الفصل الفصل 6 · 第6章

The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,

Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and

Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians

Drive Them.

It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth

all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up

the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of

Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany

driving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on

the way, saying that she was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender

and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s cottage, and still

shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager

objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must

guard against imposition. But the ladies interceded, and when it had

been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was

allowed to mount beside the god.

Phaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus enabling

himself to drive with his arm round her waist. She did not mind. Mr.

Eager, who sat with his back to the horses, saw nothing of the

indecorous proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy. The

other two occupants of the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and Miss

Lavish. For a dreadful thing had happened: Mr. Beebe, without

consulting Mr. Eager, had doubled the size of the party. And though

Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how the

people were to sit, at the critical moment when the carriages came

round they lost their heads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while

Miss Bartlett, with George Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind.

It was hard on the poor chaplain to have his _partie carrée_ thus

transformed. Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated it,

was now impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain style about

them, and Mr. Beebe, though unreliable, was a man of parts. But a

shoddy lady writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife in the

sight of God—they should enter no villa at his introduction.

Lucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and nervous amid these

explosive ingredients, attentive to Mr. Eager, repressive towards Miss

Lavish, watchful of old Mr. Emerson, hitherto fortunately asleep,

thanks to a heavy lunch and the drowsy atmosphere of Spring. She looked

on the expedition as the work of Fate. But for it she would have

avoided George Emerson successfully. In an open manner he had shown

that he wished to continue their intimacy. She had refused, not because

she disliked him, but because she did not know what had happened, and

suspected that he did know. And this frightened her.

For the real event—whatever it was—had taken place, not in the Loggia,

but by the river. To behave wildly at the sight of death is pardonable.

But to discuss it afterwards, to pass from discussion into silence, and

through silence into sympathy, that is an error, not of a startled

emotion, but of the whole fabric. There was really something

blameworthy (she thought) in their joint contemplation of the shadowy

stream, in the common impulse which had turned them to the house

without the passing of a look or word. This sense of wickedness had

been slight at first. She had nearly joined the party to the Torre del

Gallo. But each time that she avoided George it became more imperative

that she should avoid him again. And now celestial irony, working

through her cousin and two clergymen, did not suffer her to leave

Florence till she had made this expedition with him through the hills.

Meanwhile Mr. Eager held her in civil converse; their little tiff was

over.

“So, Miss Honeychurch, you are travelling? As a student of art?”

“Oh, dear me, no—oh, no!”

“Perhaps as a student of human nature,” interposed Miss Lavish, “like

myself?”

“Oh, no. I am here as a tourist.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Eager. “Are you indeed? If you will not think me

rude, we residents sometimes pity you poor tourists not a little—handed

about like a parcel of goods from Venice to Florence, from Florence to

Rome, living herded together in pensions or hotels, quite unconscious

of anything that is outside Baedeker, their one anxiety to get ‘done’

or ‘through’ and go on somewhere else. The result is, they mix up

towns, rivers, palaces in one inextricable whirl. You know the American

girl in Punch who says: ‘Say, poppa, what did we see at Rome?’ And the

father replies: ‘Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the yaller

dog.’ There’s travelling for you. Ha! ha! ha!”

“I quite agree,” said Miss Lavish, who had several times tried to

interrupt his mordant wit. “The narrowness and superficiality of the

Anglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace.”

“Quite so. Now, the English colony at Florence, Miss Honeychurch—and it

is of considerable size, though, of course, not all equally—a few are

here for trade, for example. But the greater part are students. Lady

Helen Laverstock is at present busy over Fra Angelico. I mention her

name because we are passing her villa on the left. No, you can only see

it if you stand—no, do not stand; you will fall. She is very proud of

that thick hedge. Inside, perfect seclusion. One might have gone back

six hundred years. Some critics believe that her garden was the scene

of The Decameron, which lends it an additional interest, does it not?”

“It does indeed!” cried Miss Lavish. “Tell me, where do they place the

scene of that wonderful seventh day?”

But Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honeychurch that on the right

lived Mr. Someone Something, an American of the best type—so rare!—and

that the Somebody Elses were farther down the hill. “Doubtless you know

her monographs in the series of ‘Mediæval Byways’? He is working at

Gemistus Pletho. Sometimes as I take tea in their beautiful grounds I

hear, over the wall, the electric tram squealing up the new road with

its loads of hot, dusty, unintelligent tourists who are going to ‘do’

Fiesole in an hour in order that they may say they have been there, and

I think—think—I think how little they think what lies so near them.”

During this speech the two figures on the box were sporting with each

other disgracefully. Lucy had a spasm of envy. Granted that they wished

to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to do so. They were

probably the only people enjoying the expedition. The carriage swept

with agonizing jolts up through the Piazza of Fiesole and into the

Settignano road.

“Piano! piano!” said Mr. Eager, elegantly waving his hand over his

head.

“Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene,” crooned the driver, and whipped

his horses up again.

Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on the

subject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or

was he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind.

As the pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr.

Emerson was thrown against the chaplain with the regularity of a

machine.

“Piano! piano!” said he, with a martyred look at Lucy.

An extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. Phaethon, who for

some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded.

A little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was

most unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered to

disentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his _pourboire_, the girl

was immediately to get down.

“She is my sister,” said he, turning round on them with piteous eyes.

Mr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar.

Phaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation, but

at its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping

had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated,

and patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish,

though unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of

Bohemianism.

“Most certainly I would let them be,” she cried. “But I dare say I

shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the

conventions all my life. This is what _I_ call an adventure.”

“We must not submit,” said Mr. Eager. “I knew he was trying it on. He

is treating us as if we were a party of Cook’s tourists.”

“Surely no!” said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing.

The other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called

out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave

themselves properly.

“Leave them alone,” Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood

in no awe. “Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off

the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers—A king

might envy us, and if we part them it’s more like sacrilege than

anything I know.”

Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun

to collect.

Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a

resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the

driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream,

with unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In

Mr. Eager’s mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling

fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker,

and more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a

click.

“Signorina!” said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why

should he appeal to Lucy?

“Signorina!” echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed

at the other carriage. Why?

For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got

down from the box.

“Victory at last!” said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the

carriages started again.

“It is not victory,” said Mr. Emerson. “It is defeat. You have parted

two people who were happy.”

Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but

he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took

up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted

for support to his son.

“We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has

bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his

soul.”

Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as

typically British speaks out of his character.

“He was not driving us well,” she said. “He jolted us.”

“That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now.

Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is

justified. And if I were superstitious I’d be frightened of the girl,

too. It doesn’t do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of

Lorenzo de Medici?”

Miss Lavish bristled.

“Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to

Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of

his diminutive stature?”

“The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the

poet. He wrote a line—so I heard yesterday—which runs like this: ‘Don’t

go fighting against the Spring.’”

Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition.

“Non fate guerra al Maggio,” he murmured. “‘War not with the May’ would

render a correct meaning.”

“The point is, we have warred with it. Look.” He pointed to the Val

d’Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.

“Fifty miles of Spring, and we’ve come up to admire them. Do you

suppose there’s any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in

man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as

improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both.”

No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for

the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the

hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and

misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the

road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory

which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated,

wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the

fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had

ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an

eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he

had seen that view of the Val d’Arno and distant Florence, which he

afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where

exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to

solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything

problematical, had become equally enthusiastic.

But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in

your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting.

And the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest.

The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to

keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different

directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett

and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with

the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics

in common, were left to each other.

The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper

that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio

Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson

what his profession was, and he had answered “the railway.” She was

very sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be

such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had

turned the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man

was not very much hurt at her asking him.

“The railway!” gasped Miss Lavish. “Oh, but I shall die! Of course it

was the railway!” She could not control her mirth. “He is the image of

a porter—on, on the South-Eastern.”

“Eleanor, be quiet,” plucking at her vivacious companion. “Hush!

They’ll hear—the Emersons—”

“I can’t stop. Let me go my wicked way. A porter—”

“Eleanor!”

“I’m sure it’s all right,” put in Lucy. “The Emersons won’t hear, and

they wouldn’t mind if they did.”

Miss Lavish did not seem pleased at this.

“Miss Honeychurch listening!” she said rather crossly. “Pouf! Wouf! You

naughty girl! Go away!”

“Oh, Lucy, you ought to be with Mr. Eager, I’m sure.”

“I can’t find them now, and I don’t want to either.”

“Mr. Eager will be offended. It is your party.”

“Please, I’d rather stop here with you.”

“No, I agree,” said Miss Lavish. “It’s like a school feast; the boys

have got separated from the girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish to

converse on high topics unsuited for your ear.”

The girl was stubborn. As her time at Florence drew to its close she

was only at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent. Such a one

was Miss Lavish, and such for the moment was Charlotte. She wished she

had not called attention to herself; they were both annoyed at her

remark and seemed determined to get rid of her.

“How tired one gets,” said Miss Bartlett. “Oh, I do wish Freddy and

your mother could be here.”

Unselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely usurped the functions of

enthusiasm. Lucy did not look at the view either. She would not enjoy

anything till she was safe at Rome.

“Then sit you down,” said Miss Lavish. “Observe my foresight.”

With many a smile she produced two of those mackintosh squares that

protect the frame of the tourist from damp grass or cold marble steps.

She sat on one; who was to sit on the other?

“Lucy; without a moment’s doubt, Lucy. The ground will do for me.

Really I have not had rheumatism for years. If I do feel it coming on I

shall stand. Imagine your mother’s feelings if I let you sit in the wet

in your white linen.” She sat down heavily where the ground looked

particularly moist. “Here we are, all settled delightfully. Even if my

dress is thinner it will not show so much, being brown. Sit down, dear;

you are too unselfish; you don’t assert yourself enough.” She cleared

her throat. “Now don’t be alarmed; this isn’t a cold. It’s the tiniest

cough, and I have had it three days. It’s nothing to do with sitting

here at all.”

There was only one way of treating the situation. At the end of five

minutes Lucy departed in search of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager, vanquished

by the mackintosh square.

She addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in the

carriages, perfuming the cushions with cigars. The miscreant, a bony

young man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with the

courtesy of a host and the assurance of a relative.

“Dove?” said Lucy, after much anxious thought.

His face lit up. Of course he knew where. Not so far either. His arm

swept three-fourths of the horizon. He should just think he did know

where. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead and then pushed them

towards her, as if oozing with visible extract of knowledge.

More seemed necessary. What was the Italian for “clergyman”?

“Dove buoni uomini?” said she at last.

Good? Scarcely the adjective for those noble beings! He showed her his

cigar.

“Uno—piu—piccolo,” was her next remark, implying “Has the cigar been

given to you by Mr. Beebe, the smaller of the two good men?”

She was correct as usual. He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it to

make it stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded

his hat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than a quarter of

a minute was ready to conduct her. Italians are born knowing the way.

It would seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but

as a chess-board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces

as well as the squares. Any one can find places, but the finding of

people is a gift from God.

He only stopped once, to pick her some great blue violets. She thanked

him with real pleasure. In the company of this common man the world was

beautiful and direct. For the first time she felt the influence of

Spring. His arm swept the horizon gracefully; violets, like other

things, existed in great profusion there; “would she like to see them?”

“Ma buoni uomini.”

He bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceeded

briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. They

were nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing

round them, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into

countless pieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the

pliant boughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness. Not a

step, not a twig, was unimportant to her.

“What is that?”

There was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The voice

of Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian’s ignorance is

sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She could not make him

understand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view was

forming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, other

hills.

“Eccolo!” he exclaimed.

At the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of

the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little

open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end.

“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above.

“Courage and love.”

She did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view,

and violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating

the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into

pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But

never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the

well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the

earth.

Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.

But he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.

George had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he

contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant

joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue

waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and

kissed her.

Before she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,

“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss

Bartlett who stood brown against the view.