A Room with a View Part 1

A Room with a View.

by E. M. Forster.

Introduction.

If you were a young woman, from a relatively well-off family, coming of age in Britain at the turn of the twentieth century, you might think of pa.s.sing a month or two in Italy, to prepare yourself for a life in polished society by learning a little something about Italian art. You would select a companion, as it would be neither convenient nor seemly to travel alone. An older, unmarried cousin would serve nicely as chaperone. And you would buy a guidebook, either Murray's or Baedeker's, the two most popular travel series of the day. Let's say you opt for Baedeker. You would find, in your new Baedeker, suggestions for itineraries of varying durations, as well as hotels and pensions recommended in each city on your chosen agenda, and you would write to these lodgings to engage rooms. "Pa.s.sports," Baedeker informs you, "though not required in Italy, are occasionally useful"-to pick up a registered letter, for example-and for 2 shillings this doc.u.ment is yours, with an added fee if you obtain it through a travel agent such as Thomas Cook. You were planning to visit Cook's offices anyway, since his coupons, redeemable for food and lodging at many foreign hotels, will no doubt come in handy as well. These preparations made, you pack your suitcase with clothing fit for the season (consulting Baedeker, of course, for an a.n.a.lysis of the Mediterranean climate) and embark, setting off from London for the boat train to Paris, and from there boarding another train that crosses the Alps. Before you arrive in Turin you mean to have mastered the major points of Professor Anton Springer's "Historical Sketch of Italian Art" helpfully provided in Baedeker's introduction, but you find yourself distracted from study by the pa.s.sing scenery and the prospect of adventures to come. Who knows (to borrow a line from an E. M. Forster novel) but that you might be transfigured by Italy? It had happened to the Goths.

Nearly a century has pa.s.sed since Forster sent Miss Lucy Honeychurch and her spinster cousin, Charlotte Bartlett, on their memorable trip to Italy, the trip that makes up the first half of A Room with a View. Room with a View. We now have many more travel guides to choose from, as well as faster modes of transportation and more stringent methods of identification (pa.s.sports are most definitely required). But Baedeker is still in print, and the boat train still running, and in essence Forster's tourists are still familiar to anyone who has ever taken guidebook in hand and set off for foreign sh.o.r.es. We now have many more travel guides to choose from, as well as faster modes of transportation and more stringent methods of identification (pa.s.sports are most definitely required). But Baedeker is still in print, and the boat train still running, and in essence Forster's tourists are still familiar to anyone who has ever taken guidebook in hand and set off for foreign sh.o.r.es.

What is surprising, in fact, is how little tourism has changed over the past hundred years, once it made the leap from a privileged activity to a ma.s.s pursuit. Dean MacCannell, in his cla.s.sic study of tourism, suggests a neat sociological evolution of travel: "What begins as the proper activity of the hero hero (Alexander the Great) develops into the goal of a socially organized (Alexander the Great) develops into the goal of a socially organized group group (the Crusaders), into the mark of status of an entire social (the Crusaders), into the mark of status of an entire social cla.s.s cla.s.s (the Grand Tour of the British 'gentleman'), eventually becoming (the Grand Tour of the British 'gentleman'), eventually becoming universal experience universal experience (the tourist)" (the tourist)" (The Tourist, (The Tourist, p. 5; MacCannell's emphasis; see "For Further Reading"). That final transition came to pa.s.s in the nineteenth century, thanks to a number of factors conducive to middle-cla.s.s travel. It was a time of relative peace and overall economic prosperity in England and the Continent. Advances in transportation-railways and steamers-brought cities and continents closer together, and the consolidation of Britain's imperial power made exotic locations like India, Egypt, and South Africa more accessible to English speakers, while fiction and nonfiction set in those regions brought them into the English imagination. Novels championed the near abroad as well: As early as 1806, Lady Morgan's immensely popular romance p. 5; MacCannell's emphasis; see "For Further Reading"). That final transition came to pa.s.s in the nineteenth century, thanks to a number of factors conducive to middle-cla.s.s travel. It was a time of relative peace and overall economic prosperity in England and the Continent. Advances in transportation-railways and steamers-brought cities and continents closer together, and the consolidation of Britain's imperial power made exotic locations like India, Egypt, and South Africa more accessible to English speakers, while fiction and nonfiction set in those regions brought them into the English imagination. Novels championed the near abroad as well: As early as 1806, Lady Morgan's immensely popular romance The Wild Irish Girl The Wild Irish Girl advertised the attractions of Ireland (cultural, geological, and female), while Sir Walter Scott's advertised the attractions of Ireland (cultural, geological, and female), while Sir Walter Scott's Waverley Waverley (1814) and other writings romanticized the Scottish highlands and the valor of its people. As the century wore on, many best-selling writers published accounts of their own travels: Charles d.i.c.kens went to Italy (he carried Murray's guidebook); the indefatigable Anthony Trollope went to Australia and New Zealand, among numerous other countries. Back home, the Great Exhibition of 1851, with displays representing countries from Russia to the West Indies, attracted some 6 million visitors to London and filled their heads with visions of what lay beyond England's sh.o.r.es, while Charles Darwin's voyages demonstrated the potential scientific value of geographical exploration. Progress was a watch-word of the Victorian era, and travel, both foreign and domestic, seemed to go hand in hand with it. (1814) and other writings romanticized the Scottish highlands and the valor of its people. As the century wore on, many best-selling writers published accounts of their own travels: Charles d.i.c.kens went to Italy (he carried Murray's guidebook); the indefatigable Anthony Trollope went to Australia and New Zealand, among numerous other countries. Back home, the Great Exhibition of 1851, with displays representing countries from Russia to the West Indies, attracted some 6 million visitors to London and filled their heads with visions of what lay beyond England's sh.o.r.es, while Charles Darwin's voyages demonstrated the potential scientific value of geographical exploration. Progress was a watch-word of the Victorian era, and travel, both foreign and domestic, seemed to go hand in hand with it.

But perhaps a more subtle factor contributing to the rise of ma.s.s tourism was the growing sense of individual liberty and agency among England's non-aristocratic cla.s.ses. Three successive Reform Acts, beginning in 1832, extended the franchise so that by 1884 most workingmen and agricultural laborers had gained the right to vote. (The women's vote would follow in 1918.) The Reform Acts also allowed for more fairly apportioned parliamentary representation, while other legislation supported education for children and began to inst.i.tute factory reform, improving workplace conditions and approving measures for the protection of workers. With all these advances came an increasing sense of empowerment among the non-aristocratic cla.s.ses, and consequently a heightened sense of opportunity for further advancement. The Grand Tour had been an inst.i.tution among aristocrats, in which men and women of privilege traveled through Europe as if it were a finishing school, absorbing its art, culture, and languages at their leisure, the better to enrich themselves and English society on their return. Why should the professional cla.s.ses, and someday maybe even working-cla.s.s men and women, not engage in this pursuit as well?

Engage in it they did, coming in droves from England and from America. Here is Mark Twain chronicling the Anglo-American zeitgeist in the summer of 1867 as he prepares for a pleasure cruise scheduled to hit all the hot spots in Europe and the Mediterranean: During that memorable month I basked in the happiness of being for once in my life drifting with the tide of a great popular movement. Everybody was going to Europe-I, too, was going to Europe. Everybody was going to the famous Paris Exposition-I, too, was going to the Paris Exposition. The steamship lines were carrying Americans out of the various ports of the country at the rate of four or five thousand a week in the aggregate. If I met a dozen individuals during that month who were not going to Europe shortly, I have no distinct remembrance of it now (The Innocents Abroad, (The Innocents Abroad, p. 27). p. 27).

But, as Twain's satirical travelogue goes on to demonstrate, no sooner did tourists emerge as a distinct species than they were subject to ridicule as vulgar blots on whatever landscape they happened to visit. (That att.i.tude, too, has not changed much in the past century.) And no sooner had tourists begun to penetrate en ma.s.se the towns and villages of Europe and Asia than their successors were inspired to root out places that had not yet been desecrated by tourists' footsteps, in a self-perpetuating quest for authentic experience, the true true Italy, the Italy, the true true India, and so on. The great invention of pioneering British travel agent Thomas Cook was the group excursion-he led his first in 1841 and ultimately escorted parties numbering in the hundreds-but the paths Cook's tourists tracked through France and Switzerland, Egypt and Palestine, India and Australia, became precisely the paths that other tourists sought to avoid. We find the operative phrase, so common in our contemporary travel lexicon, as early as 1905 in Forster's first novel, India, and so on. The great invention of pioneering British travel agent Thomas Cook was the group excursion-he led his first in 1841 and ultimately escorted parties numbering in the hundreds-but the paths Cook's tourists tracked through France and Switzerland, Egypt and Palestine, India and Australia, became precisely the paths that other tourists sought to avoid. We find the operative phrase, so common in our contemporary travel lexicon, as early as 1905 in Forster's first novel, Where Angels Fear to Tread: Where Angels Fear to Tread: "In a place like this," writes the widowed Lilia from the small Italian town she is visiting, "one really does feel in the heart of things, and off the beaten track." "In a place like this," writes the widowed Lilia from the small Italian town she is visiting, "one really does feel in the heart of things, and off the beaten track."

Still, the beaten track continued to suffice for many, including Lucy Honeychurch, the young heroine of A Room with a View. A Room with a View. Lucy is a satisfied adherent to Baedeker, nor is she too self-conscious to claim the label of "tourist" when asked by the resident Anglican chaplain, Mr. Eager, what her purpose is in visiting Italy. Lucy is a satisfied adherent to Baedeker, nor is she too self-conscious to claim the label of "tourist" when asked by the resident Anglican chaplain, Mr. Eager, what her purpose is in visiting Italy. A Room with a View A Room with a View is a short book, in which characterization necessarily happens quickly, and part of the reason tourism is such an important subject in any discussion of the novel is that the characters in Lucy's circle in Florence are defined by their att.i.tudes toward it. In this case, the word elicits an illuminating diatribe: "I quite agree," said Miss Lavish, who had several times tried to interrupt his mordant wit. "The narrowness and superficiality of the Anglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace" (p. 60). is a short book, in which characterization necessarily happens quickly, and part of the reason tourism is such an important subject in any discussion of the novel is that the characters in Lucy's circle in Florence are defined by their att.i.tudes toward it. In this case, the word elicits an illuminating diatribe: "I quite agree," said Miss Lavish, who had several times tried to interrupt his mordant wit. "The narrowness and superficiality of the Anglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace" (p. 60).

"Oh, indeed," said Mr. Eager. "Are you indeed? If you will not think me rude, we residents sometimes pity you poor tourists not a little-handed about like a parcel of goods from Venice to Florence, from Florence to Rome, living herded together in pensions or hotels, quite unconscious of anything that is outside Baedeker, their one anxiety to get 'done' or 'through' and go on somewhere else. The result is, they mix up towns, rivers, palaces in one inextricable whirl. You know the American girl in Punch Punch who says: 'Say, poppa, what did we see at Rome?' And the father replies: 'Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the yaller dog.' There's traveling for you. Ha! ha! ha!" who says: 'Say, poppa, what did we see at Rome?' And the father replies: 'Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the yaller dog.' There's traveling for you. Ha! ha! ha!"

There we have Mr. Eager, the pompous expatriate, and Miss Lavish, novelist and self-proclaimed seeker of Italy's essence, who wants to "emanc.i.p.ate" Lucy from Baedeker (p. 19) and who seems not to realize that her protests against tourists and the typical tourist experience are themselves well-traveled objections, stale and predictable. We know the Miss Alans, too, the elderly spinsters who come abroad for the climate but bring England with them, in their att.i.tudes, their prejudices, and their stash of digestive biscuits. And we recognize Mr. Beebe, the gentleman clergyman and affable observer, able to cross social boundaries with ease.

Mr. Beebe's skill as mediator is introduced in the novel's opening pages, but the communication gap he bridges is not where we might expect to find it, between the Italians and the English. Rather, it occurs within England, dividing people who represent different cla.s.ses and thus hold different points of view. The deal he brokers is the all-important agreement between Miss Bartlett and Mr. Emerson in which Mr. Emerson and his son, George, give up their south-facing rooms so that Lucy and Charlotte might have a view of the Arno. A third party is necessary in these negotiations only because Mr. Emerson has offered the trade in a tactless sort of way: outright, over the Pension Bertolini dinner table, with more vigor than is suitable to express toward two ladies with whom he is not yet acquainted. Charlotte, who subscribes to the rule of social niceties, finds the Emersons "ill-bred" (p. 8); Mr. Emerson, who subscribes to the Transcendental philosophy of his namesake, finds Charlotte's prim hesitation over accepting the rooms ridiculous. Lucy does not yet know on whose side she falls. But when the swap is accomplished, she looks out her window that evening "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" (pp. 16-17). She knows, in other words, that it is Mr. Emerson who has contributed to the broadening of her horizons.

Lucy comes of age, as Forster himself did, at a time of sea changes in Britain and the world: the ebb of British imperial power, the end of the Victorian era, the onset of the modern age, and the portents of a world war. It is a moment of epic transition signaled from the novel's first page, when Forster turns our eye to the "portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate" that grace the dining room of the Pension Bertolini, reminding those present that the era of Victoria and Tennyson has pa.s.sed irrevocably into history. But like those portraits, the historical transitions at work in A Room with a View Room with a View act chiefly as backdrops for the deeply personal issues with which Lucy struggles. After all, Lucy is no revolutionary; she moves within the parameters of what is possible for a girl of her age and situation. What social boldness she has comes in spurts, often uncertain ones. She expresses herself most effectively in indirect ways, and not in words but in music, sitting at the piano. Confident in Beethoven, she is nevertheless hesitant without her Baedeker; her artistic connection to music does not manifest itself outside that medium. It is tempting to accept Mr. Beebe's a.s.sertion that "if Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very exciting-both for us and for her" (p. 34) as a formula for the novel, but Forster leaves us in doubt as to whether Lucy ever fulfills that potential; indeed, whether she ever could. The ending that awaited most literary heroines of the Victorian era-marriage-will be her ending too. Where she finds room to distinguish herself, to inhabit the freedoms of this age of transition, is in the manner of man she will marry, and that is where the energies of the novel are focused. act chiefly as backdrops for the deeply personal issues with which Lucy struggles. After all, Lucy is no revolutionary; she moves within the parameters of what is possible for a girl of her age and situation. What social boldness she has comes in spurts, often uncertain ones. She expresses herself most effectively in indirect ways, and not in words but in music, sitting at the piano. Confident in Beethoven, she is nevertheless hesitant without her Baedeker; her artistic connection to music does not manifest itself outside that medium. It is tempting to accept Mr. Beebe's a.s.sertion that "if Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very exciting-both for us and for her" (p. 34) as a formula for the novel, but Forster leaves us in doubt as to whether Lucy ever fulfills that potential; indeed, whether she ever could. The ending that awaited most literary heroines of the Victorian era-marriage-will be her ending too. Where she finds room to distinguish herself, to inhabit the freedoms of this age of transition, is in the manner of man she will marry, and that is where the energies of the novel are focused.

A Room with a View also inhabits an age of transition from the point of view of literature. The three-decker novel that had dominated the second half of the nineteenth century was now a dinosaur, virtually extinguished in the 1890s by the onset of cheap, one-volume editions, and its complex plots and sometimes belabored prose were giving way along with its physical bulk. Forster's early novels demonstrate this shift in action. There is a casual quality to his prose that makes his novels themselves seem casually constructed, as if they were the natural result of recording experience on paper. The influential American critic Lionel Trilling, describing the "colloquial unpretentiousness" of Forster's style, cites it as proof that Forster was "content with the human possibility and content with its limitations" (quoted in Wilde, ed., also inhabits an age of transition from the point of view of literature. The three-decker novel that had dominated the second half of the nineteenth century was now a dinosaur, virtually extinguished in the 1890s by the onset of cheap, one-volume editions, and its complex plots and sometimes belabored prose were giving way along with its physical bulk. Forster's early novels demonstrate this shift in action. There is a casual quality to his prose that makes his novels themselves seem casually constructed, as if they were the natural result of recording experience on paper. The influential American critic Lionel Trilling, describing the "colloquial unpretentiousness" of Forster's style, cites it as proof that Forster was "content with the human possibility and content with its limitations" (quoted in Wilde, ed., Critical Essays on E. M. Forster, Critical Essays on E. M. Forster, p. 59). Unlike the writing of the high modernists (James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, D. H. Lawrence) who would make their mark in succeeding decades, Forster's prose does not evince a formal struggle; it does not attempt to break free of perceived linguistic or semantic constraints. Not incidentally, it is not difficult to read. But it would be a mistake, on these grounds, to think of Forster as artless. A close look at the underpinnings of p. 59). Unlike the writing of the high modernists (James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, D. H. Lawrence) who would make their mark in succeeding decades, Forster's prose does not evince a formal struggle; it does not attempt to break free of perceived linguistic or semantic constraints. Not incidentally, it is not difficult to read. But it would be a mistake, on these grounds, to think of Forster as artless. A close look at the underpinnings of A Room with a View A Room with a View-its language, its motifs, its structure-shows a craftsman at work.

There is, first of all, the role of the narrative voice in absorbing and reflecting the novel's themes through language. We might begin with the narrator's treatment of Lucy, who is on the verge of learning to interpret the world and its inhabitants but often takes refuge in the opinions of others rather than attempt to puzzle things out on her own. In the first chapter, as she copes with the repressive Charlotte, the tactless Emersons, and the mildly interfering Mr. Beebe, she is described as "bewildered" (p. 16); she "had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues" (p. 16) that she fails to identify, let alone resolve. Unable to determine what to make of the Emersons, she finally asks Mr. Beebe directly: "Old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know" (p. 39). This perplexity, presented quite baldly by the narrator, is part of what makes Lucy convincing as a modern heroine: that she does not make any claims to being particularly heroic.

But in addition to showing Lucy's tendency to apply to higher authority, Forster demonstrates just how those higher authorities can insinuate their ideas into one's individual perspective. We find Lucy on her first morning in Florence gazing idly out the window and taking in the everyday activity on the street. The narrator comments: "Over such trivialities as these many a valuable hour may slip away, and the traveler who has gone to Italy to study the tactile values of Giotto, or the corruption of the Papacy, may return remembering nothing but the blue sky and the men and women who live under it" (pp. 18-19). Later that morning, alone in Santa Croce and bereft of her Baedeker (Miss Lavish has inadvertently run off with it), Lucy is faced with the challenge of negotiating the church's formidable artistic holdings without aid.

Of course, it must be a wonderful building. But how like a barn!

And how very cold! Of course, it contained frescoes by Giotto, in the presence of whose tactile values she was capable of feeling what was proper. But who was to tell her which they were? (p. 23).

Taken under the Emersons' wing, she finds the frescoes at last and issues her judgment.

"I like Giotto," she replied. "It is so wonderful what they say about his tactile values. Though I like things like the Della Robbia babies better" (p. 28).

Clearly Lucy has read somewhere that Giotto's tactile values are noteworthy. (It would likely have been in Bernard Berenson's The Florentine Painters of the Renaissance, The Florentine Painters of the Renaissance, written in 1896, which praised the Italian master's ability to stimulate the sense of touch with his work-and which Forster apparently despised.) Forster shows us, by tracing the phrase from the narrative voice to Lucy's thoughts and finally to her conversation, how an idea like "tactile values" gets reproduced, how it insinuates itself into and shapes one's perception. But because he leaves out exactly what "they" say about Giotto's tactile values, and what would be "proper" to feel in front of them, Lucy is reduced to merely parroting an observation that is empty; she doesn't really seem to believe in it, and it serves only to distance her from the frescoes she has been so eager to see. Her own visceral reactions-the vastness of Santa Croce, its coldness, and the vitality of the Della Robbia babies-contain much more spirit, but she is not yet confident enough to trust in it. written in 1896, which praised the Italian master's ability to stimulate the sense of touch with his work-and which Forster apparently despised.) Forster shows us, by tracing the phrase from the narrative voice to Lucy's thoughts and finally to her conversation, how an idea like "tactile values" gets reproduced, how it insinuates itself into and shapes one's perception. But because he leaves out exactly what "they" say about Giotto's tactile values, and what would be "proper" to feel in front of them, Lucy is reduced to merely parroting an observation that is empty; she doesn't really seem to believe in it, and it serves only to distance her from the frescoes she has been so eager to see. Her own visceral reactions-the vastness of Santa Croce, its coldness, and the vitality of the Della Robbia babies-contain much more spirit, but she is not yet confident enough to trust in it.

Because the viewing of art is such an integral part of the tourist experience, it becomes an integral part of the narrative experience as well, one from which few characters are spared. At the climax of the Florence section of the novel, when George Emerson impulsively kisses Lucy in a field of violets, a fellow tourist interrupts the two. "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" (p. 67). It is Charlotte, but with this description she is condensed into a literal blot on the landscape, a kind of impressionistic smudge; she is nothing more than a voice and the color of her dress, a mere pairing of sensory perceptions, and significantly, she appears as such at a moment when Lucy's senses have been a.s.saulted in a completely new way. The description, in other words, is perfectly in keeping with the situation; the language not only records the plot, but subtly illuminates it.

And so we find, in A Room with a View, A Room with a View, that looking at people is not so different from looking at art, though unfortunately without Baedeker's stars to indicate which are most worthy of our gaze. Cecil Vyse, Lucy's fiance, who appears on the scene once the story has moved to England, likens Lucy, with her "wonderful reticence," to a "woman of Leonardo da Vinci's, whom we love not so much for herself as for the things that she will not tell us" (p. 87). Later, when Lucy protests Cecil's machinations over the rental of Cissie Villa to the Emersons, he decides that "she had failed to be Leonardesque" (p. 113), and we see that his aesthetic comparison is in fact a way of flattening Lucy's personality. But, to be fair, in evaluating Lucy through the prism of art, Cecil is only following a precedent set much earlier in the novel. Lucy herself, in Santa Croce, a.s.sesses George Emerson in a similar vein: that looking at people is not so different from looking at art, though unfortunately without Baedeker's stars to indicate which are most worthy of our gaze. Cecil Vyse, Lucy's fiance, who appears on the scene once the story has moved to England, likens Lucy, with her "wonderful reticence," to a "woman of Leonardo da Vinci's, whom we love not so much for herself as for the things that she will not tell us" (p. 87). Later, when Lucy protests Cecil's machinations over the rental of Cissie Villa to the Emersons, he decides that "she had failed to be Leonardesque" (p. 113), and we see that his aesthetic comparison is in fact a way of flattening Lucy's personality. But, to be fair, in evaluating Lucy through the prism of art, Cecil is only following a precedent set much earlier in the novel. Lucy herself, in Santa Croce, a.s.sesses George Emerson in a similar vein: She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel. For a young man his face was rugged, and-until the shadows fell upon it-hard. Enshadowed, it sprang into tenderness. She saw him once again at Rome, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, carrying a burden of acorns (p. 28).

If Lucy is viewed as a work of art (as the t.i.tle of chapter 9 proclaims), then so is George, and so, for that matter is Cecil, whom the narrator introduces to us as "mediaeval. Like a Gothic statue" (p. 85). Thus even the reader is made complicit in the mode of art appreciation; we are instructed to see Cecil that way, even as Forster points out the potential dangers of doing so.

This continuity of outlook encouraged by Forster is just one of the elements that unites the two halves of A Room with a View. A Room with a View. The scene change that occurs midway through the novel from Florence to Surrey is dramatic in terms of the mileage, and it is tempting to think that substantively different att.i.tudes or ideas will emerge with the new landscape. Traveling with Lucy, we have been in a foreign country, and now we are back on familiar territory. But where character and narrative are concerned, setting can be moot, however picturesque. Lucy herself suggests as much with her a.s.sertion on that first, disappointing day at the Pension Bertolini, that with no Arno view and a hostess with a c.o.c.kney accent, she and Charlotte might just as well be in London. They are trapped in a little tourist bubble, not surprising when one seeks out the comforts of home abroad-an English tea and convivial, unthreatening English company. Just as equally, though, could Lucy say on returning to Summer Street that she might as well be in Italy, because it turns out she is just as easily perplexed in her family home, surrounded by familiar flora and fauna, as at the Bertolini dinner table or in the dim light of Santa Croce. In fact, we might argue that in England Lucy is at a distinct disadvantage. Abroad, as a tourist, one can be excused for conversational slips, for losing one's way, for placing one's trust too quickly in a fellow foreigner or a kindly Italian. There are guidebooks published expressly to tell you where to find the best view, which fresco not to miss in the church, how long to stay in Florence and how long in Rome. At home there is no guidebook (or if there were, you would look a fool consulting it). If you are inarticulate it is your own failing, and you must decide on your own whether one view is better than another. Or, in Lucy's case, whether one suitor is better than another. Reviewing the novel in 1908, The scene change that occurs midway through the novel from Florence to Surrey is dramatic in terms of the mileage, and it is tempting to think that substantively different att.i.tudes or ideas will emerge with the new landscape. Traveling with Lucy, we have been in a foreign country, and now we are back on familiar territory. But where character and narrative are concerned, setting can be moot, however picturesque. Lucy herself suggests as much with her a.s.sertion on that first, disappointing day at the Pension Bertolini, that with no Arno view and a hostess with a c.o.c.kney accent, she and Charlotte might just as well be in London. They are trapped in a little tourist bubble, not surprising when one seeks out the comforts of home abroad-an English tea and convivial, unthreatening English company. Just as equally, though, could Lucy say on returning to Summer Street that she might as well be in Italy, because it turns out she is just as easily perplexed in her family home, surrounded by familiar flora and fauna, as at the Bertolini dinner table or in the dim light of Santa Croce. In fact, we might argue that in England Lucy is at a distinct disadvantage. Abroad, as a tourist, one can be excused for conversational slips, for losing one's way, for placing one's trust too quickly in a fellow foreigner or a kindly Italian. There are guidebooks published expressly to tell you where to find the best view, which fresco not to miss in the church, how long to stay in Florence and how long in Rome. At home there is no guidebook (or if there were, you would look a fool consulting it). If you are inarticulate it is your own failing, and you must decide on your own whether one view is better than another. Or, in Lucy's case, whether one suitor is better than another. Reviewing the novel in 1908, The Outlook The Outlook described Lucy as "one of those uncomfortable girls who cannot make up their minds" (quoted in Gardner, p. 116), but really, it is easy to see how she gets into trouble on that count. In Florence, she experiences the luxury of having numerous other people help make it up for her-not only Charlotte, Miss Lavish, the Miss Alans, Mr. Eager, and Mr. Beebe, but also cultural heavyweights such as John Ruskin, the preeminent Victorian art critic (much quoted in Baedeker), and of course Karl Baedeker himself, publisher of the ill.u.s.trious travel guides, whose life purpose it was to direct tourist traffic. In Surrey, Lucy lacks these authorities, and so it is there, not in Italy, that she must struggle more vigorously to discover what it is she wants out of life, what will make her happy, and whom she will love. described Lucy as "one of those uncomfortable girls who cannot make up their minds" (quoted in Gardner, p. 116), but really, it is easy to see how she gets into trouble on that count. In Florence, she experiences the luxury of having numerous other people help make it up for her-not only Charlotte, Miss Lavish, the Miss Alans, Mr. Eager, and Mr. Beebe, but also cultural heavyweights such as John Ruskin, the preeminent Victorian art critic (much quoted in Baedeker), and of course Karl Baedeker himself, publisher of the ill.u.s.trious travel guides, whose life purpose it was to direct tourist traffic. In Surrey, Lucy lacks these authorities, and so it is there, not in Italy, that she must struggle more vigorously to discover what it is she wants out of life, what will make her happy, and whom she will love.

The next question on that list, given the way most novels had traditionally ended, might well be where she will live. (Fictional unions tended to come packaged with property, or at least a well-marked path toward inheriting it.) Lucy's personal struggle is indeed set in the context of the novel's recurring anxieties about real estate. The initial trade of accommodations at the Pension Bertolini bears the most thematic weight-centering, as it does, on the eponymous room with a view-but it is mirrored in the novel's second half by another switch of lodgings. This one, however, is not brought about by a gesture of kindness, but staged by Cecil to score off the neighborhood sn.o.b: He convinces Sir Harry Otway, landlord of Cissie Villa, that he ought to have the Emersons as tenants rather than the genteel Miss Alans, and misrepresents the Emersons as more refined than they actually are in order to set his trap. No sooner has Mr. Emerson moved in than he discovers the muddle (to use Forster's trademark word) and takes it to heart, though not on his own account: "We find, though," he says, "that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it" (p. 144). It is no accident that his words echo Charlotte's to Lucy back in Italy, on the subject of the desired south rooms-"If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it" (p. 15)-and that the repet.i.tion proves Mr. Emerson as capable of refined feeling as Charlotte herself (though she would never own it). Thus Forster shows us a cycle at work-a kind of musical chairs for living quarters-but it is a game that, if played cruelly, can cause the partic.i.p.ants to suffer.

It is the rooms and the flats and the houses, and the muddles that take place around them, that set A Room with a View A Room with a View firmly in the Forster canon. Nicola Beauman, in the preface to her biography of Forster, argues that the theme of "disappearing houses" is a constant in his work, in part because his own birthplace was sacrificed for the sake of railway expansion, and in part because that was simply, as he saw it, the ethos of the era firmly in the Forster canon. Nicola Beauman, in the preface to her biography of Forster, argues that the theme of "disappearing houses" is a constant in his work, in part because his own birthplace was sacrificed for the sake of railway expansion, and in part because that was simply, as he saw it, the ethos of the era (E. M. Forster: (E. M. Forster: A A Biography, Biography, p. 4). The family home in which one spent the better part of one's childhood, or if lucky, one's life, would soon become a relic of bygone days; modern man was growing itinerant, rootless-more and more like a tourist, even in his own homeland. Much of our contemporary fiction in English, especially fiction from former British colonies, has picked up on this theme of displacement, exploring the condition of living in a newly globalized world, of being a citizen of everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Years after he himself had stopped writing fiction, Forster recognized the trend in his own work. In an essay he wrote in 1958 to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of p. 4). The family home in which one spent the better part of one's childhood, or if lucky, one's life, would soon become a relic of bygone days; modern man was growing itinerant, rootless-more and more like a tourist, even in his own homeland. Much of our contemporary fiction in English, especially fiction from former British colonies, has picked up on this theme of displacement, exploring the condition of living in a newly globalized world, of being a citizen of everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Years after he himself had stopped writing fiction, Forster recognized the trend in his own work. In an essay he wrote in 1958 to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of A Room with a View- A Room with a View-an essay essay t.i.tled "A View Without a Room"-he describes how Lucy Honeychurch and George Emerson, after their marriage, began to "want a real home-somewhere in the country where they could take root and un.o.btrusively found a dynasty. But civilization was not moving that way. The characters in my other novels were experiencing similar troubles. Howards End is a hunt for a home. India is a Pa.s.sage for Indians as well as English. No resting place." At the end of t.i.tled "A View Without a Room"-he describes how Lucy Honeychurch and George Emerson, after their marriage, began to "want a real home-somewhere in the country where they could take root and un.o.btrusively found a dynasty. But civilization was not moving that way. The characters in my other novels were experiencing similar troubles. Howards End is a hunt for a home. India is a Pa.s.sage for Indians as well as English. No resting place." At the end of A Room with a View, A Room with a View, we have come full circle; the Bertolini must suffice as a final refuge. It seems that Forster was determined that George Emerson and Lucy Honeychurch should always remain what they were when we first met them: travelers. we have come full circle; the Bertolini must suffice as a final refuge. It seems that Forster was determined that George Emerson and Lucy Honeychurch should always remain what they were when we first met them: travelers.

Forster himself traveled to Italy in the fall of 1901. His companion was his mother, with whom he was always very close. He had finished his studies at Cambridge that spring, and, though he planned to choose an occupation, no suitable opportunity had yet presented itself. He had the luxury of a small income (an inheritance from his great-aunt Marianne Thornton, which he repaid in his own way by writing a biography of her in the 1950s), and, having published a few articles in Cambridge journals, he had begun to entertain the idea of becoming a writer. A tour abroad therefore seemed an appropriate way to spend his first year out of school, a kind of gestation period before life began in earnest. The Forsters departed at the beginning of October, and it was immediately apparent that it would not be a perfect trip. In a letter to his friend Edward Dent, dated October 22, 1901, Forster wrote that the journey had got off to a "devilish start": "wrong tickets, unexpected arrival in Paris, sick headaches, quarrelling, lost luggage" (Selected Letters, (Selected Letters, vol. 1, p. 47). Eight days later, writing from Florence, he mentioned a muddle over their rooms: "We have been here three days, and very comfortable, but my mother hankers after an Arno view and a South aspect, so we are not stopping" vol. 1, p. 47). Eight days later, writing from Florence, he mentioned a muddle over their rooms: "We have been here three days, and very comfortable, but my mother hankers after an Arno view and a South aspect, so we are not stopping" (Selected Letters, (Selected Letters, vol. 1, p. 48). Would-be writers, apparently, are not immune to the inconveniences of travel-which is a pity for them, but a stroke of luck for literature. vol. 1, p. 48). Would-be writers, apparently, are not immune to the inconveniences of travel-which is a pity for them, but a stroke of luck for literature.

Forster did not in fact do much writing in Italy. He was hampered not only by typical beginner's doubts about his talent, but also by physical setbacks. Early in the winter of 1902 he fell on the steps of St. Peter's and broke his arm. The image of this impressionable young man prostrated on the very threshold of aesthetic achievement, injured for the sake of art appreciation, is almost too comically Forsterian to be believed, but the accident was serious enough that for a time he learned to write with his left hand. When the arm healed, he went to Naples, where, according to his biographer P. N. Furbank, he first conceived the idea for what he would refer to as his "Lucy" novel (E. M. Forster: A Life, (E. M. Forster: A Life, p. 91). Its basic scheme was recorded in a note: p. 91). Its basic scheme was recorded in a note: Who? Lucy Beringer. Miss Bartlett, her cousin. H.O.M. Miss Lavish Miss Dorothy & Miss Margaret Alan. Lucy Beringer. Miss Bartlett, her cousin. H.O.M. Miss Lavish Miss Dorothy & Miss Margaret Alan. Where? Where? Florence, Pension Bertolini Florence, Pension Bertolini Doing What? Doing What?

The final question remained on hold. Forster went on to Sicily, and later that spring, in Ravello, was struck with the idea for what was to be one of his first published stories, "The Story of a Panic," an account of a tourist picnic disrupted by the G.o.d Pan that leads to the unlikely spiritual liberation of one member of the party. (Liberation of the spirit would also become a hallmark of Forster's work.) But the "Lucy" novel continued to germinate; he brought it with him out of Italy like a souvenir and continued to work on it, on and off, while completing Where Angels Fear to Tread Where Angels Fear to Tread and and The Longest Journey. The Longest Journey.

When A Room with a View A Room with a View was published in 1908, it was on the whole well received, as the two previous works had been. was published in 1908, it was on the whole well received, as the two previous works had been. The Nation The Nation took it as a sign that "Mr. Forster has earned the right to serious criticism" (quoted in Gardner, p. 111), and took it as a sign that "Mr. Forster has earned the right to serious criticism" (quoted in Gardner, p. 111), and The Spectator The Spectator agreed: "Mr. Forster's new novel is not only much the best of the three he has written, but it clearly admits him to the limited cla.s.s of writers who stand above and apart from the manufacturers, conscientious or otherwise, of contemporary fiction" (Gardner, p. 118). Forster himself was not entirely satisfied. He wrote with only faint praise to his friend Dent, "I feel myself that it comes off as far as it goes-which is a d.a.m.ned little way-and that the character of Lucy, on which everything depends, is all right" agreed: "Mr. Forster's new novel is not only much the best of the three he has written, but it clearly admits him to the limited cla.s.s of writers who stand above and apart from the manufacturers, conscientious or otherwise, of contemporary fiction" (Gardner, p. 118). Forster himself was not entirely satisfied. He wrote with only faint praise to his friend Dent, "I feel myself that it comes off as far as it goes-which is a d.a.m.ned little way-and that the character of Lucy, on which everything depends, is all right" (Selected Letters, (Selected Letters, vol. 1, p. 95). In a letter written to a critic in France in 1910, he referred to the novel dismissively as a "slight sketch of bourgeois life" vol. 1, p. 95). In a letter written to a critic in France in 1910, he referred to the novel dismissively as a "slight sketch of bourgeois life" (Selected Letters, (Selected Letters, vol. 2, p. 117), adding that his recent work, vol. 2, p. 117), adding that his recent work, Howards End, Howards End, was more ambitious. Virginia Woolf, a.s.sessing Forster's oeuvre in 1942, expresses the opinion of most of his critics-both his contemporaries and our own-when she writes that was more ambitious. Virginia Woolf, a.s.sessing Forster's oeuvre in 1942, expresses the opinion of most of his critics-both his contemporaries and our own-when she writes that Howards End Howards End and and A Pa.s.sage to India A Pa.s.sage to India "mark his prime" (quoted in Wilde, p. 46). Certainly they are novels with a larger scope: "mark his prime" (quoted in Wilde, p. 46). Certainly they are novels with a larger scope: Howards End Howards End (1910), with its examination of cla.s.s relations in England, offers Forster's sense of where the country was headed from within, while (1910), with its examination of cla.s.s relations in England, offers Forster's sense of where the country was headed from within, while A Pa.s.sage to India A Pa.s.sage to India (1924), which at its heart explores the feasibility of cross-cultural friendship, issues his verdict on how England was faring out in the world as its empire declined. The Forsterian imperatives of avoiding muddle, of connecting, of freeing the soul from the constraints of prejudice and physical limitation are all there, spread over a broader social and geographical canvas. (1924), which at its heart explores the feasibility of cross-cultural friendship, issues his verdict on how England was faring out in the world as its empire declined. The Forsterian imperatives of avoiding muddle, of connecting, of freeing the soul from the constraints of prejudice and physical limitation are all there, spread over a broader social and geographical canvas.

"What will he write next?" Woolf wondered, at the close of her 1942 essay. Forster lived until 1970, but aside from Maurice, Maurice, which came out the year after his death, he published no more novels. He told an interviewer in 1959 that it was his "one regret": which came out the year after his death, he published no more novels. He told an interviewer in 1959 that it was his "one regret": I somehow dried up after the Pa.s.sage. Pa.s.sage. I wanted to write but did not want to write novels. And that is really too long a story. But I think one of the reasons why I stopped writing novels is that the social aspect of the world changed so much. I had been accustomed to write about the old-fashioned world with its homes and its family life and its comparative peace. All that went, and though I can think about the new world I cannot put it into fiction (Stape, I wanted to write but did not want to write novels. And that is really too long a story. But I think one of the reasons why I stopped writing novels is that the social aspect of the world changed so much. I had been accustomed to write about the old-fashioned world with its homes and its family life and its comparative peace. All that went, and though I can think about the new world I cannot put it into fiction (Stape, E. M. Forster: Interviews and Recollections, E. M. Forster: Interviews and Recollections, p. 39). p. 39).

His first four novels had been published in what writer Elizabeth Bowen called "a sort of glorious rush" between 1905 and 1910 (he was thirty-one when Howards End Howards End came out), and the result is indeed a kind of concentrated worldview, not inflexible but highly specific, and soon to be overshadowed by the catastrophic events of World War I, which would define a new generation. Woolf recognized it; she noted that "Mr. Forster is extremely susceptible to the influence of time. He sees his people much at the mercy of those conditions which change with the years. He is acutely conscious of the bicycle and of the motor-car; of the public school and of the university; of the suburb and of the city" (Wilde, p. 43). On the subject of time and transition at the turn of the century, Forster was in good company. Thomas Hardy had portrayed the fatal pressures of approaching modernity in his last novel, came out), and the result is indeed a kind of concentrated worldview, not inflexible but highly specific, and soon to be overshadowed by the catastrophic events of World War I, which would define a new generation. Woolf recognized it; she noted that "Mr. Forster is extremely susceptible to the influence of time. He sees his people much at the mercy of those conditions which change with the years. He is acutely conscious of the bicycle and of the motor-car; of the public school and of the university; of the suburb and of the city" (Wilde, p. 43). On the subject of time and transition at the turn of the century, Forster was in good company. Thomas Hardy had portrayed the fatal pressures of approaching modernity in his last novel, Jude the Obscure, Jude the Obscure, published in 1896. Joseph Conrad, in published in 1896. Joseph Conrad, in Heart of Darkness Heart of Darkness (1902) and Lord (1902) and Lord jim jim (1900), drew out the moral ambiguities of a colonial system about to collapse under its own weight. H. G. Wells, building on his science fiction of the 1890s, took as his theme the decay of traditional England and the potential failure of Victorian-inflected notions of progress in works such as (1900), drew out the moral ambiguities of a colonial system about to collapse under its own weight. H. G. Wells, building on his science fiction of the 1890s, took as his theme the decay of traditional England and the potential failure of Victorian-inflected notions of progress in works such as Tono-Bungay, Tono-Bungay, published in 1909. These writers, along with John Galsworthy, George Gissing, Henry James, and others, were instrumental in laying the groundwork for the innovations of style and content that would characterize high modernism, and Forster, who had a foot in the modernist door, was a key player in that literary transition. The liberation of the spirit that he so ardently espoused and cultivated in his characters would soon materialize into a liberation of form, albeit chiefly in the fiction of others. published in 1909. These writers, along with John Galsworthy, George Gissing, Henry James, and others, were instrumental in laying the groundwork for the innovations of style and content that would characterize high modernism, and Forster, who had a foot in the modernist door, was a key player in that literary transition. The liberation of the spirit that he so ardently espoused and cultivated in his characters would soon materialize into a liberation of form, albeit chiefly in the fiction of others.

For Forster's readers-those who have traveled widely in his novels -A Room with a View -A Room with a View has a different kind of value. The appeal of Lucy's experience in Italy has not faded. Her overtures toward a broader view-of Florence, of art, of her fellow travelers-still capture the essence of an age of transition, not only on a historical scale but also in individual terms, as childhood ends and adult life, independent life, begins. And so the Italy of the novel has become a kind of tourist destination in itself. To be in Santa Croce with Lucy and the Emersons is to feel on the cusp of discovery-of the merits of Giotto's tactile values, perhaps, but more important, of some unknown quality or capacity in oneself that may, with the right encouragement, come to fruition. has a different kind of value. The appeal of Lucy's experience in Italy has not faded. Her overtures toward a broader view-of Florence, of art, of her fellow travelers-still capture the essence of an age of transition, not only on a historical scale but also in individual terms, as childhood ends and adult life, independent life, begins. And so the Italy of the novel has become a kind of tourist destination in itself. To be in Santa Croce with Lucy and the Emersons is to feel on the cusp of discovery-of the merits of Giotto's tactile values, perhaps, but more important, of some unknown quality or capacity in oneself that may, with the right encouragement, come to fruition.

Radhika Jones is a freelance writer and editor, and a Ph.D. candidate in English and Comparative Literature at Columbia University. Jones also wrote the introduction and notes for the Barnes & n.o.ble Cla.s.sics editions of two novels by Charles d.i.c.kens, Great Expectations Great Expectations and and David Copperfield. David Copperfield.

PART I.

1.

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 court-yard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!"

"And a c.o.c.kney, 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 a athat 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." 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sumed 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 cla.s.s 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; view; men don't." And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son, saying, "George, persuade them!" 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. Tomorrow 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 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." 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 new-comer, 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 c.o.c.kney 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 armchair, 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." 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?"