“How are you now?”
“Perfectly well — absolutely well.” And she began to nod and smile because she felt the tingling sensation in her loins … it had not been a dream, no it had not. She immediately sensed the absence of her undergarment. How odd she thought, though she decided it might be best not to question George about it now. She needed to regain her composure.
“Then let us come home,” he said. “There’s no point in our stopping.”
He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it. The cries from the fountain — they had seemingly never ceased now that she was back in the Piazza — only the noise rang emptily now. The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning. As the passion between her and George was forced to fade in the light of a stilted society, Lucy began to doubt herself. Out here in the open, she suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable to George. What had she done? What would anyone say if they were to discover what she had done? What if Charlotte learned of her being alone with George? Lucy forced herself to turn her passion aside.
She said more somberly to George, “How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you.” Though it pained her, Lucy played her role for fear that someone; namely, Charlotte, would discover their secret. Perhaps it had all been a dream.
His hand was still extended.
“Oh, my photographs!” she exclaimed suddenly.
“What photographs?”
“I bought some photographs at Alinari’s. I must have dropped them out there in the square.” She looked at him cautiously. “Would you add to your kindness by fetching them?”
He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade towards the Arno.
“Miss Honeychurch!”
She stopped with her hand on her heart. It had not been a dream. All of it had truly happened — those dreadful men and then George. George had tasted her. How devilishly fun, she thought.
“You sit still; you aren’t fit to go home alone.”
“Yes, I am, thank you so very much.” Though she never for a moment wanted to part his side, yet, she was compelled to keep up appearances.
“No, you aren’t. You’d go openly if you were.”
“But I had rather — ”
“Then I don’t fetch your photographs.”
“I had rather be alone.”
He said imperiously: “The man is dead — the man is probably dead; sit down till you are rested.” She was bewildered, and obeyed him, remembering the troubles of the other man. “And don’t move till I come back.”
In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her, “Oh, what have I done?” — the thought that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual boundary.
He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was an easy topic. He couldn’t expect her to speak freely of their secret escapade. So she spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five minutes before, and the first time perhaps half an hour before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.
“And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say — how very odd Italians are! — and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday — What was that?”
He had thrown something into the stream.
“What did you throw in?”
“Things I didn’t want,” he said crossly.
“Mr. Emerson!”
“Well?”
“Where are the photographs?”
He was silent.
“I believe it was my photographs that you threw away.”
“I didn’t know what to do with them,” he cried, and his voice was that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the first time since their tryst on the settee. “They were covered with blood. There! I’m glad I’ve told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do with them.” He pointed downstream. “They’ve gone.” The river swirled under the bridge, “I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out to the sea — I don’t know; I may just mean that they frightened me.” Then the boy verged into a man. “For something tremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn’t exactly that a man has died.”
Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.
“It has happened,” he repeated, “and I mean to find out what it is.”
“Mr. Emerson — ”
He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.
“I want to ask you something before we go in.”
They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She moved her elbows before saying:
“I have behaved ridiculously to have fainted at the sight of blood.”
He was following his own thoughts.
“I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me.”
“I nearly fainted myself,” he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.
“Well, I owe you a thousand apologies.”
“Oh, all right.”
“And — this is the real point — you know how silly people are gossiping — ladies especially, I am afraid — you understand what I mean?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?”
“Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right — all right.”
“Thank you so much. And would you — ”
She could not carry her request any further. She had to believe that he would not speak of their intimacy. The river was rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man, he was more than chivalrous, he was truly knightly. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her — of course, he did. But he lacked nothing in chivalry; his thoughts, like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him what he already understood, “And would you — ” and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari’s shop. He had ravaged her, tasted her, and know knew her most intimate secrets. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. Together, she and George had formed a union of the heart.
“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”
“I don’t.”
Anxiety moved her to question him.
His answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”
“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”
“I shall want to live, I say.”
Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears. She knew exactly where her Dear George wanted to live. H
e was not ashamed of his actions; he only worried about what she must be thinking after their moment of passion. Or perhaps he was only disappointed that the moment had ended too soon. If she acted differently toward him after leaving the privacy of the parlour, they risked being discovered. Would he have her treat him openly as his lover and be ridiculed by polite society? Surely, his desire to live would not be to disparage her reputation. Confused by his manner, Lucy decided she had much to consider.
Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing
It was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson none the wiser, nor questioning his act of chivalry. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one.
For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.
At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties — all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.
“No, Charlotte!” cried the girl, with real warmth. “It’s very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather.”
Another night passed and George had failed to come to her through the secret passage in the wall. His absence only fanned the embers of her desire for his touch. She needed him desperately. It seemed a mean trick that he was playing upon her.
Restless and unable to sleep, the sounds of the night, the crickets chirping, the occasional song of a nightingale, urged her to find some sense of satisfaction so that she might calm her nerves and find rest. Morning came early.
Lucy grasped her breasts and squeezed, imagining it was George caressing her. She let down the straps of her peignoir and returned her hands to her bosom, only this time finding the aroused tips of her breasts. She squeezed lightly, then massaged the tips round and round until her hips began to rock and undulate with desire.
“Oh, would he come to me. Dear George.”
She raised the lower edge of her peignoir and hastily removed the undergarment, imagining that George was undressing her, though his touch was much gentler than even her own.
“George,” she whispered, but he didn’t answer. He wasn’t there.
In the distance, she thought she heard the song of a lark. How confusing for the bird to be singing at night. Perhaps she was mistaken. Perhaps. She slowly moved a hand down her stomach, circled her navel just as George did, and then slipped lower to her well of passion.
With her fingers, she began sliding through her cream, hoping to satisfy herself quickly. With the other hand, she clasped the tip of a breast and squeezed.
Her hips rocked steadily as she imagined George touching her, kissing her, and loving her as he had previously done.
What pleasure it would be to feel George inside of her, she thought. She teased herself with the tip of her finger, slowly dipping it in and out of her passion.
He would be gentle. “Yes, you would, Dear George.”
She worked more and more and when she could stand it no longer, she released the other her hand from her breast, found her pearl, and began massaging it.
“George, if only you’d come to me now, I’d let you know me. All of me.” She moaned softly to herself melodiously.
The thought of George sliding in and out of her, filling her with the pleasure she so desperately needed, aroused her more and more.
The lark sang louder. It must have alighted in a tree near her open window to return her song, to encourage her.
She swirled her fingers round and round her pearl until the thought of George’s tongue doing the work sent her in a wild, unstoppable frenzy.
“George, yes George. Yes.”
Uttering a long moan, she climaxed as though George had released her. She strummed her pearl feeling the waves of rising and falling crests. She was released, but not satiated, though tonight she would find sleep.
A gentle breeze swept through the window, chilling her to the bone. She dressed herself and pulled the blankets around her, imagining that the weight of the covers surrounding her was the man she desired most, her Dearest George.
She closed her eyes and her next conscious thought was “daylight.” Morning had come to rescue her from the loneliness of the night.
She took no time to dress and soon found herself in the company of her cousin at the breakfast table, facing only the decision for the day.
Of her two options for the day, she would not go with the Emersons, who were to join Mr. Beebe and the American women. No, she certainly would not. She would keep her distance from George today, not only to punish him for being so cowardly, but also to be sure that he had his full opportunity to check his misguided temperament.
“Very well, dear,” said Miss Bartlett to her young cousin, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her and not think of George, not once.
She slipped her arm into her cousin’s, and they started off along the Lung’ Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was “How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!”
Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did. It only made her think back to that unpleasant conversation with George and how all he wanted was to live, which she knew meant to love her openly without regard to the feelings of others.
Was this what the sight of death provoked in men?
“Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice.”
Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle — queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper — but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to reenter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett’s insinuations.
But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts.
The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.
“Oh, let me congratulate you!” said Miss Bartlett. “After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!”
“Aha! Miss Honeychurch,
come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning.” Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.
“But perhaps you would rather not?”
“I’m sorry — if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not.”
The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.
“It is I who am sorry,” said Miss Lavish “literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there’s no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn’t pry.”
She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o’clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.
“What is the heroine’s name?” asked Miss Bartlett.
“Leonora,” said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.
“I do hope she’s nice.”
That desideratum would not be omitted.
“And what is the plot?”
Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.
“I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,” Miss Lavish concluded. “It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist.”
“Oh, you wicked woman,” cried Miss Bartlett. “I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons.”
Literary Love Page 65
