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〃Tact！〃
He threw up his head in disdain。 Apparently she had given the
wrong answer。 She watched the singular creature pace up and down
the chapel。 For a young man his face was rugged； anduntil the
shadows fell upon ithard。 Enshadowed； it sprang into
tenderness。 She saw him once again at Rome； on the ceiling of the
Sistine Chapel； carrying a burden of acorns。 Healthy and
muscular； he yet gave her the feeling of greyness； of tragedy
that might only find solution in the night。 The feeling soon
passed； it was unlike her to have entertained anything so subtle。
Born of silence and of unknown emotion； it passed when Mr。
Emerson returned； and she could re…enter the world of rapid talk；
which was alone familiar to her。
〃Were you snubbed？〃 asked his son tranquilly。
〃But we have spoilt the pleasure of I don't know how many people。
They won't come back。〃
〃。。。full of innate sympathy。。。quickness to perceive good in
others。。。vision of the brotherhood of man。。。〃 Scraps of the
lecture on St。 Francis came floating round the partition wall。
〃Don't let us spoil yours；〃 he continued to Lucy。 〃Have you
looked at those saints？〃
〃Yes；〃 said Lucy。 〃They are lovely。 Do you know which is the
tombstone that is praised in Ruskin？〃
He did not know； and suggested that they should try to guess it。
George； rather to her relief； refused to move； and she and the
old man wandered not unpleasantly about Santa Croce； which；
though it is like a barn； has harvested many beautiful things
inside its walls。 There were also beggars to avoid。 and guides to
dodge round the pillars； and an old lady with her dog； and here
and there a priest modestly edging to his Mass through the groups
of tourists。 But Mr。 Emerson was only half interested。 He watched
the lecturer； whose success he believed he had impaired； and then
he anxiously watched his son。
〃Why will he look at that fresco？〃 he said uneasily。 〃I saw
nothing in it。〃
〃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。〃
〃So you ought。 A baby is worth a dozen saints。 And my baby's
worth the whole of Paradise； and as far as I can see he lives in
Hell。〃
Lucy again felt that this did not do。
〃In Hell；〃 he repeated。 〃He's unhappy。〃
〃Oh； dear！〃 said Lucy。
〃How can he be unhappy when he is strong and alive？ What more is
one to give him？ And think how he has been brought upfree from
all the superstition and ignorance that lead men to hate one
another in the name of God。 With such an education as that； I
thought he was bound to grow up happy。〃
She was no theologian； but she felt that here was a very foolish
old man； as well as a very irreligious one。 She also felt that
her mother might not like her talking to that kind of person； and
that Charlotte would object most strongly。
〃What are we to do with him？〃 he asked。 〃He comes out for his
holiday to Italy； and behaveslike that； like the little child
who ought to have been playing； and who hurt himself upon the
tombstone。 Eh？ What did you say？〃
Lucy had made no suggestion。 Suddenly he said：
〃Now don't be stupid over this。 I don't require you to fall in
love with my boy； but I do think you might try and understand
him。 You are nearer his age； and if you let yourself go I am sure
you are sensible。 You might help me。 He has known so few women；
and you have the time。 You stop here several weeks； I suppose？
But let yourself go。 You are inclined to get muddled； if I may
judge from last night。 Let yourself go。 Pull out from the depths
those thoughts that you do not understand； and spread them out in
the sunlight and know the meaning of them。 By understanding
George you may learn to understand yourself。 It will be good for
both of you。〃
To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer。
〃I only know what it is that's wrong with him； not why it is。〃
〃And what is it？〃 asked Lucy fearfully； expecting some harrowing
tale。
〃The old trouble； things won't fit。〃
〃What things？〃
〃The things of the universe。 It is quite true。 They don't。〃
〃Oh； Mr。 Emerson； whatever do you mean？〃
In his ordinary voice； so that she scarcely realized he was
quoting poetry； he said：
〃'From far； from eve and morning；
And yon twelve…winded sky；
The stuff of life to knit me
Blew hither： here am I'
George and I both know this； but why does it distress him？ We
know that we come from the winds； and that we shall return to
them； that all life is perhaps a knot； a tangle； a blemish in the
eternal smoothness。 But why should this make us unhappy？ Let us
rather love one another； and work and rejoice。 I don't believe in
this world sorrow。〃
Miss Honeychurch assented。
〃Then make my boy think like us。 Make him realize that by the
side of the everlasting Why there is a Yesa transitory Yes if
you like； but a Yes。〃
Suddenly she laughed； surely one ought to laugh。 A young man
melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit； because life was a
tangle or a wind； or a Yes； or something！
〃I'm very sorry；〃 she cried。 〃You'll think me unfeeling； butbut
〃 Then she became matronly。 〃Oh； but your son wants employment。
Has he no particular hobby？ Why； I myself have worries； but I can
generally forget them at the piano； and collecting stamps did no
end of good for my brother。 Perhaps Italy bores him； you ought to
try the Alps or the Lakes。〃
The old man's face saddened； and he touched her gently with his
hand。 This did not alarm her； she thought that her advice had
impressed him and that he was thanking her for it。 Indeed； he no
longer alarmed her at all； she regarded him as a kind thing； but
quite silly。 Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they
had been an hour ago esthetically； before she lost Baedeker。 The
dear George； now striding towards them over the tombstones；
seemed both pitiable and absurd。 He approached； his face in the
shadow。 He said：
〃Miss Bartlett。〃
〃Oh； good gracious me！〃 said Lucy； suddenly collapsing and again
seeing the whole of life in a new perspective。 〃Where？ Where？〃
〃In the nave。〃
〃I see。 Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have〃 She
checked herself。
〃Poor girl！〃 exploded Mr。 Emerson。 〃Poor girl！〃
She could not let this pass； for it was just what she was feeling
herself。
〃Poor girl？ I fail to understand the point of that remark。 I
think myself a very fortunate girl； I assure you。 I'm thoroughly
happy； and having a splendid time。 Pray don't waste time mourning
over me。 There's enough sorrow in the world； isn't there； without
trying to invent it。 Good…bye。 Thank you both so much for all
your kindness。 Ah； yes！ there does come my cousin。 A delightful
morning！ Santa Croce is a wonderful church。〃
She joined her cousin。
Chapter III： Music； Violets； and the Letter 〃S〃
It so happened that Lucy； who found daily life rather chaotic；
entered a more solid world when she opened the piano。 She was
then no longer either deferential or patronizing； no longer
either a rebel or a slave。 The kingdom of music is not the
kingdom of this world； it will accept those whom breeding and
intellect and culture have alike rejected。 The commonplace person
begins to play； and shoots into the empyrean without effort；
whilst we look up； marvelling how he has escaped us； and thinking
how we could worship him and love him； would he but translate his
visions into human words； and his experiences into human actions。
Perhaps he cannot； certainly he does not； or does so very seldom。
Lucy had done so never。
She was no dazzling executante； her runs were not at all like
strings of pearls； and she struck no more right notes than was
suitable for one of her age and situation。 Nor was she the
passionate young lady； who performs so tragically on a summer's
evening with the window open。 Passion was there； but it could not
be easily labelled； it slipped between love and hatred and
jealousy； and all the furniture of the pictorial style。 And she
was tragical only in the sense that she was great； for she loved
to play on the side of Victory。 Victory of what and over what
that is more than the words of daily life can tell us。 But that
some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragic no one can gainsay；
yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides； and Lucy
had decided that they should triumph。
A very wet afternoon at the Bertolini permitted her to do the
thing she really liked； and after lunch she opened the little
draped piano。 A few people lingered round and praised her
playing； but finding that she made no reply； dispersed to their
rooms to write up their diaries or to sleep。 She took no notice
of Mr。 Emerson looking for his son； nor of Miss Bartlett looking
for Miss Lavish； nor of Miss Lavish looking for her