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看得见风景的房间|A Room With A View

Chapter 1 The Bertolini|Chapter 1 The Bertolini

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 爱德华.摩根.福斯特] 阅读：[641]
简介： A Room with a View is a 1908 novel by English writer E. M. Forster, about a young woman in the repressed culture of Edwardian England. Set in Italy and England, the story is both a romance and a critique of English society at the beginning...
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“房东太太这样做真没道理，”巴特利特小姐说，“绝对没道理。她答应过给我们看得见风景的朝南房间，两间连接在一起，可现在不是这样，房间是朝北的，望出去是一个院子，而且两个房间又相隔很远。唉，露西呀！”

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“再加上满口伦敦东区土话！”露西说，她没想到房东太太说的竟然是伦敦口音，这使她更加黯然了。“这就好像还在伦敦了。”她望着围坐在桌子①（译注：意大利的这种公寓 pensione 实为供应膳食的小旅馆，所有来宾围坐在一张长桌子边用餐。）旁的两排英国人；望着搁在英国人之间的一长排白色的瓶装清水和红色的瓶装葡萄酒；望着悬挂在英国人背后、装在厚实的宽边镜框里的已故女王②（译注：指维多利亚女王，于1901年去世，在位长达64年。）与已故桂冠诗人③（译注：指丁尼生1809-1892）的肖像；望着那张英国国教（由牛津大学硕士卡斯伯特·伊格副牧师签署）的通告，这是墙上除了肖像外的唯一装饰品。“夏绿蒂，你不也觉得我们像是还在伦敦吗？我简直不能相信其他形形色色的一切就在外面。我看这是因为太疲劳的缘故吧。”

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“这肉肯定煮过汤了，”巴特利特小姐放下叉子说。

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“我真想看看阿诺河④（译注：意大利中部一河流，从亚平宁山脉西麓向西，在比萨城南注入地中海，本书故事发生地点佛罗伦萨位于它的北岸。）啊！房东太太在信里答应给我们的房间该能俯瞰阿诺河。房东太太这样做绝对不讲道理。嘿，真不像话！”

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“随便什么角落，我都觉得无所谓，”巴特利特小姐继续说，“只是让你看不到风景，实在太扫兴了。”

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露西感到自己太自私了。“夏绿蒂，你可不能太宠我；当然，你也应该能看到阿诺河。我真是这样想的。等前面一有空房间——”

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“你就住下，”巴特利特小姐说，她的部分旅行费用是由露西的母亲负担的——对这一慷慨行动她已多次委婉得体地提起过。

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“不，不。该你住下。”

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“我坚持你住下。不然的话，你妈妈永远不会原谅我的，露西。”

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“她永远不会原谅的是我。”

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两位女士的嗓音变得有些激动了，并且——如果承认这一不幸的事实的话——略带一点怒气。她们很累了，在大公无私的幌子下，她们争吵起来。坐在她们旁边的一些旅客相互交换眼色，其中有一位——那是个人们在国外确实会遇到的那种缺乏教养的人——隔着桌子欠身向前，径自加入她们的争论。他说：

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“我的可以看到风景，我的可以看到风景。”

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巴特利特小姐吃了一惊。通常在一家供应膳宿的公寓里，人们对她们先要观察一两天，然后开口攀谈，而且往往要等她们走了才会发觉她们是“合适的”对象。她还没朝这插话的人看一眼，就知道此人缺乏教养。他是个上了年纪的人，身体健壮，脸色白皙，胡子剃得光光的，还长着一双大眼睛。这双眼睛带着几分稚气，但并不是老迈年高的人的那种稚气。那么这到底是什么，巴特利特小姐可没有加以考虑，因为她的视线已转移到他的衣服上去了。这身打扮对她没有丝毫吸引力。大概他想在她们加入那里的社交活动之前就结识她们。于是当他和她讲话时，她装出一副诧异的样子，然后说：“风景？哦，风景！风景使人多么高兴啊！”

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“这是我的儿子，”那个老头儿说，“他名叫乔治。他的也看得见风景。”

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巴特利特小姐“哦”了一声，阻止露西讲话，那时她正要开口。

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“我是想说，”他继续说，“你们可以住我们的房间，我们可以住你们的房间。我们交换好了。”

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身份较高的游客们对此感到震惊，他们都同情新来的人。巴特利特小姐在回答时把嘴尽可能张得很小：

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“确实非常感谢；不过那是不可能的。”

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“为什么？”老头儿说，他的两个拳头都撑在桌面上。

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“因为这是绝对不可能的，谢谢你。”

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“你知道，我们不愿意接——”露西开始解释。

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她的表姐又一次阻挡她。

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“可是为什么？”他固执地问。“女人喜欢看景色；男人不喜欢。”他像个顽皮孩子似的用双拳敲击桌子，然后转向他的儿子说，“乔治，说服她们！”

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“事情十分明显，她们应该住那两间房间，”儿子说。“其他没有什么可说的啦。”

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他讲话时没有朝这两位女士看，但是他的声音却有点惶惑与忧伤。露西也感到惶惑；不过她明白她们已卷入了人们称之为的“好一场风波”，并且有一种奇怪的感觉，只要这些缺乏教养的游客一开口讲话，争端就会扩大和加深，最后就不是什么房间与风景的问题，而是--哦，一个很不一样的问题了，她过去没有意识到会有这么个问题。此刻那个老头儿向巴特利特小姐进攻了，态度近乎粗暴：她为什么不肯换？她能提出什么反对意见？他们半小时就可以让出房间。

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巴特利特小姐虽然在谈吐方面善于玩弄辞令，但是面对粗暴，却是一筹莫展。企图用傲慢与冷淡来对付这样一位粗鲁的人，根本办不到。她的脸因愠怒而涨得红红的。她向四周扫了一眼，似乎在说，“难道你们都是这样的？”坐在靠近桌子另一端、披肩垂在椅子的靠背上的两位身材矮小的老太太，往这边看了看，清楚地暗示，“我们不是这样；我们是有教养的。”

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“亲爱的，用晚饭吧，”她对露西说，一面又开始拨弄那块曾经被她指责过的肉。

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露西咕哝着说坐在对面的那些人看来很古怪。

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“亲爱的，用晚饭吧。这家公寓实在太差劲了。明天我们换个地方。”

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她刚宣布这一灾难性的决定，又完全改变了主意。屋子尽头的门帘向两边分开，露出一位胖墩墩而却很引人注意的牧师，他急急忙忙走向前来，在桌旁坐定，兴致勃勃地为他的迟到向大家表示歉意。露西还没掌握得体的社交礼仪，竟马上站起来，嚷道，“噢，噢！原来是毕比先生！噢，真是太好了！噢，夏绿蒂，我们一定在这里住，房间再差也没有关系。噢！”

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巴特利特小姐显得拘谨得多，她说：

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“您好，毕比先生。我想您已经把我们忘了：是巴特利特小姐和霍尼彻奇小姐，在那个非常寒冷的复活节，您协助圣彼得教堂的教区牧师时，我们刚好在顿桥井①。(译注：英格兰东南部肯特郡一城市，有矿泉，是个避暑胜地。)”

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那位牧师的神情像是个度假者，她们虽然仍清楚地记得他，他却对她们记不大清楚了。不过他还是相当高兴地走上前来，接受露西招呼他坐下的那张椅子。

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“看到你我实在太高兴了，”姑娘说道。她正处在一种精神的饥饿状态中，只要她的表姐容许，她跟侍者打交道也会感到高兴的。“你看，这世界真小啊。还有夏街，使这一切变得特别有意思。”

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“霍尼彻奇小姐住在夏街教区，”巴特利特小姐插了一句，作为弥补，“碰巧她刚才在交谈中告诉我你已接受那个教区长的职位——”

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“是啊，上星期我从母亲的信中得悉了这回事。她不知道我在顿桥井就跟你结识；不过我立刻写了回信，信中说，‘毕比先生是——…

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“说得很对，”牧师说。“明年六月我将搬入在夏街的教区长住宅。我被派到这样富有魅力的地区工作，真是幸运。”

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“噢，我真高兴啊！我们家的房子名字叫风角。”

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毕比先生鞠了一躬。

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“妈妈和我一般总住在那儿，还有我的弟弟，虽然我们未能常常促使他去教——我是说，教堂离家相当远。”

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“露西，最亲爱的，让毕比先生用膳吧！”

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“我正在吃，谢谢，而且吃得津津有味。”

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他宁愿同露西而不愿同巴特利特小姐交谈，他记得听过露西弹钢琴，虽然巴特利特小姐很可能仍然记得他的布道。他问露西对佛罗伦萨是否熟悉，她相当详细地告诉他她从来也没有来过这里。指导一位新来的人给人乐趣，而在这方面他堪称首屈一指。

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“可别忽略了周围的乡野啊！”他的指导告一段落。“第一个晴天下午乘车到菲耶索莱去，在塞蒂涅诺附近兜一圈，或者类似这样的游览。”

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“不！”餐桌上首响起了一个声音。“毕比先生，您错了，第一个晴天下午您的女士们一定得去普拉托①（译注：位于佛罗伦萨西北约11英里，有古教堂及中世纪的城堡及宫殿等古迹。）。”

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“看来那位女士真聪明，”巴特利特小姐凑着她表妹的耳朵说。“我们走运了。”

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于是滔滔不绝的大量信息确实向她们涌来。人们告诉她们应该观光什么，什么时候去观光，如何使电车停下来，如何打发乞丐，买一个精制羔皮纸的吸墨水台要花多少钱，她们对这个地方将会如何着迷等等。整个贝尔托利尼公寓几乎是热情地一致认可了她俩。不管她们朝哪一个方向看，和气的太太小姐们都向她们微笑，大声同她们招呼。不过盖过这一切的却是那位聪明的女士的嗓音，正在大声疾呼：“普拉托！她们一定得去普拉托。那个地方邋遢得太可爱了，简直无法形容。我太喜欢那个地方了，你们知道我就喜欢摆脱体面给人的种种束缚。”

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那个唤做乔治的青年人对这聪明的女士扫了一眼，然后若有所思地重新转向他的食盘。显然，他与他的父亲属于不被认可的人。露西在社交上取得胜利的当儿，居然希望他们父子也被认可。有人遭到冷遇，又岂能为她增添欢乐？因此，她起身离开时，转身紧张不安地向这两位外人微微鞠了一躬。

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那个做父亲的没有看到；那儿子没有鞠躬还礼，却扬了扬眉毛，笑了笑，表示看到了；他似乎想通过微笑表达什么。

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她急忙尾随她的表姐，后者已穿过门帘消失了——这种门帘看起来比布料结实，打在人的脸上沉甸甸的。在她们前面站着那位靠不住的房东太太，正向客人们鞠躬表示晚安，由她的小男孩恩纳利和女儿维多利亚帮衬她。这位操着伦敦土话的太太企图这样来表达南方人的温文尔雅与高贵风度，这样的一幕小场面实在有点稀奇。但是更为稀奇的是这里的会客室，它竟试图与一家布卢姆斯伯里区（译注：伦敦一高级文化区。）的膳宿公寓在实际舒适方面比试高低。难道这里真是意大利吗？

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巴特利特小姐已经在一把坐垫和靠垫塞得满满的扶手椅上就座了。这椅子的颜色与形状像一只番茄。她正在和毕比先生谈话，讲着讲着，她那狭长的头不断慢慢地、有规律地前俯后仰，好像正在摧毁某种无形的障碍似的。“我们非常感谢您，”她说。“头一晚关系重大。您来到时，我们正经历一个特殊的困难时刻。”

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他表示遗憾。

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“你可知道吃饭时坐在我们对面的那位老人叫什么？”

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“艾默森。”

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“他是你的朋友吗？”

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“我们很友好—一就像在膳宿公寓里的一般情况。”

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“那我就不说了。”

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毕比先生稍加追问，她便说下去。

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“我，可以这样说吧，”她接着说完她要说的话，“是我的年轻表妹露西出入交际场合的陪伴，如果我让她接受我们一点也不了解的人的恩惠，那就是一件严重的事情啦。他的举止使我感到有点遗憾，我希望我这样做是为了大家好。”

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“你这样做是很自然的，”他说。他似乎在想些什么，过了一会儿，又补充道：“尽管如此，我认为接受了也不会有什么大害处。”

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“当然没有害处啰。不过我们不能欠人家情。”

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“他是个相当古怪的人。”他又迟疑了一下，然后轻声地讲下去，“我想他不会利用你接受他的好意。也不会要你表示感激之情。他有一个优点——如果可以说是优点的话——那就是：他嘴里说的正是他心里想的。他并不认为他的房间有什么了不起，他以为你们会认为是很有价值的。他根本没有想到要使你们欠他一笔情，就像他没有想到要做出有礼貌的样子一样。要理解那些讲真话的人真难——至少我觉得很难。”

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露西很高兴，说：“我刚才就盼望他是个好心肠的人，我真的一直盼望大家都有好心肠。”

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“我想他是这样的一个人；心肠好，但又使人讨厌。几乎在所有稍微重要的问题上，我的意见和他都不同，因此，我盼望——可以说我希望一你也会有不同的意见。不过对他这种人，你感到只是和他意见不同罢了，不大会感到遗憾的。他刚来时，便自然而然地使大家很不痛快。他一点不懂圆滑，也不讲礼貌——我这不是说他举止粗鲁——他这个人心里有话，就不吐不快。我们几乎要向我们那位扫兴的房东太太抱怨他，不过我高兴地说我们没有这样做。”

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“我该由此得出结论，”巴特利特小姐道，“他是个社会主义者吗？”

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毕比先生接受了这个现成的名词，不过他的嘴唇不免微微抽搐了一下。

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“而且可以假定他把儿子也培养成为一个社会主义者哕？”

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“对乔治我一点也不熟悉，因为他还没有学会谈天。他看上去人很好，我认为他很有头脑。当然哕，他的言谈举止各方面都具有他父亲的特征，因此很可能也是个社会主义者。”

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“哦，你使我放心了，”巴特利特小姐说。“因此你认为我刚才应该接受他们的建议哕？你认为我心胸狭窄、秉性多疑？”

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“一点儿也不，”他回答，“我完全没有这个意思。”

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“既然这样，我不是应该为我那明显的粗鲁行为道歉吗？”

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他有点不耐烦了，回答说大可不必，接着站了起来，走向吸烟室。

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他刚消失，巴特利特小姐就说，“难道我那样讨人厌？露西，你刚才为什么不说话？他喜欢青年人，我敢肯定。我确实希望我没有霸占他。我原先希望整个晚上和整个用晚餐期间都由你和他交谈呢！”

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“他人很好，”露西喊道。“我记得他就是这个样儿。看来他在每个人的身上都能看到优点。没有人会把他当作牧师的。”

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“我亲爱的露西——”

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“哦，你知道我是什么意思。你也知道牧师笑起来通常是什么样子的，可毕比先生笑起来就像个普通人。”

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“你这姑娘真逗！你可真使我想起了你的母亲。我不知道她对毕比先生是否会赞同。”

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“我肯定她会的，弗雷迪（译注：指她的弟弟。）也会的。”

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“我想在风角的每一个人都会赞同；那是个时髦的圈子啊。可是我习惯于顿桥井，那里我们都过时得到了不可救药的地步。”

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“是的，”露西失望地说。

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空气中似乎有一层不赞同的阴霾，但到底是不赞同她自己，还是不赞同毕比先生，不赞同风角这时髦圈子，抑或不赞同顿桥井的狭小天地，她不能确定。她试图确定不赞同的是什么东西，可是像往常一样，她又弄错了。巴特利特小姐着意否认不赞同任何人，并补充说，“我怕你感到我是个非常扫兴的伙伴吧！”

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姑娘又一次想：“我一定很自私，或许很刻薄；我必须多加小心。夏绿蒂境况不好，这对她太可怕了。”

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幸亏这时身材矮小的老太太中的一位朝她们走过来，她一直在慈祥地微笑着，问是否可以坐毕比先生刚才坐过的位子。在得到同意后，她便开始娓娓地谈起意大利来，她们到这里来是一次冒险，可是这次冒险非常成功，令人满意，她姐姐的健康有所好转，晚上必须把寝室的窗户关上，还谈到早上必须把热水瓶倒空。她掌握话题，恰如其分，这些话题也许比正在屋子另一头剧烈开展的有关归尔甫党人（译注：归尔甫党人，中世纪意大利一拥护教皇、反对神圣罗马帝国皇帝统治意大利的政党的成员。）与吉伯林党人（译注：吉伯林党人，中世纪意大利一反对教皇、支持神圣罗马帝国皇帝统治意大利的政党的成员。吉伯林党由贵族组成。）的高谈阔论更值得倾听。她在威尼斯的那一晚，在寝室里发现了一样比跳蚤更糟糕、然而比另一样东西要好一些的东西，那真是一场地道的灾难，而不仅仅是个偶发事件。

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“可你在这里像在英国一样安全；贝尔托利尼太太完全是英国气派。”

84
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“然而我们的房间有一股怪味，”可怜的露西说，“我们害怕上床睡觉。”

85
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“唉，你又只能看到院子。”她叹息了一声。“艾默森先生再委婉得体一些就好了。吃饭时我们真替你们难过。”

86
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“我想他的用心是好的。”

87
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“这毫无疑问，”巴特利特小姐说。“毕比先生刚才还在责备我生性多疑呢！当然哕，我是为了我的表妹才推却的。”

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“当然哕，”矮小的老太太说；接着两人低声言语，诉说和年轻姑娘在一起，再小心也不会过分。

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露西力图装出端庄的样子，不过不由得感到自己成了个大傻瓜。家里没有人为她多加小心的；或者说，不管怎么样，她没有留心到过这一点。

90
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“关于老艾默森先生——我不清楚。是的，他不够委婉得体：不过，有些人的行动很不文雅，可又是一顶美好的，你以前是否注意到这种情况？”

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“顶美好的？”巴特利特小姐说，对这个词感到大惑不解。“美好和文雅不是一回事吗？”

92
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“人们是这样想的，”对方无可奈何地说。“不过有些事情很不好办，我有时候这样想。”

93
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她没有就那些是什么事情谈下去，因为毕比先生又出现了，显出一副极为高兴的样子。

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“巴特利特小姐，”他高声喊道，“房间没有问题了。我真高兴。艾默森先生在吸烟室内谈起这问题，由于我心里有了底，就鼓励他再次提出交换房间。他让我前来问你。他会很高兴的。”

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“哦，夏绿蒂，”露西对她的表姐说，“现在我们一定要接受那两间房间了。老先生为人好得不能再好。”

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巴特利特小姐沉默不语。

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又过了一会儿，毕比先生说，“我怕我太多事了。我一定要为我的干预向你道歉。”

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毕比先生极为不悦，转身要走。这时巴特利特小姐才开口说，“我个人的愿望，亲爱的露西，和你的相比是无足轻重的。你在佛罗伦萨喜欢怎样玩，我要是加以阻挡，那确实太过分了，因为我所以能到这里来完全是出于你的好意。如果你希望我把那两位先生请出他们的房间，我愿意这样做。毕比先生，可否请你告诉艾默森先生，我接受他的好意，然后把他请过来，这样我可以亲自向他道谢？”

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她讲话时提高了嗓门；整个客厅都可以听到她讲的话，使有关归尔甫党人与吉伯林党人的讨论也停下来了。牧师先生心里在咒骂所有的女性，但仍然鞠了一躬，带着她的口信离开了。

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“露西，记住这件事只牵涉我一个人。我不愿意由你出面接受。无论如何，同意我这个请求吧！”

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毕比先生回来了，有些紧张地说：

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“艾默森先生现在有事，不过他的儿子来了。”

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这个青年人低下头看着三位女士，她们觉得好像坐在地板上，她们的椅子委实太矮了。

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“我的父亲，”他说，“在洗澡，所以你们无法向他本人道谢。不过你们如有什么口信要我带给他，等他一出来，我一定立即转告他。”

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提起洗澡，巴特利特小姐只好甘拜下风。她的所有带刺的客套话，一出口就会显得很不得体。小艾默森先生获得了一次明显的胜利，这使毕比先生很高兴，露西心中也暗暗高兴。

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“可怜的年轻人！”小艾默森刚走，巴特利特小姐马上说。“关于房间的事，他多么生他父亲的气啊！他尽了一切努力才能做到保持礼貌。”

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“过半小时左右你们的房间就会准备好的，”毕比先生说。接着，他对两位表姐妹若有所思地看了一眼，就回自己的房间去，把他的富有哲理性的日记写完。

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那位矮小的老太太轻轻地说了声“哦，天哪！”接着战颤了一下，似乎天空里所有的风都进入了公寓。“先生们有时候并没有觉察到——”她的声音逐渐消失，但是巴特利特小姐似乎懂了，谈话便继续下去，它的主要内容是关于并没有完全觉察到的先生们。露西也没有觉察，只好看起书来。她随手拿起一本贝德克的《意大利北部旅行指南》（译注：这是19世纪德国出版商卡尔·贝德克发行的旅行指南丛书中的一种），把佛罗伦萨历史上最重要的日期都一一记住。因为她下定决心要在第二天痛痛快快地玩一番。于是那半小时过得颇有收获，最后，巴特利特小姐叹了口气，站起来说：

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“我想现在可以放胆行动了。不，露西，你不要动。我来指挥这次搬房间。”

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“你真的把一切都包下来了，”露西说。

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“自然I罗，亲爱的。这是我的事情嘛。”

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“可是我很想帮你啊。”

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“不用，亲爱的。”

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夏绿蒂真是精力充沛！而且她毫无私心！她整个一生都是如此，不过说真的，这次来意大利旅游，她竟比过去更胜一筹，这是露西的感觉，或者说，她尽量这样想。然而——她身上有一股反抗精神，认为接受艾默森父子的好意原不必如此讲究，倒可以做得更加完美一些。不管怎样，她进入自己的房间时，心头没有一丝喜悦。

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“我想解释一下，”巴特利特小姐说，“我为什么住那间大房间。当然，我理应让你住那一间；不过我碰巧知道那间房间是那个青年人住过的，所以我敢肯定你妈妈不会喜欢的。”

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露西被搞糊涂了。

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“如果你打算接受他们的好意，那么你欠他父亲的情比欠他的情更合适些。我是个懂得世道的女人，尽管懂得不多，我知道事情会朝什么方向发展。无论如何毕比先生算得上是个保证人，保证他们不会对此有什么冒昧的举动。”

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“妈妈不会在乎的，我可以肯定，”露西说，但再一次感到这后面还有她没有想到的更大的问题存在。

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巴特利特小姐只是叹气，在跟露西道晚安时，把她整个儿搂在怀里，像是要保护她似的。这使露西产生一种被包在大雾里的感觉，等她回到了自己的房间，马上打开窗户，呼吸夜晚的清新空气，脑子里还在想那位好心肠的老人，让她能看到阿诺河上闪烁的灯火，还有圣米尼亚托教堂的苍柏，亚平宁山脉山麓的丘陵地带，衬着冉冉上升的月亮，一片黑沉沉的。

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巴特利特小姐在她房里把百叶窗闩紧，锁上了门，然后在房间里兜了一圈，看看几个柜子通到哪里，房间里有没有什么地下室或秘密入口处。就在此时，她看到盥洗盆的上方用大头针别着一张纸，上面草草划了个大问号。其他什么也没有。

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“这是什么意思？”她思索着，一面凭藉烛光，仔细地察看着。起先这个问号没有什么意思，它渐渐地变得咄咄逼人、十分可厌，包含着不祥的征兆。她突然一阵冲动，想把它撕毁，幸而想起她没有权利这样做。因为它一定是属于小艾默森先生的。于是她小心翼翼地把它取下来，夹在两张吸墨水纸中间，替他把纸保持干净。这以后，她完成了对房间的检查，出于习惯，深深地叹了一口气，然后上床。

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The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no 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!"

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"And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. "It might be London." 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. "Charlotte, don’t 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 one’s being so tired."

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"This meat has surely been used for soup," said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.

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"I 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!"

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"Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a view."

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Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front--"

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------"You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother--a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.

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"No, no. You must have it."

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"I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy."

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"She would never forgive me."

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The ladies’ voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:

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"I have a view, I have a view."

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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 "do" 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: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!"

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"This is my son," said the old man; "his name’s George. He has a view too."

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"Ah," said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.

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"What I mean," he continued, "is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll have yours. We’ll change."

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The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said "Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question."

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"Why?" said the old man, with both fists on the table.

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"Because it is quite out of the question, thank you."

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"You see, we don’t like to take--" began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.

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"But why?" he persisted. "Women like looking at a view; men don’t." And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son, saying, "George, persuade them!"

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"It’s so obvious they should have the rooms," said the son. "There’s nothing else to say."

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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 "quite a scene," 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 with--well, 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.

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Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, "Are you all like this?" 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 "We are not; we are genteel."

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"Eat your dinner, dear," she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured.

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Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite.

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"Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will make a change."

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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: "Oh, oh! Why, it’s Mr. Beebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now, however bad the rooms are. Oh!"

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Miss Bartlett said, with more restraint:

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"How 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. Peter’s that very cold Easter."

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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.

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"I AM so glad to see you," 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. "Just fancy how small the world is. Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny."

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"Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street," said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, "and she happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the living--"

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"Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn’t know that I knew you at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: ’Mr. Beebe is--’"

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"Quite right," said the clergyman. "I move into the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood."

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"Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner." Mr. Beebe bowed.

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"There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it’s not often we get him to ch-- The church is rather far off, I mean."

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"Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner."

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"I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it."

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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. "Don’t neglect the country round," his advice concluded. "The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort."

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"No!" cried a voice from the top of the table. "Mr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato."

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"That lady looks so clever," whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. "We are in luck."

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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: "Prato! 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."

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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 any one should be left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.

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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.

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She hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains--curtains 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 ’Enery, 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 boarding-house. Was this really Italy?

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Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, 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. "We are most grateful to you," she was saying. "The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly mauvais quart d’heure."

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He expressed his regret.

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"Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?"

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"Emerson."

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"Is he a friend of yours?"

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"We are friendly--as one is in pensions."

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"Then I will say no more."

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He pressed her very slightly, and she said more.

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"I am, as it were," she concluded, "the 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."

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"You acted very naturally," said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: "All the same, I don’t think much harm would have come of accepting."

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"No harm, of course. But we could not be under an obligation."

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"He is rather a peculiar man." Again he hesitated, and then said gently: "I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit--if it is one --of 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 difficult--at least, I find it difficult--to understand people who speak the truth."

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Lucy was pleased, and said: "I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice."

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"I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect--I may say I hope--you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people’s backs up. He has no tact and no manners--I don’t mean by that that he has bad manners--and 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."

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"Am I to conclude," said Miss Bartlett, "that he is a Socialist?"

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Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips.

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"And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?"

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"I hardly know George, for he hasn’t learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father’s mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist."

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"Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett. "So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?"

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"Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested that."

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"But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?"

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He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room.

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"Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. "Why didn’t you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I’m sure. I do hope I haven’t monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time."

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"He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to see good in every one. No one would take him for a clergyman."

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"My dear Lucia--"

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"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man."

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"Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe."

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"I’m sure she will; and so will Freddy."

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"I think every one at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times."

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"Yes," said Lucy despondently.

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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 any one, and added "I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion."

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And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor."

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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 sister’s health, the necessity of closing the bed-room 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.

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"But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English."

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"Yet our rooms smell," said poor Lucy. "We dread going to bed."

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"Ah, then you look into the court." She sighed. "If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner."

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"I think he was meaning to be kind."

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"Undoubtedly he was," said Miss Bartlett.

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"Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin’s account."

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"Of course," said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl.

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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.

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"About old Mr. Emerson--I 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 time--beautiful?"

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"Beautiful?" said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. "Are not beauty and delicacy the same?"

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"So one would have thought," said the other helplessly. "But things are so difficult, I sometimes think."

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She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant.

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"Miss Bartlett," he cried, "it’s all right about the rooms. I’m 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."

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"Oh, Charlotte," cried Lucy to her cousin, "we must have the rooms now. The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be."

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Miss Bartlett was silent.

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"I fear," said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, "that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference."

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Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: "My 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?"

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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.

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"Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events."

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Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously:

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"Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead."

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The young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs.

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"My father," he said, "is 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."

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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.

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"Poor young man!" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.

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"How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite."

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"In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready," said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary.

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"Oh, dear!" breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. "Gentlemen sometimes do not realize--" 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 Baedeker’s 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:

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"I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move."

108

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"How you do do everything," said Lucy.

109

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"Naturally, dear. It is my affair."

110

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"But I would like to help you."

111

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"No, dear."

112

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Charlotte’s 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 yet--there 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.

113

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"I want to explain," said Miss Bartlett, "why 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."

114

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Lucy was bewildered.

115

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"If 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. How- ever, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this."

116

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"Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure," said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues.

117

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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 foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.

118

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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.

119

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"What does it mean?" 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.

120

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