　opened　her　eyes。



George　Emerson　still　looked　at　her；　but　not　across　anything。　She

had　complained　of　dullness；　and　lo！　one　man　was　stabbed；　and

another　held　her　in　his　arms。



They　were　sitting　on　some　steps　in　the　Uffizi　Arcade。　He　must

have　carried　her。　He　rose　when　she　spoke；　and　began　to　dust　his

knees。　She　repeated：



〃Oh；　what　have　I　done？〃



〃You　fainted。〃



〃II　am　very　sorry。〃



〃How　are　you　now？〃



〃Perfectly　wellabsolutely　well。〃　And　she　began　to　nod　and

smile。



〃Then　let　us　come　home。　There's　no　point　in　our　stopping。〃



He　held　out　his　hand　to　pull　her　up。　She　pretended　not　to　see　it。

The　cries　from　the　fountainthey　had　never　ceasedrang　emptily。

The　whole　world　seemed　pale　and　void　of　its　original　meaning。



〃How　very　kind　you　have　been！　I　might　have　hurt　myself　falling。

But　now　I　am　well。　I　can　go　alone；　thank　you。〃



His　hand　was　still　extended。



〃Oh；　my　photographs！〃　she　exclaimed　suddenly。



〃What　photographs？〃



〃I　bought　some　photographs　at　Alinari's。　I　must　have　dropped　them

out　there　in　the　square。〃　She　looked　at　him　cautiously。　〃Would

you　add　to　your　kindness　by　fetching　them？〃



He　added　to　his　kindness。　As　soon　as　he　had　turned　his　back；　Lucy

arose　with　the　running　of　a　maniac　and　stole　down　the　arcade

towards　the　Arno。



〃Miss　Honeychurch！〃



She　stopped　with　her　hand　on　her　heart。



〃You　sit　still；　you　aren't　fit　to　go　home　alone。〃



〃Yes；　I　am；　thank　you　so　very　much。〃



〃No；　you　aren't。　You'd　go　openly　if　you　were。〃



〃But　I　had　rather〃



〃Then　I　don't　fetch　your　photographs。〃



〃I　had　rather　be　alone。〃



He　said　imperiously：　〃The　man　is　deadthe　man　is　probably　dead；

sit　down　till　you　are　rested。〃　She　was　bewildered；　and　obeyed

him。　〃And　don't　move　till　I　come　back。〃



In　the　distance　she　saw　creatures　with　black　hoods；　such　as

appear　in　dreams。　The　palace　tower　had　lost　the　reflection　of　the

declining　day；　and　joined　itself　to　earth。　How　should　she　talk　to

Mr。　Emerson　when　he　returned　from　the　shadowy　square？　Again　the

thought　occurred　to　her；　〃Oh；　what　have　I　done？〃the　thought

that　she；　as　well　as　the　dying　man；　had　crossed　some　spiritual

boundary。



He　returned；　and　she　talked　of　the　murder。　Oddly　enough；　it　was

an　easy　topic。　She　spoke　of　the　Italian　character；　she　became

almost　garrulous　over　the　incident　that　had　made　her　faint　five

minutes　before。　Being　strong　physically；　she　soon　overcame　the

horror　of　blood。　She　rose　without　his　assistance；　and　though

wings　seemed　to　flutter　inside　her；　she　walked　firmly　enough

towards　the　Arno。　There　a　cabman　signalled　to　them；　they　refused

him。



〃And　the　murderer　tried　to　kiss　him；　you　sayhow　very　odd

Italians　are！and　gave　himself　up　to　the　police！　Mr。　Beebe　was

saying　that　Italians　know　everything；　but　I　think　they　are　rather

childish。　When　my　cousin　and　I　were　at　the　Pitti　yesterdayWhat

was　that？〃



He　had　thrown　something　into　the　stream。



〃What　did　you　throw　in？〃



〃Things　I　didn't　want；〃　he　said　crossly。



〃Mr。　Emerson！〃



〃Well？〃



〃Where　are　the　photographs？〃



He　was　silent。



〃I　believe　it　was　my　photographs　that　you　threw　away。〃



〃I　didn't　know　what　to　do　with　them；〃　he　cried。　and　his　voice　was

that　of　an　anxious　boy。　Her　heart　warmed　towards　him　for　the

first　time。　〃They　were　covered　with　blood。　There！　I'm　glad　I've

told　you；　and　all　the　time　we　were　making　conversation　I　was

wondering　what　to　do　with　them。〃　He　pointed　down…s