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 thinks--I
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
attitude towards the other sex, and preferred to be interested
rather than enthralled.
Lucy, for the third time, said that poor Charlotte would be
sopped. The Arno was rising in flood, washing away the traces of
the little carts upon the foreshore. But in the south-west there
had appeared a dull haze of yellow, which might mean better
weather if it did not mean worse. She opened the window to
inspect, and a cold blast entered the room, drawing a plaintive
cry from Miss Catharine Alan, who entered at the same moment by
the door.
"Oh, dear Miss Honeychurch, you will catch a chill! And Mr. Beebe
here besides. Who would suppose this is Italy? There is my sister
actually nursing the hot-water can; no comforts or proper
provisions."
She sidled towards them and sat down, self-conscious as she
always was on entering a room which contained one man, or a man
and one woman.
"I could hear your beautiful playing, Miss Honeychurch, though I
was in my room with the door shut. Doors shut; indeed, most
necessary. No one has the least idea of privacy in this country.
And one person catches it from another."
Lucy answered suitably. Mr. Beebe was not able to tell the ladies
of his adventure at Modena, where the chambermaid burst in upon
him in his bath, exclaiming cheerfully, "Fa niente, sono
vecchia." He contented himself with saying: "I quite agree with
you, Miss Alan. The Italians are a most unpleasant people. They
pry everywhere, they see everything, and they know what we want
before we know it ourselves. We are at their mercy. They read our
thoughts, they foretell our desires. From the cab-driver down
to--to Giotto, they turn us inside out, and I resent it. Yet in
their heart of hearts they are--how superficial! They have no
conception of the intellectual life. How right is Signora
Bertolini, who exclaimed to me the other day: 'Ho, Mr. Beebe, if
you knew what I suffer over the children's edjucaishion. HI
won't 'ave my little Victorier taught by a hignorant Italian
what can't explain nothink!'"
Miss Alan did not follow, but gathered that she was being mocked
in an agreeable way. Her sister was a little disappointed in Mr.
Beebe, having expected better things from a clergyman whose head
was bald and who wore a pair of russet whiskers. Indeed, who
would have supposed that tolerance, sympathy, and a sense of
humour would inhabit that militant form?
In the midst of her satisfaction she continued to sidle, and at
last the cause was disclosed. From the chair beneath her she
extracted a gun-metal cigarette-case, on which were powdered in
turquoise the initials "E. L."
"That belongs to Lavish." said the clergyman. "A good fellow,
Lavish, but I wish she'd start a pipe."
"Oh, Mr. Beebe," said Miss Alan, divided between awe and mirth.
"Indeed, though it is dreadful for her to smoke, it is not quite
as dreadful as you suppose. She took to it, practically in
despair, after her life's work was carried away in a landslip.
Surely that makes it more excusable."
"What was that?" asked Lucy.
Mr. Beebe sat back complacently, and Miss Alan began as follows:
"It was a novel--and I am afraid, from what I can gather, not a
very nice novel. It is so sad when people who have abilities
misuse them, and I must say they nearly always do. Anyhow, she
left it almost finished in the Grotto of the Calvary at the
Capuccini Hotel at Amalfi while she went for a little ink. She
said: 'Can I have a little ink, please?' But you know what
Italians are, and meanwhile the Grotto fell roaring on to the
beach, and the saddest thing of all is that she cannot remember
what she has written. The poor thing was very ill after it, and
so got tempted into cigarettes. It is a great secret, but I am
glad to say that she is writing another novel. She told Teresa
and Miss Pole the other day that she had got up all the local
colour--this novel is to be about modern Italy; the other was
historical--but that she could not start till she had an idea.
First she tried Perugia for an inspiration, then she came here--
this must on no account get round. And so cheerful through it
all! I cannot help thinking that there is something to admire in
every one, even if you do not approve of them."
Miss Alan was always thus being charitable against her better
judgment. A delicate pathos perfumed her disconnected remarks,
giving them unexpected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn
woods there sometimes rise odours reminiscent of spring. She felt
she had made almost too many allowances, and apologized hurriedly
for her toleration.
"All the same, she is a little too--I hardly like to say
unwomanly, but she behaved most strangely when the Emersons
arrived."
Mr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an anecdote which he
knew she would be unable to finish in the presence of a
gentleman.
"I don't know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss
Pole, the lady who has so much yellow hair, takes lemonade. That
old Mr. Emerson, who puts things very strangely--"
Her jaw dropped. She was silent. Mr. Beebe, whose social
resources were endless, went out to order some tea, and she
continued to Lucy in a hasty whisper:
"Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity, he called
it--and he may have meant to be kind. I must say I forgot myself
and laughed; it was so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no
laughing matter. But the point is that Miss Lavish was positively
ATTRACTED by his mentioning S., and said she liked plain
speaking, and meeting different grades of thought. She thought
they were commercial travellers--'drummers' was the word she
used--and all through dinner she tried to prove that England, our
great and beloved country, rests on nothing but commerce. Teresa
was very much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese,
saying as she did so: 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute
you better than I,' and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord
Tennyson. Then Miss Lavish said: 'Tut! The early Victorians.'
Just imagine! 'Tut! The early Victorians.' My sister had gone,
and I felt bound to speak. I said: 'Miss Lavish, I am an early
Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will hear no breath of
censure against our dear Queen.' It was horrible speaking. I
reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not
want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no
reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and
called in his deep voice: 'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman
for her Irish visit.' The woman! I tell things so badly; but you
see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on account of S.
having been mentioned in the first place. But that was not all.
After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said: 'Miss Alan, I
am going into the smoking-room to talk to those two nice men.
Come, too.' Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable
invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would
broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all
University men, except one who was in the army, who always made a
point of talking to commercial travellers."
"Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned.
"Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, every one, and finally
said: 'I shall go alone.' She went. At the end of five minutes
she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began
playing patience."
"Whatever happened?" cried Lucy.
"No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare
to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling."
"Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want
to know."
Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the
question for herself.
"No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I
do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?"
The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly.
Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by
saying:
"I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan,
after that business of the violets."
"Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things
get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot
forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce.
Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite
changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice."
Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to
introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had
failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to
them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly
hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding,
were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation,
would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had
given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he
gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly
concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their
own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows
and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be
championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After
all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension
sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his
parishioner.
Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she
thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them
now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved.
"But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?"
said the little lady inquisitively.
"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite
politely, of course."
"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must
find their level."
Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up
their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the
father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he
would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--
some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to
them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people
with happy memories.
Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter;
the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno
lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few
streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery
light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato
shone brilliantly in the declining sun.
"Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All
the galleries are shut."
"I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town
in the circular tram--on the platform by the driver."
Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible
for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:
"I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go
out alone, won't you be better on your feet?"
"Italians, dear, you know," said Miss Alan.
"Perhaps I shall meet some one who reads me through and
through!"
But they still looked disapproval, and she so far conceded to Mr.
Beebe as to say that she would only go for a little walk, and
keep to the street frequented by tourists.
"She oughtn't really to go at all," said Mr. Beebe, as they
watched her from the window, "and she knows it. I put it down to
too much Beethoven."