a room with a view-第7章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！





〃What　are　we　to　do　with　him？〃　he　asked。　〃He　comes　out　for　his

holiday　to　Italy；　and　behaveslike　that；　like　the　little　child

who　ought　to　have　been　playing；　and　who　hurt　himself　upon　the

tombstone。　Eh？　What　did　you　say？〃



Lucy　had　made　no　suggestion。　Suddenly　he　said：



〃Now　don't　be　stupid　over　this。　I　don't　require　you　to　fall　in

love　with　my　boy；　but　I　do　think　you　might　try　and　understand

him。　You　are　nearer　his　age；　and　if　you　let　yourself　go　I　am　sure

you　are　sensible。　You　might　help　me。　He　has　known　so　few　women；

and　you　have　the　time。　You　stop　here　several　weeks；　I　suppose？

But　let　yourself　go。　You　are　inclined　to　get　muddled；　if　I　may

judge　from　last　night。　Let　yourself　go。　Pull　out　from　the　depths

those　thoughts　that　you　do　not　understand；　and　spread　them　out　in

the　sunlight　and　know　the　meaning　of　them。　By　understanding

George　you　may　learn　to　understand　yourself。　It　will　be　good　for

both　of　you。〃



To　this　extraordinary　speech　Lucy　found　no　answer。



〃I　only　know　what　it　is　that's　wrong　with　him；　not　why　it　is。〃



〃And　what　is　it？〃　asked　Lucy　fearfully；　expecting　some　harrowing

tale。



〃The　old　trouble；　things　won't　fit。〃



〃What　things？〃



〃The　things　of　the　universe。　It　is　quite　true。　They　don't。〃



〃Oh；　Mr。　Emerson；　whatever　do　you　mean？〃



In　his　ordinary　voice；　so　that　she　scarcely　realized　he　was

quoting　poetry；　he　said：



　　〃'From　far；　from　eve　and　morning；

　　　And　yon　twelve…winded　sky；

　　　The　stuff　of　life　to　knit　me

　　　Blew　hither：　here　am　I'



George　and　I　both　know　this；　but　why　does　it　distress　him？　We

know　that　we　come　from　the　winds；　and　that　we　shall　return　to

them；　that　all　life　is　perhaps　a　knot；　a　tangle；　a　blemish　in　the

eternal　smoothness。　But　why　should　this　make　us　unhappy？　Let　us

rather　love　one　another；　and　work　and　rejoice。　I　don't　believe　in

this　world　sorrow。〃



Miss　Honeychurch　assented。



〃Then　make　my　boy　think　like　us。　Make　him　realize　that　by　the

side　of　the　everlasting　Why　there　is　a　Yesa　transitory　Yes　if

you　like；　but　a　Yes。〃



Suddenly　she　laughed；　surely　one　ought　to　laugh。　A　young　man

melancholy　because　the　universe　wouldn't　fit；　because　life　was　a

tangle　or　a　wind；　or　a　Yes；　or　something！



〃I'm　very　sorry；〃　she　cried。　〃You'll　think　me　unfeeling；　butbut

〃　Then　she　became　matronly。　〃Oh；　but　your　son　wants　employment。

Has　he　no　particular　hobby？　Why；　I　myself　have　worries；　but　I　can

generally　forget　them　at　the　piano；　and　collecting　stamps　did　no

end　of　good　for　my　brother。　Perhaps　Italy　bores　him；　you　ought　to

try　the　Alps　or　the　Lakes。〃



The　old　man's　face　saddened；　and　he　touched　her　gently　with　his

hand。　This　did　not　alarm　her；　she　thought　that　her　advice　had

impressed　him　and　that　he　was　thanking　her　for　it。　Indeed；　he　no

longer　alarmed　her　at　all；　she　regarded　him　as　a　kind　thing；　but

quite　silly。　Her　feelings　were　as　inflated　spiritually　as　they

had　been　an　hour　ago　esthetically；　before　she　lost　Baedeker。　The

dear　George；　now　striding　towards　them　over　the　tombstones；

seemed　both　pitiable　and　absurd。　He　approached；　his　face　in　the

shadow。　He　said：



〃Miss　Bartlett。〃



〃Oh；　good　gracious　me！〃　said　Lucy；　suddenly　collapsing　and　again

seeing　the　whole　of　life　in　a　new　perspective。　〃Where？　Where？〃



〃In　the　nave。〃



〃I　see。　Those　gossiping　little　Miss　Alans　must　have〃　She

checked　herself。



〃Poor　girl！〃　exploded　Mr。　Emerson。　〃Poor　girl！〃



She　could　not　let　this　pass；　for　it　was　just　what　she　was　feeling

herself。



〃Poor　girl？　I　fail　to　understand　the　point　of　that　remark。　I

think　myself　a　very　fortunate　girl；　I　assure　you。　I'm　thoroughly

happy；　and　having　a　splendid　time。　Pray　don't　waste　time　mourning

over　me。　There's　enough　sorrow　in　the　world；　isn't　there；　without

trying　to　invent　it。　Good…bye。　Thank　you　both　so　much　for　all

your　kindness。　Ah；　yes！　there　does　come　my　cousin。　A　delightful

morning！　Santa　Croce　is　a　wonderful　church。〃



She　joined　her　cousin。







Chapter　III：　Music；　Violets；　and　the　Letter　〃S〃



It　so　happened　that　Lucy；　who　found　daily　life　rather　chaotic；

entered　a　more　solid　world　when　she　opened　the　piano。　She　was

then　no　longer　either　deferential　or　patronizing；　no　longer

either　a　rebel　or　a　slave。　The　kingdom　of　music　is　not　the

kingdom　of　this　world；　it　will　accept　those　whom　breeding　and

intellect　and　culture　have　alike　rejected。　The　commonplace　person

begins　to　play；　and　shoots　into　the　empyrean　without　effort；

whilst　we　look　up；　marvelling　how　he　has　escaped　us；　and　thinking

how　we　could　worship　him　and　love　him；　would　he　but　translate　his

visions　into　human　words；　and　his　experiences　into　human　actions。

Perhaps　he　cannot；　certainly　he　does　not；　or　does　so　very　seldom。

Lucy　had　done　so　never。



She　was　no　dazzling　executante；　her　runs　were　not　at　all　like

strings　of　pearls；　and　she　struck　no　more　right　notes　than　was

suitable　for　one　of　her　age　and　situation。　Nor　was　she　the

passionate　young　lady；　who　performs　so　tragically　on　a　summer's

evening　with　the　window　open。　Passion　was　there；　but　it　could　not

be　easily　labelled；　it　slipped　between　love　and　hatred　and

jealousy；　and　all　the　furniture　of　the　pictorial　style。　And　she

was　tragical　only　in　the　sense　that　she　was　great；　for　she　loved

to　play　on　the　side　of　Victory。　Victory　of　what　and　over　what

that　is　more　than　the　words　of　daily　life　can　tell　us。　But　that

some　sonatas　of　Beethoven　are　written　tragic　no　one　can　gainsay；

yet　they　can　triumph　or　despair　as　the　player　decides；　and　Lucy

had　decided　that　they　should　triumph。



A　very　wet　afternoon　at　the　Bertolini　permitted　her　to　do　the

thing　she　really　liked；　and　after　lunch　she　opened　the　little

draped　piano。　A　few　people　lingered　round　and　praised　her

playing；　but　finding　that　she　made　no　reply；　dispersed　to　their

rooms　to　write　up　their　diaries　or　to　sleep。　She　took　no　notice

of　Mr。　Emerson　looking　for　his　son；　nor　of　Miss　Bartlett　looking

for　Miss　Lavish；　nor　of　Miss　Lavish　looking　for　her

cigarette…case。　Like　every　true　performer；　she　was　intoxicated　by

the　mere　feel　of　the　notes：　they　were　fingers　caressing　her　own；

and　by　touch；　not　by　sound　alone；　did　she　come　to　her　desire。



Mr。　Beebe；　sitting　unnoticed　in　the　window；　pondered　this

illogical　element　in　Miss　Honeychurch；　and　recalled　the　occasion

at　Tunbridge　Wells　when　he　had　discovered　it。　It　was　at　one　of

those　entertainments　where　the　upper　classes　entertain　the　lower。

The　seats　were　filled　with　a　respectful　audience；　and　the　ladies

and　gentlemen　of　the　parish；　under　the　auspices　of　their　vicar；

sang；　or　recited；　or　imitated　the　drawing　of　a　champagne　cork。

Among　the　promised　items　was　〃Miss　Honeychurch。　Piano。

Beethoven；〃　and　Mr。　Beebe　was　wondering　whether　it　would　be

Adelaida；　or　the　march　of　The　Ruins　of　Athens；　when　his　composure

was　disturbed　by　the　opening　bars　of　Opus　III。　He　was　in　suspense

all　through　the　introduction；　for　not　until　the　pace　quickens

does　one　know　what　the　performer　intends。　With　the　roar　of　the

opening　theme　he　knew　that　things　were　going　extraordinarily；　in

the　chords　that　herald　the　conclusion　he　heard　the　hammer　strokes

of　victory。　He　was　glad　that　she　only　played　the　first　movement；

for　he　could　have　paid　no　attention　to　the　winding　intricacies　of

the　measures　of　nine…sixteen。　The　audience　clapped；　no　less

respectful。　It　was　Mr。　Beebe　who　started　the　stamping；　it　was　all

that　one　could　do。



〃Who　is　she？〃　he　asked　the　vicar　afterwards。



〃Cousin　of　one　of　my　parishioners。　I　do　not　consider　her　choice

of　a　piece　happy。　Beethoven　is　so　usually　simple　and　direct　in

his　appeal　that　it　is　sheer　perversity　to　choose　a　thing　like

that；　which；　if　anything；　disturbs。〃



〃Introduce　me。〃



〃She　will　be　delighted。　She　and　Miss　Bartlett　are　full　of　the

praises　of　your　sermon。〃



〃My　sermon？〃　cried　Mr。　Beebe。　〃Why　ever　did　she　listen　to　it？〃



When　he　was　introduced　he　understood