Chapter VI: The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager,Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss CharlotteBartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See aView; Italians Drive Them.
It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youthall irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master's horses upthe stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages ofFaith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscanydriving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up onthe way, saying that she was his sister--Persephone, tall and slenderand pale, returning with the Spring to her mother's cottage, and stillshading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected,saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guardagainst imposition. But the ladies interceded, and when it had been madeclear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mountbeside the god.
Phaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus enablinghimself 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 theindecorous proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy. Theother two occupants of the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and MissLavish. For a dreadful thing had happened: Mr. Beebe, without consultingMr. Eager, had doubled the size of the party. And though Miss Bartlettand Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how the people were to sit,at the critical moment when the carriages came round they lost theirheads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while Miss Bartlett, withGeorge Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind.
It was hard on the poor chaplain to have his partie carree thustransformed. Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated it,was now impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain style aboutthem, and Mr. Beebe, though unreliable, was a man of parts. But a shoddylady writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife in the sight ofGod--they should enter no villa at his introduction.
Lucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and nervous amid theseexplosive ingredients, attentive to Mr. Eager, repressive towards MissLavish, watchful of old Mr. Emerson, hitherto fortunately asleep, thanksto a heavy lunch and the drowsy atmosphere of Spring. She looked on theexpedition as the work of Fate. But for it she would have avoided GeorgeEmerson successfully. In an open manner he had shown that he wished tocontinue their intimacy. She had refused, not because she disliked him,but because she did not know what had happened, and suspected that hedid 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 startledemotion, but of the whole fabric. There was really something blameworthy(she thought) in their joint contemplation of the shadowy stream, in thecommon impulse which had turned them to the house without the passing ofa look or word. This sense of wickedness had been slight at first. Shehad nearly joined the party to the Torre del Gallo. But each time thatshe avoided George it became more imperative that she should avoidhim again. And now celestial irony, working through her cousin and twoclergymen, did not suffer her to leave Florence till she had made thisexpedition with him through the hills.
Meanwhile Mr. Eager held her in civil converse; their little tiff wasover.
"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, "likemyself?"
"Oh, no. I am here as a tourist."
"Oh, indeed," said Mr. Eager. "Are you indeed? If you will not think merude, we residents sometimes pity you poor tourists not a little--handedabout like a parcel of goods from Venice to Florence, from Florence toRome, living herded together in pensions or hotels, quite unconsciousof 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 girlin Punch who says: 'Say, poppa, what did we see at Rome?' And the fatherreplies: '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 tointerrupt his mordant wit. "The narrowness and superficiality of theAnglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace."
"Quite so. Now, the English colony at Florence, Miss Honeychurch--and itis of considerable size, though, of course, not all equally--a few arehere for trade, for example. But the greater part are students. LadyHelen Laverstock is at present busy over Fra Angelico. I mention hername because we are passing her villa on the left. No, you can only seeit if you stand--no, do not stand; you will fall. She is very proud ofthat thick hedge. Inside, perfect seclusion. One might have gone backsix hundred years. Some critics believe that her garden was the scene ofThe Decameron, which lends it an additional interest, does it not?"
"It does indeed!" cried Miss Lavish. "Tell me, where do they place thescene of that wonderful seventh day?"
But Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honeychurch that on the right livedMr. Someone Something, an American of the best type--so rare!--and thatthe Somebody Elses were farther down the hill. "Doubtless you knowher monographs in the series of 'Mediaeval Byways'? He is working atGemistus Pletho. Sometimes as I take tea in their beautiful grounds Ihear, over the wall, the electric tram squealing up the new road withits 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, andI 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 eachother disgracefully. Lucy had a spasm of envy. Granted that they wishedto misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to do so. They wereprobably the only people enjoying the expedition. The carriage sweptwith agonizing jolts up through the Piazza of Fiesole and into theSettignano road.
"Piano! piano!" said Mr. Eager, elegantly waving his hand over his head.
"Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene," crooned the driver, and whippedhis horses up again.
Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on thesubject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, orwas he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind. Asthe pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr. Emersonwas 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 sometime had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded.
A little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, wasmost unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered todisentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his pourboire, the girl wasimmediately 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, butat its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stoppinghad awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated, andpatted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish, thoughunwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism.
"Most certainly I would let them be," she cried. "But I dare say Ishall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of theconventions 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 istreating 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. Beebecalled out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behavethemselves properly.
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"Leave them alone," Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stoodin no awe. "Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off thebox when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers--A king mightenvy us, and if we part them it's more like sacrilege than anything Iknow."
Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begunto collect.
Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than aresolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed thedriver 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 whistlingfountain 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. Whyshould he appeal to Lucy?
"Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed atthe other carriage. Why?
For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone gotdown from the box.
"Victory at last!" said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as thecarriages started again.
"It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat. You have partedtwo people who were happy."
Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, buthe would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and tookup the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shoutedfor support to his son.
"We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargainedto 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 astypically 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 isjustified. 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 ofLorenzo de Medici?"
Miss Lavish bristled.
"Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or toLorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account ofhis 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 gofighting against the Spring.'"
Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition.
"Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the May' wouldrender a correct meaning."
"The point is, we have warred with it. Look." He pointed to the Vald'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 supposethere's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? Butthere 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 thecarriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill.A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and mistyolives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road,still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory whichstood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet,covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy ofAlessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascendedit, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye tobusiness, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seenthat view of the Val d'Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwardshad introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly hadhe stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. AndMiss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, hadbecome equally enthusiastic.
But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in yourhead, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting. Andthe haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest.
The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keeptogether being only equalled by their desire to go different directions.Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and MissLavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with thedrivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics incommon, were left to each other.
The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisperthat was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not AlessioBaldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emersonwhat his profession was, and he had answered "the railway." She was verysorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such adreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turnedthe conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was notvery much hurt at her asking him.
"The railway!" gasped Miss Lavish. "Oh, but I shall die! Of course itwas the railway!" She could not control her mirth. "He is the image of aporter--on, on the South-Eastern."
"Eleanor, be quiet," plucking at her vivacious companion. "Hush! They'llhear--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, andthey wouldn't mind if they did."
Miss Lavish did not seem pleased at this.
"Miss Honeychurch listening!" she said rather crossly. "Pouf! Wouf! Younaughty 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 boyshave got separated from the girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish toconverse on high topics unsuited for your ear."
The girl was stubborn. As her time at Florence drew to its close she wasonly at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent. Such a one wasMiss Lavish, and such for the moment was Charlotte. She wished she hadnot called attention to herself; they were both annoyed at her remarkand seemed determined to get rid of her.
"How tired one gets," said Miss Bartlett. "Oh, I do wish Freddy and yourmother could be here."
Unselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely usurped the functions ofenthusiasm. Lucy did not look at the view either. She would not enjoyanything 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 thatprotect 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. ReallyI have not had rheumatism for years. If I do feel it coming on I shallstand. Imagine your mother's feelings if I let you sit in the wetin your white linen." She sat down heavily where the ground lookedparticularly moist. "Here we are, all settled delightfully. Even if mydress is thinner it will not show so much, being brown. Sit down, dear;you are too unselfish; you don't assert yourself enough." She clearedher throat. "Now don't be alarmed; this isn't a cold. It's the tiniestcough, and I have had it three days. It's nothing to do with sittinghere at all."
There was only one way of treating the situation. At the end of fiveminutes Lucy departed in search of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager, vanquishedby the mackintosh square.
She addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in thecarriages, perfuming the cushions with cigars. The miscreant, a bonyyoung man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with the courtesyof 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 armswept
three-fourths of the horizon. He should just think he did knowwhere. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead and then pushed themtowards 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 hiscigar.
"Uno--piu--piccolo," was her next remark, implying "Has the cigar beengiven 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 makeit stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded hishat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than a quarter of aminute was ready to conduct her. Italians are born knowing the way. Itwould seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but as achess-board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces as wellas the squares. Any one can find places, but the finding of people is agift from God.
He only stopped once, to pick her some great blue violets. She thankedhim with real pleasure. In the company of this common man the worldwas beautiful and direct. For the first time she felt the influenceof Spring. His arm swept the horizon gracefully; violets, like otherthings, existed in great profusion there; "would she like to see them?"
"Ma buoni uomini."
He bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceededbriskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. Theywere nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing roundthem, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into countlesspieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the pliantboughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not atwig, was unimportant to her.
"What is that?"
There was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The voiceof Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian's ignorance issometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She could not make himunderstand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view wasforming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, otherhills.
"Eccolo!" he exclaimed.
At the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out ofthe wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a littleopen 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, irrigatingthe hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting intopools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. Butnever 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 hecontemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiantjoy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in bluewaves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward andkissed 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 Bartlettwho stood brown against the view.