Chapter III: Music, Violets, and the Letter "S"
It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entereda more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longereither deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave.The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will acceptthose whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. Thecommonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean withouteffort, whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, andthinking how we could worship him and love him, would he but translatehis visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions.Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucyhad done so never.
She was no dazzling executante; her runs were not at all like strings ofpearls, and she struck no more right notes than was suitable for oneof her age and situation. Nor was she the passionate young lady, whoperforms so tragically on a summer's evening with the window open.Passion was there, but it could not be easily labelled; it slippedbetween love and hatred and jealousy, and all the furniture of thepictorial style. And she was tragical only in the sense that she wasgreat, for she loved to play on the side of Victory. Victory of what andover what--that is more than the words of daily life can tell us. Butthat some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragic no one can gainsay;yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides, and Lucy haddecided that they should triumph.
A very wet afternoon at the Bertolini permitted her to do the thing shereally liked, and after lunch she opened the little draped piano. A fewpeople lingered round and praised her playing, but finding that shemade no reply, dispersed to their rooms to write up their diaries orto sleep. She took no notice of Mr. Emerson looking for his son, nor ofMiss Bartlett looking for Miss Lavish, nor of Miss Lavish looking forher cigarette-case. Like every true performer, she was intoxicated bythe mere feel of the notes: they were fingers caressing her own; and bytouch, not by sound alone, did she come to her desire.
Mr. Beebe, sitting unnoticed in the window, pondered this illogicalelement in Miss Honeychurch, and recalled the occasion at TunbridgeWells when he had discovered it. It was at one of those entertainmentswhere the upper classes entertain the lower. The seats were filled witha respectful audience, and the ladies and gentlemen of the parish, underthe auspices of their vicar, sang, or recited, or imitated the drawingof a champagne cork. Among the promised items was "Miss Honeychurch.Piano. Beethoven," and Mr. Beebe was wondering whether it would beAdelaida, or the march of The Ruins of Athens, when his composurewas disturbed by the opening bars of Opus III. He was in suspense allthrough the introduction, for not until the pace quickens does one knowwhat the performer intends. With the roar of the opening theme he knewthat things were going extraordinarily; in the chords that herald theconclusion he heard the hammer strokes of victory. He was glad that sheonly played the first movement, for he could have paid no attention tothe winding intricacies of the measures of nine-sixteen. The audienceclapped, 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 apiece happy. Beethoven is so usually simple and direct in his appealthat it is sheer perversity to choose a thing like that, which, ifanything, disturbs."
"Introduce me."
"She will be delighted. She and Miss Bartlett are full of the praises ofyour 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 ofdark hair and a very pretty, pale, undeveloped face. She loved going toconcerts, she loved stopping with her cousin, she loved iced coffee andmeringues. He did not doubt that she loved his sermon also. But beforehe left Tunbridge Wells he made a remark to the vicar, which he nowmade to Lucy herself when she closed the little piano and moved dreamilytowards him:
"If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be veryexciting 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 shesaid 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 overanything; she thinks I am silly about it. She thinks--I can't makeout. Once, you know, I said that I liked my own playing better than anyone's. She has never got over it. Of course, I didn't mean that I playedwell; I only meant--"
"Of course," said he, wondering why she bothered to explain.
"Music--" said Lucy, as if attempting some generality. She could notcomplete it, and looked out absently upon Italy in the wet. The wholelife of the South was disorganized, and the most graceful nation inEurope 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 concealedMiss Lavish and Miss Bartlett, who had chosen this afternoon to visitthe 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, anda tickling cough in her throat. On another day, when the whole world wassinging and the air ran into the mouth, like wine, she would refuse tostir from the drawing-room, saying that she was an old thing, and no fitcompanion for a hearty girl.
"Miss Lavish has led your cousin astray. She hopes to find the trueItaly 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 ofdefinition. Miss Lavish was so original. Mr. Beebe had his doubts, butthey would have been put down to clerical narrowness. For that, and forother reasons, he held his peace.
"Is it true," continued Lucy in awe-struck tone, "that Miss Lavish iswriting 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 wordsherself more admirably than any one I know."
"I wish Miss Lavish would tell me herself. We started such friends. ButI don't think she ought to have run away with Baedeker that morning inSanta 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 apparentlydissimilar as Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish. They were always in eachother's company, with Lucy a slighted third. Miss Lavish he believedhe understood, but Miss Bartlett might reveal unknown depths ofstrangeness, though not perhaps, of meaning. Was Italy deflectingher from the path of prim chaperon, which he had assigned to her atTunbridge Wells? All his life he had loved to study maiden ladies;they were his specialty, and his profession had provided him with ampleopportunities for the work. Girls like Lucy were charming to look at,but Mr. Beebe was, from rather profound reasons, somewhat chilly in hisattitude towards the other sex, and preferred to be interested ratherthan enthralled.
Lucy, for the third time, said that poor Charlotte would be sopped. TheArno was rising in flood, washing away the traces of the little cartsupon the foreshore. But in the south-west there had appeared a dull hazeof yellow, which might mean better weather if it did not mean worse. Sheopened the window to inspect, and a cold blast entered the room, drawinga plaintive cry from Miss Catharine Alan, who entered at the same momentby the door.
"Oh, dear Miss Honeychurch, you will catch a chill! And Mr. Beebe herebesides. Who would suppose this is Italy? There is my sister actuallynursing the hot-water can; no comforts or proper provisions."
She sidl
ed towards them and sat down, self-conscious as she always wason entering a room which contained one man, or a man and one woman.
"I could hear your beautiful playing, Miss Honeychurch, though I was inmy room with the door shut. Doors shut; indeed, most necessary. No onehas the least idea of privacy in this country. And one person catches itfrom another."
Lucy answered suitably. Mr. Beebe was not able to tell the ladies ofhis adventure at Modena, where the chambermaid burst in upon him in hisbath, exclaiming cheerfully, "Fa niente, sono vecchia." He contentedhimself with saying: "I quite agree with you, Miss Alan. The Italiansare a most unpleasant people. They pry everywhere, they see everything,and they know what we want before we know it ourselves. We are at theirmercy. They read our thoughts, they foretell our desires. From thecab-driver down to--to Giotto, they turn us inside out, and I resentit. Yet in their heart of hearts they are--how superficial! They have noconception of the intellectual life. How right is Signora Bertolini, whoexclaimed to me the other day: 'Ho, Mr. Beebe, if you knew what I sufferover the children's edjucaishion. HI won't 'ave my little Victoriertaught by a hignorant Italian what can't explain nothink!'"
Miss Alan did not follow, but gathered that she was being mocked in anagreeable way. Her sister was a little disappointed in Mr. Beebe, havingexpected better things from a clergyman whose head was bald and whowore a pair of russet whiskers. Indeed, who would have supposed thattolerance, sympathy, and a sense of humour would inhabit that militantform?
In the midst of her satisfaction she continued to sidle, and at lastthe cause was disclosed. From the chair beneath her she extracteda gun-metal cigarette-case, on which were powdered in turquoise theinitials "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 asyou suppose. She took to it, practically in despair, after herlife's work was carried away in a landslip. Surely that makes it moreexcusable."
"What was that?" asked Lucy.
Mr. Beebe sat back complacently, and Miss Alan began as follows: "It wasa 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 saythey nearly always do. Anyhow, she left it almost finished in the Grottoof the Calvary at the Capuccini Hotel at Amalfi while she went for alittle ink. She said: 'Can I have a little ink, please?' But you knowwhat Italians are, and meanwhile the Grotto fell roaring on to thebeach, and the saddest thing of all is that she cannot remember what shehas written. The poor thing was very ill after it, and so got temptedinto cigarettes. It is a great secret, but I am glad to say that she iswriting another novel. She told Teresa and Miss Pole the other day thatshe had got up all the local colour--this novel is to be about modernItaly; the other was historical--but that she could not start till shehad an idea. First she tried Perugia for an inspiration, then she camehere--this must on no account get round. And so cheerful through it all!I cannot help thinking that there is something to admire in everyone,even if you do not approve of them."
Miss Alan was always thus being charitable against her better judgement.A delicate pathos perfumed her disconnected remarks, giving themunexpected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn woods there sometimesrise odours reminiscent of spring. She felt she had made almost too manyallowances, and apologized hurriedly for her toleration.
"All the same, she is a little too--I hardly like to say unwomanly, butshe behaved most strangely when the Emersons arrived."
Mr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an anecdote which he knew shewould be unable to finish in the presence of a gentleman.
"I don't know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss Pole, thelady 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 wereendless, went out to order some tea, and she continued to Lucy in ahasty whisper:
"Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity, he called it--andhe may have meant to be kind. I must say I forgot myself and laughed; itwas so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no laughing matter. But thepoint is that Miss Lavish was positively ATTRACTED by his mentioningS., and said she liked plain speaking, and meeting different grades ofthought. She thought they were commercial travellers--'drummers' was theword she used--and all through dinner she tried to prove that England,our great and beloved country, rests on nothing but commerce. Teresa wasvery much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese, saying as shedid so: 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute you better than I,'and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then MissLavish said: 'Tut! The early Victorians.' Just imagine! 'Tut! The earlyVictorians.' 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, Iwill hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.' It was horriblespeaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she didnot 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 deepvoice: 'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.' Thewoman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were inby this time, all on account of S. having been mentioned in the firstplace. But that was not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came upand said: 'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to thosetwo nice men. Come, too.' Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitableinvitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it wouldbroaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all Universitymen, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talkingto commercial travellers."
"Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned.
"Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said:'I shall go alone.' She went. At the end of five minutes she returnedunobtrusively 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 totell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling."
"Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want toknow."
Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question forherself.
"No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do notmind 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, afterthat business of the violets."
"Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things getround? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget howthey behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor MissHoneychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOTlike the Emersons. They are not nice."
Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introducethe Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He wasalmost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, whorepresented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans,who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smartingunder an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy wasdifferent. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in SantaCroce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possiblyconcerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their ownstrange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys.This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by ayoung girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothingabout 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 theEmersons were nice; not
that she saw anything of them now. Even theirseats at dinner had been moved.
"But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" saidthe little lady inquisitively.
"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quitepolitely, of course."
"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find theirlevel."
Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up theirattempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father wasalmost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan apleasant 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'schief pleasures to provide people with happy memories.
Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; thecolours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost itsmuddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks ofbluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon theearth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly inthe declining sun.
"Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All thegalleries are shut."
"I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town in thecircular tram--on the platform by the driver."
Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for herin the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:
"I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go outalone, won't you be better on your feet?"
"Italians, dear, you know," said Miss Alan.
"Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!"
But they still looked disapproval, and she so far conceded to Mr. Beebeas to say that she would only go for a little walk, and keep to thestreet frequented by tourists.
"She oughtn't really to go at all," said Mr. Beebe, as they watchedher from the window, "and she knows it. I put it down to too muchBeethoven."
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