“Ma buoni uomini.”
He bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceeded briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. They were nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing round them, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into countless pieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the pliant boughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not a twig, was unimportant to her.
“What is that?”
There was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The voice of Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian’s ignorance is sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She could not make him understand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view was forming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, other hills.
“Eccolo!” he exclaimed.
At the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open 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, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never 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 he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward, clasped his arms around her body, and kissed her.
Unlike their meeting in the upper hallway, he kissed her with a raging passion. No delicate introduction, not this time.
Lucy fell weak in his arms … weak … succumbing to his strength.
With his mouth pressed firmly against hers, he slipped between the pleats of her lips to capture her tongue in his and began swirling wildly as if on fire. All the world seemed to dance below their feet and the heavens above seemed to open their gates.
When their lips finally did part, George happily spoke. “You came to me, my darling.”
“George, I — ”
With no words sufficient, he swooped her off her feet and cradled her body ever so close to his. He twirled her through the air as he laughed with careless ease; to be sure George was filled with life.
“George,” she cried gaily. “We may fall.”
“Never.” He stopped frolicking through the tall grasses and carried her to a blanket. “Not so very long ago, I lay here watching those reckless clouds and I dreamt you came to me.”
He set her down carefully, and they eased back until they lay side by side, staring into each other’s eyes. The sun was warm, the breeze light, and all the world seemed right as they lay nestled within this splendid and breathtaking field of violets, sheltered only by the glades of the tall interspersed grass.
George caught his breath and rolled from his back onto his side. He began to release the pins that tied Lucy’s hair. When her hair fell free, he ran his fingers through her locks, twirling the silk, and then brought a lock to his lips, letting it slide slowly across his tender flesh. He reached over her head and plucked a violet from the ground and tucked it into her hair. He repeated the same until she was crowned with a garland of flowers.
“Kiss me, George,” she said as she gazed longingly into his eyes.
“Of course, what else should a man to do?”
Taking her face in his hands, he traced the delicate lines of her smile before pressing his lips to hers.
Lucy’s heart pattered swiftly as the intensity of his kiss began to flourish. She suddenly felt as though they were one body and soul — that they were floating through the clouds among the gods.
His breath was warm and she felt his heart race the moment his manhood began throbbing against her thigh.
Rolling her close, he unfastened the buttons that bound her dress. He slipped the dress from her shoulders and pulled the garment forward so that her undergarment holding her bosom was fully exposed. Laying her back once again, he lowered the straps of the garment and released her breasts from the confines of her attire.
Italian sunlight danced upon her creamy complexion and he soon found himself lost and fondling her bosom with both hands and lips.
“I want — ” Lucy stopped. How could she say she would have him here and now.
He hushed her and rolled her toward him.
Lucy giggled as his tongued played, tirelessly and affectionately, giving her such pleasure.
“Shall I know you?” he asked her quietly as a gentle lover would before taking what is his.
“What if someone should see us?”
“The grass is tall.”
“Then take what is yours to have, my love.”
George rolled her on her back and edged down to lift her skirts. Without hesitating, he slid off her undergarment. When she demurred by holding her legs together, he met her eyes and mouthed the word, “Open,” and she allowed him to slowly part her legs.
The sun was bright and instantly began pouring its warm rays upon her intimate flesh.
George studied her flower before placing a hand to her pearl and massaging until her back arched and her legs were fully bloomed so there was nothing to hide.
“Yes.” She said as soon as he found the spot that inflamed her desire.
“More?” he teased as he slid his fingers through her well, lathering her freely and immodestly. And the more aroused she became, the more he worked. And the more she sighed, the more wild and wanton her abandon became: a reckless consideration to their whereabouts. But it was as if they had become part of the surrounding landscape.
“Is that pleasurable to you, dearest?” he whispered.
“Oh, yes,” she helplessly sighed. “Yes.” She strained to raise her intimate flesh to him, giving to him what he desired.
“Now, George, come to me.”
He caressed and pleasured her until he could wait no longer. He slipped his member from his pants and positioned himself above her, so that his member now touched her pearl.
“Oh, Dear George. How I’ve longed for you.”
With the length of his member, he caressed her passionate flesh, teasing her with more and more pleasure until he stopped at her sheath.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes.” She stared lovingly into his eyes as she wrapped her legs around his waist and moved her hips, urging him to enter her.
He placed his lips to hers and began kissing her softly as he gently entered. It was not easy; she had never known a man before, never experienced the sublime pleasure of heavenly coupling between lovers.
Lucy drew in a sudden breath.
He stopped.
“Is it unpleasant?” His eyes widened and his body tightened. They both knew that it would take every ounce of courage left inside of him for him to stop now.
“No … no, quite the contrary,” she said, feeling the girth of his manhood inside her. Any pain she might have felt was soon displaced by her overwhelming excitement.
His expression relaxed and he gently whispered, “I’ll go it slow.” And then he closed his eyes and began again.
“Dear George,” she said as she felt him enter deeper and deeper and before long he moved at the timbre not unlike that of Franz Schubert’s Impromptu in B Flat. She felt her body respond to his every movement as though they had practiced this dance through all of eternity as one unified mind, body, and soul.
Above them, an occasional visitor glided listlessly through the skies
as though going nowhere and somewhere all at the same time. A light breeze wrestled through the shimmering leaves of the trees growing at the edge of the forest. The glades of grass fizzled alongside them with their stalks twisting and turning with the changing gusts. The fragrance of the violets was heavenly, and the Italian sun was gloriously warm. The view was flawless.
All the world seemed as it should, perfect, simply perfect.
George was now a part of her and life was complete.
Lucy studied the expression of pure pleasure on her lover’s face: the intensity in his jaw, his raised brow, his parted mouth. Then she found herself overwhelmed with the same sensation, to which she surrendered, closing her eyes.
When he hastened his pace, moving to the Presto Agitato of a third movement, Lucy suddenly found herself in the throes of unparalleled pleasure. She cried aloud, without regard to who might be near, and moaned freely without inhibition. The dance progressed more intensely, and Lucy felt herself bursting with such joy that she knew with certainty that her body now belonged to George.
George released a groan. Lucy opened her eyes to meet his. She understood the moment had neared. He started to speak, though she placed a hand to his lips to quiet him and smiled because the moment was upon her as well. She slid her hand to his chest, feeling his smooth skin as his heart pounded from within. Then she closed her eyes and fell back to their purest desire. Though it wasn’t for long.
“Oh, George,” she cried as the height of her sensation peaked. She had climbed the mountain. She stood at the summit. Any moment …
“George, George … ” She threw open her arms, crested, and tumbled from Everest as her body quivered and then convulsed in the throes of her release. She was freed, freed at last, freed as a woman.
Not a moment longer, George finished.
Breathless, he collapsed upon her, gasping for air.
His heart beat like thunder against her own. The moment was heavensent. Just as she had always imagined it to be: perfect. Nothing could spoil it, nothing could compare … ever.
But before she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called, “Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.
Chapter VII: They Return
Some complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye. Charlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst them — not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost every one, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon had lost the game.
That last fact was undeniable. He climbed on to the box shivering, with his collar up, prophesying the swift approach of bad weather. “Let us go immediately,” he told them. “The signorino will walk.”
“All the way? He will be hours,” said Mr. Beebe.
“Apparently. I told him it was unwise.” He would look no one in the face; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him. He alone had played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the others had used scraps of their intelligence. He alone had divined what things were, and what he wished them to be. He alone had interpreted the message that Lucy had received five days before from the lips of a dying man. Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave — she could interpret it also. Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly, and perhaps too late.
The thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, seldom affect the lives of his employers. He was the most competent of Miss Bartlett’s opponents, but infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the town, he and his insight and his knowledge would trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in the bushes; he might make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what have we to do with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed downwards towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious. They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.
Rain and darkness came on together. The two ladies huddled together under an inadequate parasol. There was a lightning flash, and Miss Lavish who was nervous, screamed from the carriage in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally:
“Courage, Miss Honeychurch, courage and faith. If I might say so, there is something almost blasphemous in this horror of the elements. Are we seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all this immense electrical display, is simply called into existence to extinguish you or me?”
“No — of course — ”
“Even from the scientific standpoint the chances against our being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage — courage and faith.”
Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin’s hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination. Lucy would have preferred the comfort of George’s strong arms, but circumstances had radically changed. A Tuscan hillside, the warm sun, a field of wild violets, and the tall grasses were not enough to shield Lucy from her cousin’s view, not when Charlotte appeared at the edge of the woods. A perfect moment spoiled. Her fate now rested in Charlotte’s hands.
“Have courage, Lucia.” She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence.
“Mr. Eager!” called Mr. Beebe. “We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?”
“George!” cried Mr. Emerson. “Ask your driver which way George went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed.”
“Go, Mr. Eager,” said Miss Bartlett, “don’t ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe — , he is nearly demented.”
“He may be killed!” cried the old man. “He may be killed!”
“Typical behaviour,” said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. “In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down.”
“What does he know?” whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone. “Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?”
“Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But — ” she pointed at the driver — “HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?” She took out her purse. It was the driver who led Charlotte to discover the young lovers. “It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all.” Tapping Phaethon’s back with her guide-book, she said, “Silenzio!” and offered him a franc.
“Va bene,” he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him.
There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good.
The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their em
otion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin.
“Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I — I thought I was developing.” And though she spoke the truth, she had to say something to Charlotte to explain away her actions. Something that would make Charlotte understand.
“Do not cry, dearest. Take your time.”
“I have been obstinate and silly — worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river — Oh, but he isn’t killed — he wouldn’t be killed, would he?”
The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to every one.
“I trust not. One would always pray against that.”
“He is really — I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before. But this time I’m not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like some one in a book.”
“In a book?”
“Heroes — gods — the nonsense of schoolgirls.” But deep inside, Lucy realized that what she was telling her was anything but the truth.
“And then?”
“But, Charlotte, you know what happened then.”
Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy’s body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress. She loved George, but had not the courage to admit it now.
“I want to be truthful,” she whispered. “It is so hard to be absolutely truthful.” Lucy quivered.
“Don’t be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bedtime in my room.”
Literary Love Page 68