a room with a view- 第6部分

side　of　the　everlasting　Why　there　is　a　Yesa　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！



〃I'm　very　sorry；〃　she　cried。　〃You'll　think　me　unfeeling；　butbut

〃　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　esthetically；　before　she　lost　Baedeker。　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。〃



〃I　see。　Those　gossiping　little　Miss　Alans　must　have〃　She

checked　herself。



〃Poor　girl！〃　exploded　Mr。　Emerson。　〃Poor　girl！〃



She　could　not　let　this　pass；　for　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。　Good…bye。　Thank　you　both　so　much　for　all

your　kindness。　Ah；　yes！　there　does　come　my　cousin。　A　delightful

morning！　Santa　Croce　is　a　wonderful　church。〃



She　joined　her　cousin。







Chapter　III：　Music；　Violets；　and　the　Letter　〃S〃



It　so　happened　that　Lucy；　who　found　daily　life　rather　chaotic；

entered　a　more　solid　world　when　she　opened　the　piano。　She　was

then　no　longer　either　deferential　or　patronizing；　no　longer

either　a　rebel　or　a　slave。　The　kingdom　of　music　is　not　the

kingdom　of　this　world；　it　will　accept　those　whom　breeding　and

intellect　and　culture　have　alike　rejected。　The　commonplace　person

begins　to　play；　and　shoots　into　the　empyrean　without　effort；

whilst　we　look　up；　marvelling　how　he　has　escaped　us；　and　thinking

how　we　could　worship　him　and　love　him；　would　he　but　translate　his

visions　into　human　words；　and　his　experiences　into　human　actions。

Perhaps　he　cannot；　certainly　he　does　not；　or　does　so　very　seldom。

Lucy　had　done　so　never。



She　was　no　dazzling　executante；　her　runs　were　not　at　all　like

strings　of　pearls；　and　she　struck　no　more　right　notes　than　was

suitable　for　one　of　her　age　and　situation。　Nor　was　she　the

passionate　young　lady；　who　performs　so　tragically　on　a　summer's

evening　with　the　window　open。　Passion　was　there；　but　it　could　not

be　easily　labelled；　it　slipped　between　love　and　hatred　and

jealousy；　and　all　the　furniture　of　the　pictorial　style。　And　she

was　tragical　only　in　the　sense　that　she　was　great；　for　she　loved

to　play　on　the　side　of　Victory。　Victory　of　what　and　over　what

that　is　more　than　the　words　of　daily　life　can　tell　us。　But　that

some　sonatas　of　Beethoven　are　written　tragic　no　one　can　gainsay；

yet　they　can　triumph　or　despair　as　the　player　decides；　and　Lucy

had　decided　that　they　should　triumph。



A　very　wet　afternoon　at　the　Bertolini　permitted　her　to　do　the

thing　she　really　liked；　and　after　lunch　she　opened　the　little

draped　piano。　A　few　people　lingered　round　and　praised　her

playing；　but　finding　that　she　made　no　reply；　dispersed　to　their

rooms　to　write　up　their　diaries　or　to　sleep。　She　took　no　notice

of　Mr。　Emerson　looking　for　his　son；　nor　of　Miss　Bartlett　looking

for　Miss　Lavish；　nor　of　Miss　Lavish　looking　for　her

cigarette…case。　Like　every　true　performer；　she　was　intoxicated　by

the　mere　feel　of　the　notes：　they　were　fingers　caressing　her　own；

and　by　touch；　not　by　sound　alone；　did　she　come　to　her　desire。



Mr。　Beebe；　sitting　unnoticed　in　the　window；　pondered　this

illogical　element　in　Miss　Honeychurch；　and　recalled　the　occasion

at　Tunbridge　Wells　when　he　had　discovered　it。　It　was　at　one　of

those　entertainments　where　the　upper　classes　entertain　the　lower。

The　seats　were　filled　with　a　respectful　audience；　and　the　ladies

and　gentlemen　of　the　parish；　under　the　auspices　of　their　vicar；

sang；　or　recited；　or　imitated　the　drawing　of　a　champagne　cork。

Among　the　promised　items　was　〃Miss　Honeychurch。　Piano。

Beethoven；〃　and　Mr。　Beebe　was　wondering　whether　it　would　be

Adelaida；　or　the　march　of　The　Ruins　of　Athens；　when　his　composure

was　disturbed　by　the　opening　bars　of　Opus　III。　He　was　in　suspense

all　through　the　introduction；　for　not　until　the　pace　quickens

does　one　know　what　the　performer　intends。　With　the　roar　of　the

opening　theme　he　knew　that　things　were　going　extraordinarily；　in

the　chords　that　herald　the　conclusion　he　heard　the　hammer　strokes

of　victory。　He　was　glad　that　she　only　played　the　first　movement；

for　he　could　have　paid　no　attention　to　the　winding　intricacies　of

the　measures　of　nine…sixteen。　The　audience　clapped；　no　less

respectful。　It　was　Mr。　Beebe　who　started　the　stamping；　it　was　all

that　one　could　do。



〃Who　is　she？〃　he　asked　the　vicar　afterwards。



〃Cousin　of　one　of　my　parishioners。　I　do　not　consider　her　choice

of　a　piece　happy。　Beethoven　is　so　usually　simple　and　direct　in

his　appeal　that　it　is　sheer　perversity　to　choose　a　thing　like

that；　which；　if　anything；　disturbs。〃



〃Introduce　me。〃



〃She　will　be　delighted。　She　and　Miss　Bartlett　are　full　of　the

praises　of　your　sermon。〃



〃My　sermon？〃　cried　Mr。　Beebe。　〃Why　ever　did　she　listen　to　it？〃



When　he　was　introduced　he　understood　why；　for　Miss　Honeychurch；

disjoined　from　her　music　stool；　was　only　a　young　lady　with　a

quantity　of　dark　hair　and　a　very　pretty；　pale；　undeveloped　face。

She　loved　going　to　concerts；　she　loved　stopping　with　her　cousin；

she　loved　iced　coffee　and　meringues。　He　did　not　doubt　that　she

loved　his　sermon　also。　But　before　he　left　Tunbridge　Wells　he　made

a　remark　to　the　vicar；　which　he　now　made　to　Lucy　herself　when　she

closed　the　little　piano　and　moved　dreamily　towards　him：



〃If　Miss　Honeychurch　ever　takes　to　live　as　she　plays；　it　will　be

very　exciting　both　for　us　and　for　her。〃



Lucy　at　once　re…entered　daily　life。



〃Oh；　what　a　funny　thing！　Some　one　said　just　the　same　to　mother；

and　she　said　she　trusted　I　should　never　live　a　duet。〃



〃Doesn't　Mrs。　Honeychurch　like　music？〃



〃She　doesn't　mind　it。　But　she　doesn't　like　one　to　get　excited

over　anything；　she　thinks　I　am　silly　about　it。　She　thinksI

can't　make　out。　Once；　you　know；　I　said　that　I　liked　my　own

playing　better　than　any　one's。　She　has　never　got　over　it。　Of

course；　I　didn't　mean　that　I　played　well；　I　only　meant〃



〃Of　course；〃　said　he；　wondering　why　she　bothered　to　explain。



〃Music〃　said　Lucy；　as　if　attempting　some　generality。　She　could

not　complete　it；　and　looked　out　absently　upon　Italy　in　the　wet。

The　whole　life　of　the　South　was　disorganized；　and　the　most

graceful　nation　in　Europe　had　turned　into　formless　lumps　of

clothes。



The　street　and　the　river　were　dirty　yellow；　the　bridge　was　dirty

grey；　and　the　hills　were　dirty　purple。　Somewhere　in　their　folds

were　concealed　Miss　Lavish　and　Miss　Bartlett；　who　had　chosen　this

afternoon　to　visit　the　Torre　del　Gallo。



〃What　about　music？〃　said　Mr。　Beebe。



〃Poor　Charlotte　will　be　sopped；〃　was　Lucy's　reply。



The　expedition　was　typical　of　Miss　Bartlett；　who　would　return

cold；　tired；　hungry；　and　angelic；　with　a　ruined　skirt；　a　pulpy

Baedeker；　and　a　tickling　cough　in　her　throat。　On　another　day；

when　the　whole　world　was　singing　and　the　air　ran　into　the　mouth。

like　wine；　she　would　refuse　to　stir　from　the　drawing…room；　saying

that　she　was　an　old　thing；　and　no　fit　companion　for　a　hearty

girl。



〃Miss　Lavish　has　led　your　cousin　astray。　She　hopes　to　find　the

true　Italy　in　the　wet　I　believe。〃



〃Miss　Lavish　is　so　original；〃　murmured　Lucy。　This　was　a　stock

remark；　the　supreme　achievement　of　the　Pension　Bertolini　in　the

way　of　definition。　Miss　Lavish　was　so　original。　Mr。　Beebe　had　his

doubts；　but　they　would　have　been　put　down　to　clerical　narrowness。

For　that；　and　for　other　reasons；　he　held　his　peace。



〃Is　it　true；〃　continued　Lucy　in　awe…struck　tone；　〃that　Miss

Lavish　is　writing　a　book？〃



〃They　do　say　so。〃



〃What　is　it　about？〃



〃It　will　be　a　novel；〃　replied　Mr。　Beebe；　〃dealing　with　modern

Italy。　Let　me　refer　you　for　an　account　to　Miss　Catharine　Alan；

who　uses　words　herself　more　admirably　than　any　one　I　know。〃



〃I　wish　Miss　Lavish　would　tell　me　herself。　We　started　such

friends。　But　I　don't　think　she　ought　to　have　run　away　with

Baedeker　that　morning　in　Santa　Croce。　Charlotte　was　most　annoyed

at　finding　me　practically　alone；　and　so　I　couldn't　help　being　a

little　annoyed　with　Miss　Lavish。〃



〃The　two　ladies；　at　all　events；　have　made　it　up。〃



He　was　interested　in　the　sudden　friendship　between　women　so

apparently　dissimilar　as　Miss　Bartlett　and　Miss　Lavish。　They　were

always　in　each　other's　company；　with　Lucy　a　slighted　third。　Miss

Lavish　he　believed　he　understood；　but　Miss　Bartlett　might　reveal

unknown　depths　of　strangeness；　though　not　perhaps；　of　meaning。

Was　Italy　deflecting　her　from　the　path　of　prim　chaperon；　which　he

had　assigned　to　her　at　Tunbridge　Wells？　All　his　life　he　had　loved

to　study　maiden　ladies；　they　were　his　specialty；　and　his

profession　had　provided　him　with　ample　opportunities　for　the

work。　Girls　like　Lucy　were　charming　to　look　at；　but　Mr。　Beebe

was；　from　rather　profound　reasons；　somewhat　chilly　in　his

attit