A Room With A View by E. M. Forster (top android ebook reader txt) đ
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- Author: E. M. Forster
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âOh, Cecilâhow you made me jump!â
âI will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer.â
âI can just remember us all three going into the country for the day and seeing as far as Hindhead. It is the first thing that I remember.â
Cecil got up; the man was ill-bredâhe hadnât put on his coat after tennisâhe didnât do. He would have strolled away if Lucy had not stopped him.
âCecil, do read the thing about the view.â
âNot while Mr. Emerson is here to entertain us.â
âNoâread away. I think nothingâs funnier than to hear silly things read out loud. If Mr. Emerson thinks us frivolous, he can go.â
This struck Cecil as subtle, and pleased him. It put their visitor in the position of a prig. Somewhat mollified, he sat down again.
âMr. Emerson, go and find tennis balls.â She opened the book. Cecil must have his reading and anything else that he liked. But her attention wandered to Georgeâs mother, whoâaccording to Mr. Eagerâhad been murdered in the sight of God according to her sonâhad seen as far as Hindhead.
âAm I really to go?â asked George.
âNo, of course not really,â she answered.
âChapter two,â said Cecil, yawning. âFind me chapter two, if it isnât bothering you.â
Chapter two was found, and she glanced at its opening sentences.
She thought she had gone mad.
âHereâhand me the book.â
She heard her voice saying: âIt isnât worth readingâitâs too silly to readâI never saw such rubbishâit oughtnât to be allowed to be printed.â
He took the book from her.
ââLeonora,ââ he read, ââsat pensive and alone. Before her lay the rich champaign of Tuscany, dotted over with many a smiling village. The season was spring.ââ
Miss Lavish knew, somehow, and had printed the past in draggled prose, for Cecil to read and for George to hear.
ââA golden haze,ââ he read. He read: ââAfar off the towers of Florence, while the bank on which she sat was carpeted with violets. All unobserved Antonio stole up behind herâââ
Lest Cecil should see her face she turned to George and saw his face.
He read: ââThere came from his lips no wordy protestation such as formal lovers use. No eloquence was his, nor did he suffer from the lack of it. He simply enfolded her in his manly arms.ââ
âThis isnât the passage I wanted,â he informed them. âthere is another much funnier, further on.â He turned over the leaves.
âShould we go in to tea?â said Lucy, whose voice remained steady.
She led the way up the garden, Cecil following her, George last. She thought a disaster was averted. But when they entered the shrubbery it came. The book, as if it had not worked mischief enough, had been forgotten, and Cecil must go back for it; and George, who loved passionately, must blunder against her in the narrow path.
âNoââ she gasped, and, for the second time, was kissed by him.
As if no more was possible, he slipped back; Cecil rejoined her; they reached the upper lawn alone.
But Lucy had developed since the spring. That is to say, she was now better able to stifle the emotions of which the conventions and the world disapprove. Though the danger was greater, she was not shaken by deep sobs. She said to Cecil, âI am not coming in to teaâtell motherâI must write some letters,â and went up to her room. Then she prepared for action. Love felt and returned, love which our bodies exact and our hearts have transfigured, love which is the most real thing that we shall ever meet, reappeared now as the worldâs enemy, and she must stifle it.
She sent for Miss Bartlett.
The contest lay not between love and duty. Perhaps there never is such a contest. It lay between the real and the pretended, and Lucyâs first aim was to defeat herself. As her brain clouded over, as the memory of the views grew dim and the words of the book died away, she returned to her old shibboleth of nerves. She âconquered her breakdown.â Tampering with the truth, she forgot that the truth had ever been. Remembering that she was engaged to Cecil, she compelled herself to confused remembrances of George; he was nothing to her; he never had been anything; he had behaved abominably; she had never encouraged him. The armour of falsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness, and hides a man not only from others, but from his own soul. In a few moments Lucy was equipped for battle.
âSomething too awful has happened,â she began, as soon as her cousin arrived. âDo you know anything about Miss Lavishâs novel?â
Miss Bartlett looked surprised, and said that she had not read the book, nor known that it was published; Eleanor was a reticent woman at heart.
âThere is a scene in it. The hero and heroine make love. Do you know about that?â
âDearâ?â
âDo you know about it, please?â she repeated. âThey are on a hillside, and Florence is in the distance.â
âMy good Lucia, I am all at sea. I know nothing about it whatever.â
âThere are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how could you have told her? I have thought before speaking; it must be you.â
âTold her what?â she asked, with growing agitation.
âAbout that dreadful afternoon in February.â
Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. âOh, Lucy, dearest girlâshe hasnât put that in her book?â
Lucy nodded.
âNot so that one could recognize it. Yes.â
âThen neverâneverânever more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine.â
âSo you did tell?â
âI did just happenâwhen I had tea with her at Romeâin the course of conversationââ
âBut Charlotteâwhat about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldnât even let me tell mother?â
âI will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence.â
âWhy did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing.â
Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrongâshe admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence.
Lucy stamped with irritation.
âCecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecilâs back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecilâs back as we were walking up the garden.â
Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets.
âWhat is to be done now? Can you tell me?â
âOh, LucyâI shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospectsââ
âI know,â said Lucy, wincing at the word. âI see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by âsome other source.â You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable.
It was Miss Bartlettâs turn to wince. âHowever,â said the girl, despising her cousinâs shiftiness, âWhatâs doneâs done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?â
Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage.
âHe mustâthat man must have such a setting down that he wonât forget. And whoâs to give it him? I canât tell mother nowâowing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. Thatâs why Iâve sent for you. Whatâs wanted is a man with a whip.â
Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip.
âYesâbut itâs no good agreeing. Whatâs to be DONE. We women go maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?â
âI always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first momentâwhen he said his father was having a bath.â
âOh, bother the credit and whoâs been right or wrong! Weâve both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isnât he? I want to know.â
Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cadâs white flannels among the laurels.
âYou were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Canât you speak again to him now?â
âWillingly would I move heaven and earthââ
âI want something more definite,â said Lucy contemptuously. âWill you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word.â
âNever again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine.â
Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself.
âYes or no, please; yes or no.â
âIt is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle.â George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand.
âVery well,â said Lucy, with an angry gesture. âNo one will help me. I will speak to him myself.â And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along.
âHullo, Emerson!â called Freddy from below. âFound the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?â And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace.
âOh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire youââ
They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying:
âFreddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course.â
âLucy, do you mind doing it?â
âHow can you ask such a ridiculous question?â
âPoor Lucyââ She stretched out her hand. âI seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go.â Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florenceâthe packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlettâs toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousinâs caress, she led the way downstairs.
âTry the jam,â Freddy was saying. âThe jamâs jolly good.â
George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said:
âNoânothing to eat.â
âYou go down to the others,â said Lucy; âCharlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Whereâs mother?â
âSheâs started on her Sunday writing. Sheâs in the drawing-room.â
âThatâs all right. You go away.â
He went off singing.
Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read.
She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: âI canât have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live hereââ flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door. âI hate a row. Go please.â
âWhatââ
âNo discussion.â
âBut I canâtââ
She shook her head. âGo, please. I do not want to call in Mr. Vyse.â
âYou donât mean,â he said, absolutely ignoring Miss Bartlettâ âyou donât mean that you are going to marry that man?â
The line was unexpected.
She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied
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