A Room With a View, E. M. Forster [great books to read TXT] 📗

Surely the vendor of photographs was in league with Lucy⁠—in the eternal league of Italy with youth. He had suddenly extended his book before Miss Bartlett and Mr. Eager, binding their hands together by a long glossy ribbon of churches, pictures, and views.

“This is too much!” cried the chaplain, striking petulantly at one of Fra Angelico’s angels. She tore. A shrill cry rose from the vendor. The book it seemed, was more valuable than one would have supposed.

“Willingly would I purchase⁠—” began Miss Bartlett.

“Ignore him,” said Mr. Eager sharply, and they all walked rapidly away from the square.

But an Italian can never be ignored, least of all when he has a grievance. His mysterious persecution of Mr. Eager became relentless; the air rang with his threats and lamentations. He appealed to Lucy; would not she intercede? He was poor⁠—he sheltered a family⁠—the tax on bread. He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed, he was dissatisfied, he did not leave them until he had swept their minds clean of all thoughts whether pleasant or unpleasant.

Shopping was the topic that now ensued. Under the chaplain’s guidance they selected many hideous presents and mementoes⁠—florid little picture-frames that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other little frames, more severe, that stood on little easels, and were carven out of oak; a blotting book of vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheap mosaic brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, would never tell from real; pins, pots, heraldic saucers, brown art-photographs; Eros and Psyche in alabaster; St. Peter to match⁠—all of which would have cost less in London.

This successful morning left no pleasant impressions on Lucy. She had been a little frightened, both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she knew not why. And as they frightened her, she had, strangely enough, ceased to respect them. She doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist. She doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality and culture as she had been led to suppose. They were tried by some new test, and they were found wanting. As for Charlotte⁠—as for Charlotte she was exactly the same. It might be possible to be nice to her; it was impossible to love her.

“The son of a labourer; I happen to know it for a fact. A mechanic of some sort himself when he was young; then he took to writing for the Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton.”

They were talking about the Emersons.

“How wonderfully people rise in these days!” sighed Miss Bartlett, fingering a model of the leaning Tower of Pisa.

“Generally,” replied Mr. Eager, “one has only sympathy for their success. The desire for education and for social advance⁠—in these things there is something not wholly vile. There are some working men whom one would be very willing to see out here in Florence⁠—little as they would make of it.”

“Is he a journalist now?” Miss Bartlett asked.

“He is not; he made an advantageous marriage.”

He uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning, and ended with a sigh.

“Oh, so he has a wife.”

“Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder⁠—yes I wonder how he has the effrontery to look me in the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with me. He was in my London parish long ago. The other day in Santa Croce, when he was with Miss Honeychurch, I snubbed him. Let him beware that he does not get more than a snub.”

“What?” cried Lucy, flushing.

“Exposure!” hissed Mr. Eager.

He tried to change the subject; but in scoring a dramatic point he had interested his audience more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett was full of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she wished never to see the Emersons again, was not disposed to condemn them on a single word.

“Do you mean,” she asked, “that he is an irreligious man? We know that already.”

“Lucy, dear⁠—” said Miss Bartlett, gently reproving her cousin’s penetration.

“I should be astonished if you knew all. The boy⁠—an innocent child at the time⁠—I will exclude. God knows what his education and his inherited qualities may have made him.”

“Perhaps,” said Miss Bartlett, “it is something that we had better not hear.”

“To speak plainly,” said Mr. Eager, “it is. I will say no more.” For the first time Lucy’s rebellious thoughts swept out in words⁠—for the first time in her life.

“You have said very little.”

“It was my intention to say very little,” was his frigid reply.

He gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal indignation. She turned towards him from the shop counter; her breast heaved quickly. He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of her lips. It was intolerable that she should disbelieve him.

“Murder, if you want to know,” he cried angrily. “That man murdered his wife!”

“How?” she retorted.

“To all intents and purposes he murdered her. That day in Santa Croce⁠—did they say anything against me?”

“Not a word, Mr. Eager⁠—not a single word.”

“Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to you. But I suppose it is only their personal charms that makes you defend them.”

“I’m not defending them,” said Lucy, losing her courage, and relapsing into the old chaotic methods. “They’re nothing to me.”

“How could you think she was defending them?” said Miss Bartlett, much discomfited by the unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly listening.

“She will find it difficult. For that man has murdered his wife in the sight of God.”

The addition of God was striking. But the chaplain was really trying to qualify a rash remark. A silence followed which might have been impressive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bartlett hastily purchased the Leaning Tower, and led the way into the street.

“I must be going,” said he, shutting his eyes and taking out his watch.

Miss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, and spoke with enthusiasm of the approaching drive.

“Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off?”

Lucy was recalled to her manners, and after a little exertion the complacency of Mr. Eager was restored.

“Bother the drive!” exclaimed the girl, as soon as he had departed. “It is just the drive we had arranged with Mr. Beebe without any fuss