A Room with a View

The Bertolini

“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no

business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close

together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a

courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”

“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by

the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at

the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the

row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between

the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late

Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at

the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),

that was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you

feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all

kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so

tired.”

“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying

down her fork.

“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her

letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to

do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!”

“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard

that you shouldn’t have a view.”

Lucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me:

of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first

vacant room in the front—” “You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part

of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother—a piece of

generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.

“No, no. You must have it.”

“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”

“She would never forgive _me_.”

The ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a

little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness

they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one

of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant

forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He

said:

“I have a view, I have a view.”

Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them

over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that

they would “do” till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was

ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy

build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something

childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility.

What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her

glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was

probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the

swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then

said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”

“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view

too.”

“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.

“What I mean,” he continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll

have yours. We’ll change.”

The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with

the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as

possible, and said “Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the

question.”

“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the table.

“Because it is quite out of the question, thank you.”

“You see, we don’t like to take—” began Lucy. Her cousin again

repressed her.

“But why?” he persisted. “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” And

he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son,

saying, “George, persuade them!”

“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” said the son. “There’s

nothing else to say.”

He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed

and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in

for what is known as “quite a scene,” and she had an odd feeling that

whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened

till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with—well, with something

quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the

old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not

change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half

an hour.

Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was

powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any

one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as

much as to say, “Are you all like this?” And two little old ladies, who

were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs

of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating “We are not; we are

genteel.”

“Eat your dinner, dear,” she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with

the meat that she had once censured.

Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite.

“Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will

make a change.”

Hardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The

curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout

but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table,

cheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired

decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: “Oh, oh! Why, it’s Mr.

Beebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now,

however bad the rooms are. Oh!”

Miss Bartlett said, with more restraint:

“How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss

Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you

helped the Vicar of St. Peter’s that very cold Easter.”

The clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember

the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward

pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by

Lucy.

“I _am_ so glad to see you,” said the girl, who was in a state of

spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her

cousin had permitted it. “Just fancy how small the world is. Summer

Street, too, makes it so specially funny.”

“Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street,” said Miss

Bartlett, filling up the gap, “and she happened to tell me in the

course of conversation that you have just accepted the living—”

“Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn’t know that I knew you

at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: ‘Mr. Beebe

is—’”

“Quite right,” said the clergyman. “I move into the Rectory at Summer

Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming

neighbourhood.”

“Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner.” Mr. Beebe

bowed.

“There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it’s not

often we get him to ch—— The church is rather far off, I mean.”

“Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.”

“I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it.”

He preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than

to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the

girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length

that she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a

newcomer, and he was first in the field. “Don’t neglect the country

round,” his advice concluded. “The first fine afternoon drive up to

Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort.”

“No!” cried a voice from the top of the table. “Mr. Beebe, you are

wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato.”

“That lady looks so clever,” whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. “We

are in luck.”

And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People

told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams,

how to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter,

how much the place would grow upon them. The Pension Bertolini had

decided, almost enthusiastically, that they would do. Whichever way

they looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose

the voice of the clever lady, crying: “Prato! They must go to Prato.

That place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in

shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know.”

The young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then

returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do.

Lucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave

her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when

she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous

little bow.

The father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow,

but by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across

something.

She hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the

curtains—curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with

more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing

good-evening to her guests, and supported by ’Enery, her little boy,

and Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this

attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South.

And even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival

the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really

Italy?

Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which

had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr.

Beebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and

forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some

invisible obstacle. “We are most grateful to you,” she was saying. “The

first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a

peculiarly _mauvais quart d’heure_.”

He expressed his regret.

“Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us

at dinner?”

“Emerson.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“We are friendly—as one is in pensions.”

“Then I will say no more.”

He pressed her very slightly, and she said more.

“I am, as it were,” she concluded, “the chaperon of my young cousin,

Lucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation

to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate.

I hope I acted for the best.”

“You acted very naturally,” said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a

few moments added: “All the same, I don’t think much harm would have

come of accepting.”

“No _harm_, of course. But we could not be under an obligation.”

“He is rather a peculiar man.” Again he hesitated, and then said

gently: “I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor

expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit—if it is one—of saying

exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks

you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an

obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult—at

least, I find it difficult—to understand people who speak the truth.”

Lucy was pleased, and said: “I was hoping that he was nice; I do so

always hope that people will be nice.”

“I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every

point of any importance, and so, I expect—I may say I hope—you will

differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When

he first came here he not unnaturally put people’s backs up. He has no

tact and no manners—I don’t mean by that that he has bad manners—and he

will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him

to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of

it.”

“Am I to conclude,” said Miss Bartlett, “that he is a Socialist?”

Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching

of the lips.

“And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?”

“I hardly know George, for he hasn’t learnt to talk yet. He seems a

nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his

father’s mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a

Socialist.”

“Oh, you relieve me,” said Miss Bartlett. “So you think I ought to have

accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and

suspicious?”

“Not at all,” he answered; “I never suggested that.”

“But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent

rudeness?”

He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary,

and got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room.

“Was I a bore?” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. “Why

didn’t you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I’m sure. I do hope I

haven’t monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as

well as all dinner-time.”

“He is nice,” exclaimed Lucy. “Just what I remember. He seems to see

good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman.”

“My dear Lucia—”

“Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally

laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man.”

“Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will

approve of Mr. Beebe.”

“I’m sure she will; and so will Freddy.”

“I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable

world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind

the times.”

“Yes,” said Lucy despondently.

There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval

was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy

Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not

determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss

Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added “I am

afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion.”

And the girl again thought: “I must have been selfish or unkind; I must

be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor.”

Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been

smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed

to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to

chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the

gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister’s

health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of

thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her

subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention

than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was

proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real

catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when

she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea,

though one better than something else.

“But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so

English.”

“Yet our rooms smell,” said poor Lucy. “We dread going to bed.”

“Ah, then you look into the court.” She sighed. “If only Mr. Emerson

was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner.”

“I think he was meaning to be kind.”

“Undoubtedly he was,” said Miss Bartlett.

“Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of

course, I was holding back on my cousin’s account.”

“Of course,” said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could

not be too careful with a young girl.

Lucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No

one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not

noticed it.

“About old Mr. Emerson—I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have

you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most

indelicate, and yet at the same time—beautiful?”

“Beautiful?” said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. “Are not beauty

and delicacy the same?”

“So one would have thought,” said the other helplessly. “But things are

so difficult, I sometimes think.”

She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking

extremely pleasant.

“Miss Bartlett,” he cried, “it’s all right about the rooms. I’m so

glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing

what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me

come and ask you. He would be so pleased.”

“Oh, Charlotte,” cried Lucy to her cousin, “we must have the rooms now.

The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be.”

Miss Bartlett was silent.

“I fear,” said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, “that I have been officious. I

must apologize for my interference.”

Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett

reply: “My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with

yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at

Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to

turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then,

Mr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and

then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?”

She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the

drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The

clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with

her message.

“Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the

acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events.”

Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously:

“Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead.”

The young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the

floor, so low were their chairs.

“My father,” he said, “is in his bath, so you cannot thank him

personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to

him as soon as he comes out.”

Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came

forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to

the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy.

“Poor young man!” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.

“How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do

to keep polite.”

“In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready,” said Mr. Beebe. Then

looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own

rooms, to write up his philosophic diary.

“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the

winds of heaven had entered the apartment. “Gentlemen sometimes do not

realize—” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand

and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly

realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was

reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy,

she committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History.

For she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the

half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a

sigh, and said:

“I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will

superintend the move.”

“How you do do everything,” said Lucy.

“Naturally, dear. It is my affair.”

“But I would like to help you.”

“No, dear.”

Charlotte’s energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her

life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So

Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet—there was a rebellious spirit in

her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less

delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room

without any feeling of joy.

“I want to explain,” said Miss Bartlett, “why it is that I have taken

the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you;

but I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure

your mother would not like it.”

Lucy was bewildered.

“If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under

an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in

my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a

guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this.”

“Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure,” said Lucy, but again had the sense of

larger and unsuspected issues.

Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as

she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and

when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the

clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to

see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,

and the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.

Miss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the

door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards

led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was

then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on

which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more.

“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the

light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,

obnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to

destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,

since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it

carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it

clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed

heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.