đ A Room with a View (day 1)
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joi, 16 mai, 01:53 (acum 3 zile)
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A Room with a View
I
The Bertolini
âThe Signora had no business to do it,â said Miss Bartlett, âno business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!â
âAnd a Cockney, besides!â said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signoraâs unexpected accent. âIt might be London.â She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M.A. Oxon.), that was the only other decoration of the wall. âCharlotte, donât you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is oneâs being so tired.â
âThis meat has surely been used for soup,â said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.
âI want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!â
âAny nook does for me,â Miss Bartlett continued; âbut it does seem hard that you shouldnât have a view.â
Lucy felt that she had been selfish. âCharlotte, you mustnât spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the frontâ ââ
âYou must have it,â said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucyâs motherâ âa piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.
âNo, no. You must have it.â
âI insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.â
âShe would never forgive me.â
The ladiesâ voices grew animated, andâ âif the sad truth be ownedâ âa little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of themâ âone of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroadâ âleant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:
âI have a view, I have a view.â
Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would âdoâ till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: âA view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!â
âThis is my son,â said the old man; âhis nameâs George. He has a view too.â
âAh,â said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.
âWhat I mean,â he continued, âis that you can have our rooms, and weâll have yours. Weâll change.â
The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the newcomers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said âThank you very much indeed; that is out of the question.â
âWhy?â said the old man, with both fists on the table.
âBecause it is quite out of the question, thank you.â
âYou see, we donât like to takeâ ââ began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.
âBut why?â he persisted. âWomen like looking at a view; men donât.â And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son, saying, âGeorge, persuade them!â
âItâs so obvious they should have the rooms,â said the son. âThereâs nothing else to say.â
He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as âquite a scene,â and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but withâ âwell, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour.
Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub anyone so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, âAre you all like this?â And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating âWe are not; we are genteel.â
âEat your dinner, dear,â she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured.
Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite.
âEat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. Tomorrow we will make a change.â
Hardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table, cheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: âOh, oh! Why, itâs Mr. Beebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now, however bad the rooms are. Oh!â
Miss Bartlett said, with more restraint:
âHow do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peterâs that very cold Easter.â
The clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by Lucy.
âI am so glad to see you,â said the girl, who was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her cousin had permitted it. âJust fancy how small the world is. Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny.â
âMiss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street,â said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, âand she happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the livingâ ââ
âYes, I heard from mother so last week. She didnât know that I knew you at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: âMr. Beebe isâ ââââ
âQuite right,â said the clergyman. âI move into the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood.â
âOh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner.â Mr. Beebe bowed.
âThere is mother and me generally, and my brother, though itâs not often we get him to châ âThe church is rather far off, I mean.â
âLucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.â
âI am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it.â
He preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and he was first in the field. âDonât neglect the country round,â his advice concluded. âThe first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort.â
âNo!â cried a voice from the top of the table. âMr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato.â
âThat lady looks so clever,â whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. âWe are in luck.â
And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams, how to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter, how much the place would grow upon them. The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusiastically, that they would do. Whichever way they looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of the clever lady, crying: âPrato! They must go to Prato. That place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know.â
The young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do. Lucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that anyone should be left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.
The father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow, but by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across something.
She hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtainsâ âcurtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good evening to her guests, and supported by âEnery, her little boy, and Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South. And even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boardinghouse. Was this really Italy?
Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed armchair, which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr. Beebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. âWe are most grateful to you,â she was saying. âThe first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly mauvais quart dâheure.â
He expressed his regret.
âDo you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?â
âEmerson.â
âIs he a friend of yours?â
âWe are friendlyâ âas one is in pensions.â
âThen I will say no more.â
He pressed her very slightly, and she said more.
âI am, as it were,â she concluded, âthe chaperon of my young cousin, Lucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate. I hope I acted for the best.â
âYou acted very naturally,â said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: âAll the same, I donât think much harm would have come of accepting.â
âNo harm, of course. But we could not be under an obligation.â
âHe is rather a peculiar man.â Again he hesitated, and then said gently: âI think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the meritâ âif it is oneâ âof saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficultâ âat least, I find it difficultâ âto understand people who speak the truth.â
Lucy was pleased, and said: âI was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice.â
âI think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expectâ âI may say I hopeâ âyou will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put peopleâs backs up. He has no tact and no mannersâ âI donât mean by that that he has bad mannersâ âand he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it.â
âAm I to conclude,â said Miss Bartlett, âthat he is a Socialist?â
Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips.
âAnd presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?â
âI hardly know George, for he hasnât learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his fatherâs mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist.â
âOh, you relieve me,â said Miss Bartlett. âSo you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?â
âNot at all,â he answered; âI never suggested that.â
âBut ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?â
He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room.
âWas I a bore?â said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. âWhy didnât you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, Iâm sure. I do hope I havenât monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinnertime.â
âHe is nice,â exclaimed Lucy. âJust what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman.â
âMy dear Luciaâ ââ
âWell, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man.â
âFunny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe.â
âIâm sure she will; and so will Freddy.â
âI think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times.â
âYes,â said Lucy despondently.
There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of anyone, and added, âI am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion.â
And the girl again thought: âI must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor.â
Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sisterâs health, the necessity of closing the bedroom windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea, though one better than something else.
âBut here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English.â
âYet our rooms smell,â said poor Lucy. âWe dread going to bed.â
âAh, then you look into the court.â She sighed. âIf only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner.â
âI think he was meaning to be kind.â
âUndoubtedly he was,â said Miss Bartlett.
âMr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousinâs account.â
âOf course,â said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl.
Lucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it.
âAbout old Mr. Emersonâ âI hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same timeâ âbeautiful?â
âBeautiful?â said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. âAre not beauty and delicacy the same?â
âSo one would have thought,â said the other helplessly. âBut things are so difficult, I sometimes think.â
She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant.
âMiss Bartlett,â he cried, âitâs all right about the rooms. Iâm so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased.â
âOh, Charlotte,â cried Lucy to her cousin, âwe must have the rooms now. The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be.â
Miss Bartlett was silent.
âI fear,â said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, âthat I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference.â
Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: âMy own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then, Mr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?â
She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message.
âRemember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events.â
Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously:
âMr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead.â
The young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs.
âMy father,â he said, âis in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out.â
Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy.
âPoor young man!â said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.
âHow angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite.â
âIn half an hour or so your rooms will be ready,â said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary.
âOh, dear!â breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. âGentlemen sometimes do not realizeâ ââ Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedekerâs Handbook to Northern Italy, she committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine history. For she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said:
âI think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move.â
âHow you do do everything,â said Lucy.
âNaturally, dear. It is my affair.â
âBut I would like to help you.â
âNo, dear.â
Charlotteâs energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yetâ âthere was a rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.
âI want to explain,â said Miss Bartlett, âwhy it is that I have taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you; but I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it.â
Lucy was bewildered.
âIf you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this.â
âMother wouldnât mind Iâm sure,â said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues.
Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato, and the foothills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.
Miss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more.
âWhat does it mean?â she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing, obnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so, since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.
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