prompt:
Chapter: It was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a bright
bare room, with a floor of red tiles which look clean though they are
not; with a painted ceiling whereon pink griffins and blue amorini sport
in a forest of yellow violins and bassoons. It was pleasant, too, to
fling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in unfamiliar fastenings,
to lean out into sunshine with beautiful hills and trees and marble
churches opposite, and close below, the Arno, gurgling against the
embankment of the road.

Over the river men were at work with spades and sieves on the sandy
foreshore, and on the river was a boat, also diligently employed for
some mysterious end. An electric tram came rushing underneath the
window. No one was inside it, except one tourist; but its platforms were
overflowing with Italians, who preferred to stand. Children tried to
hang on behind, and the conductor, with no malice, spat in their faces
to make them let go. Then soldiers appeared--good-looking, undersized
men--wearing each a knapsack covered with mangy fur, and a great-coat
which had been cut for some larger soldier. Beside them walked officers,
looking foolish and fierce, and before them went little boys, turning
somersaults in time with the band. The tramcar became entangled in their
ranks, and moved on painfully, like a caterpillar in a swarm of ants.
One of the little boys fell down, and some white bullocks came out of
an archway. Indeed, if it had not been for the good advice of an old man
who was selling button-hooks, the road might never have got clear.

Over such trivialities as these many a valuable hour may slip away,
and the traveller 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. So it was as
well that Miss Bartlett should tap and come in, and having commented on
Lucy's leaving the door unlocked, and on her leaning out of the window
before she was fully dressed, should urge her to hasten herself, or the
best of the day would be gone. By the time Lucy was ready her cousin
had done her breakfast, and was listening to the clever lady among the
crumbs.

A conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar lines. Miss Bartlett
was, after all, a wee bit tired, and thought they had better spend the
morning settling in; unless Lucy would at all like to go out? Lucy would
rather like to go out, as it was her first day in Florence, but, of
course, she could go alone. Miss Bartlett could not allow this. Of
course she would accompany Lucy everywhere. Oh, certainly not; Lucy
would stop with her cousin. Oh, no! that would never do. Oh, yes!

At this point the clever lady broke in.

"If it is Mrs. Grundy who is troubling you, I do assure you that you
can neglect the good person. Being English, Miss Honeychurch will be
perfectly safe. Italians understand. A dear friend of mine, Contessa
Baroncelli, has two daughters, and when she cannot send a maid to school
with them, she lets them go in sailor-hats instead. Every one takes
them for English, you see, especially if their hair is strained tightly
behind."

Miss Bartlett was unconvinced by the safety of Contessa Baroncelli's
daughters. She was determined to take Lucy herself, her head not being
so very bad. The clever lady then said that she was going to spend a
long morning in Santa Croce, and if Lucy would come too, she would be
delighted.

"I will take you by a dear dirty back way, Miss Honeychurch, and if you
bring me luck, we shall have an adventure."

Lucy said that this was most kind, and at once opened the Baedeker, to
see where Santa Croce was.

"Tut, tut! Miss Lucy! I hope we shall soon emancipate you from Baedeker.
He does but touch the surface of things. As to the true Italy--he does
not even dream of it. The true Italy is only to be found by patient
observation."

This sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried over her breakfast, and
started with her new friend in high spirits. Italy was coming at last.
The Cockney Signora and her works had vanished like a bad dream.

Miss Lavish--for that was the clever lady's name--turned to the right
along the sunny Lung' Arno. How delightfully warm! But a wind down
the side streets cut like a knife, didn't it? Ponte alle
Grazie--particularly interesting, mentioned by Dante. San
Miniato--beautiful as well as interesting; the crucifix that kissed
a murderer--Miss Honeychurch would remember the story. The men on the
river were fishing. (Untrue; but then, so is most information.) Then
Miss Lavish darted under the archway of the white bullocks, and she
stopped, and she cried:

"A smell! a true Florentine smell! Every city, let me teach you, has its
own smell."

"Is it a very nice smell?" said Lucy, who had inherited from her mother
a distaste to dirt.

"One doesn't come to Italy for niceness," was the retort; "one comes for
life. Buon giorno! Buon giorno!" bowing right and left. "Look at that
adorable wine-cart! How the driver stares at us, dear, simple soul!"

So Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of the city of Florence,
short, fidgety, and playful as a kitten, though without a kitten's
grace. It was a treat for the girl to be with any one so clever and so
cheerful; and a blue military cloak, such as an Italian officer wears,
only increased the sense of festivity.

"Buon giorno! Take the word of an old woman, Miss Lucy: you will
never repent of a little civility to your inferiors. That is the
true democracy. Though I am a real Radical as well. There, now you're
shocked."

"Indeed, I'm not!" exclaimed Lucy. "We are Radicals, too, out and out.
My father always voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he was so dreadful about
Ireland."

"I see, I see. And now you have gone over to the enemy."

"Oh, please--! If my father was alive, I am sure he would vote Radical
again now that Ireland is all right. And as it is, the glass over our
front door was broken last election, and Freddy is sure it was the
Tories; but mother says nonsense, a tramp."

"Shameful! A manufacturing district, I suppose?"

"No--in the Surrey hills. About five miles from Dorking, looking over
the Weald."

Miss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened her trot.

"What a delightful part; I know it so well. It is full of the very
nicest people. Do you know Sir Harry Otway--a Radical if ever there
was?"

"Very well indeed."

"And old Mrs. Butterworth the philanthropist?"

"Why, she rents a field of us! How funny!"

Miss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky, and murmured: "Oh, you
have property in Surrey?"

"Hardly any," said Lucy, fearful of being thought a snob. "Only thirty
acres--just the garden, all downhill, and some fields."

Miss Lavish was not disgusted, and said it was just the size of her
aunt's Suffolk estate. Italy receded. They tried to remember the last
name of Lady Louisa someone, who had taken a house near Summer Street
the other year, but she had not liked it, which was odd of her. And just
as Miss Lavish had got the name, she broke off and exclaimed:

"Bless us! Bless us and save us! We've lost the way."

Certainly they had seemed a long time in reaching Santa Croce, the tower
of which had been plainly visible from the landing window. But Miss
Lavish had said so much about knowing her Florence by heart, that Lucy
had followed her with no misgivings.

"Lost! lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we have
taken a wrong turning. How those horrid Conservatives would jeer at us!
What are we to do? Two lone females in an unknown town. Now, this is
what I call an adventure."

Lucy, who wanted to see Santa Croce, suggested, as a possible solution,
that they should ask the way there.

"Oh, but that is the word of a craven! And no, you are not, not, NOT to
look at your Baedeker. Give it to me; I shan't let you carry it. We will
simply drift."

Accordingly they drifted through a series of those grey-brown streets,
neither commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of the
city abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent of Lady
Louisa, and became discontented herself. For one ravishing moment Italy
appeared. She stood in the Square of the Annunziata and saw in the
living terra-cotta those divine babies whom no cheap reproduction can
ever stale. There they stood, with their shining limbs bursting from
the garments of charity, and their strong white arms extended against
circlets of heaven. Lucy thought she had never seen anything more
beautiful; but Miss Lavish, with a shriek of dismay, dragged her
forward, declaring that they were out of their path now by at least a
mile.

The hour was approaching at which the continental breakfast begins, or
rather ceases, to tell, and the ladies bought some hot chestnut paste
out of a little shop, because it looked so typical. It tasted partly
of the paper in which it was wrapped, partly of hair oil, partly of the
great unknown. But it gave them strength to drift into another Piazza,
large and dusty, on the farther side of which rose a black-and-white
facade of surpassing ugliness. Miss Lavish spoke to it dramatically. It
was Santa Croce. The adventure was over.

"Stop a minute; let those two people go on, or I shall have to speak to
them. I do detest conventional intercourse. Nasty! they are going into
the church, too. Oh, the Britisher abroad!"

"We sat opposite them at dinner last night. They have given us their
rooms. They were so very kind."

"Look at their figures!" laughed Miss Lavish. "They walk through my
Italy like a pair of cows. It's very naughty of me, but I would like
to set an examination paper at Dover, and turn back every tourist who
couldn't pass it."

"What would you ask us?"

Miss Lavish laid her hand pleasantly on Lucy's arm, as if to suggest
that she, at all events, would get full marks. In this exalted mood they
reached the steps of the great church, and were about to enter it when
Miss Lavish stopped, squeaked, flung up her arms, and cried:

"There goes my local-colour box! I must have a word with him!"

And in a moment she was away over the Piazza, her military cloak
flapping in the wind; nor did she slacken speed till she caught up an
old man with white whiskers, and nipped him playfully upon the arm.

Lucy waited for nearly ten minutes. Then she began to get tired. The
beggars worried her, the dust blew in her eyes, and she remembered that
a young girl ought not to loiter in public places. She descended slowly
into the Piazza with the intention of rejoining Miss Lavish, who was
really almost too original. But at that moment Miss Lavish and her
local-colour box moved also, and disappeared down a side street, both
gesticulating largely. Tears of indignation came to Lucy's eyes partly
because Miss Lavish had jilted her, partly because she had taken her
Baedeker. How could she find her way home? How could she find her way
about in Santa Croce? Her first morning was ruined, and she might never
be in Florence again. A few minutes ago she had been all high spirits,
talking as a woman of culture, and half persuading herself that she
was full of originality. Now she entered the church depressed and
humiliated, not even able to remember whether it was built by the
Franciscans or the Dominicans. 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? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling to be
enthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date. There was
no one even to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved
the nave and transepts, was the one that was really beautiful, the one
that had been most praised by Mr. Ruskin.

Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on her, and, instead of
acquiring information, she began to be happy. She puzzled out the
Italian notices--the notices that forbade people to introduce dogs into
the church--the notice that prayed people, in the interest of health and
out of respect to the sacred edifice in which they found themselves,
not to spit. She watched the tourists; their noses were as red as their
Baedekers, so cold was Santa Croce. She beheld the horrible fate that
overtook three Papists--two he-babies and a she-baby--who began their
career by sousing each other with the Holy Water, and then proceeded to
the Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed. Advancing towards it
very slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone with
their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and then
retreated. What could this mean? They did it again and again. Then Lucy
realized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for some saint, hoping
to acquire virtue. Punishment followed quickly. The smallest he-baby
stumbled over one of the sepulchral slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin,
and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop. Protestant
as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon
the prelate's upturned toes.

"Hateful bishop!" exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had darted
forward also. "Hard in life, hard in death. Go out into the sunshine,
little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is where you ought
to be. Intolerable bishop!"

The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadful
people who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him
not to be superstitious.

"Look at him!" said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. "Here's a mess: a baby hurt,
cold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?"

The child's legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr.
Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately an
Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the
rescue. By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, she
stiffened the little boy's back-bone and imparted strength to his knees.
He stood. Still gibbering with agitation, he walked away.

"You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson. "You have done more than
all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in
those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of the
universe--"

He paused for a phrase.

"Niente," said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers.

"I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy.

In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was
determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate,
and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious
reference to the pleasant rooms.

"That woman understands everything," was Mr. Emerson's reply. "But what
are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the
church?"

"No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with Miss
Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--it is too
bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come
in by myself."

"Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson.

"Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing the
young lady for the first time.

"But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker."

"Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's THAT you minded. It's worth
minding, the loss of a Baedeker. THAT'S worth minding."

Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not
sure whither it would lead her.

"If you've no Baedeker," said the son, "you'd better join us." Was this
where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her dignity.

"Thank you very much, but I could not think of that. I hope you do not
suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with the
child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. I
hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience."

"My dear," said the old man gently, "I think that you are repeating what
you have heard older people say. You are pretending to be touchy; but
you are not really. Stop being so tiresome, and tell me instead what
part of the church you want to see. To take you to it will be a real
pleasure."

Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she ought to have been
furious. But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one's temper as it
is difficult at other times to keep it. Lucy could not get cross. Mr.
Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl might humour him. On the other
hand, his son was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to be
offended with him, or at all events be offended before him. It was at
him that she gazed before replying.

"I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you
will kindly tell me which they are."

The son nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the way to
the Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of the teacher about him. She felt
like a child in school who had answered a question rightly.

The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation, and out of
them rose the voice of a lecturer, directing them how to worship Giotto,
not by tactful valuations, but by the standards of the spirit.

"Remember," he was saying, "the facts about this church of Santa Croce;
how it was built by faith in the full fervour of medievalism, before
any taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Observe how Giotto in these
frescoes--now, unhappily, ruined by restoration--is untroubled by the
snares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, more
pathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge and
technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!"

"No!" exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church.
"Remember nothing of the sort! Built by faith indeed! That simply means
the workmen weren't paid properly. And as for the frescoes, I see no
truth in them. Look at that fat man in blue! He must weigh as much as I
do, and he is shooting into the sky like an air balloon."

He was referring to the fresco of the "Ascension of St. John." Inside,
the lecturer's voice faltered, as well it might. The audience shifted
uneasily, and so did Lucy. She was sure that she ought not to be with
these men; but they had cast a spell over her. They were so serious and
so strange that she could not remember how to behave.

"Now, did this happen, or didn't it? Yes or no?"

George replied:

"It happened like this, if it happened at all. I would rather go up to
heaven by myself than be pushed by cherubs; and if I got there I should
like my friends to lean out of it, just as they do here."

"You will never go up," said his father. "You and I, dear boy, will
lie at peace in the earth that bore us, and our names will disappear as
surely as our work survives."

"Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint, whoever
he is, going up. It did happen like that, if it happened at all."

"Pardon me," said a frigid voice. "The chapel is somewhat small for two
parties. We will incommode you no longer."

The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock,
for they held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their hands. They
filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little old
ladies of the Pension Bertolini--Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan.

"Stop!" cried Mr. Emerson. "There's plenty of room for us all. Stop!"

The procession disappeared without a word.

Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life
of St. Francis.

"George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate."

George went into the next chapel and returned, saying "Perhaps he is. I
don't remember."

"Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It's that Mr.
Eager. Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? How vexatious. I shall go
and say we are sorry. Hadn't I better? Then perhaps he will come back."

"He will not come back," said George.

But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize to the
Rev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear
the lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive voice of the old
man, the curt, injured replies of his opponent. The son, who took every
little contretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening also.

"My father has that effect on nearly everyone," he informed her. "He
will try to be kind."

"I hope we all try," said she, smiling nervously.

"Because we think it improves our characters. But he is kind to people
because he loves them; and they find him out, and are offended, or
frightened."

"How silly of them!" said Lucy, though in her heart she sympathized; "I
think that a kind action done tactfully--"

"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, 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. 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 up--free 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 behaves--like 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 Yes--a 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, but--but--"
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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Morning in Hotel Bertolini is a very pleasant thing. We're treated to an appropriately pleasant description of the view from its very pleasant windows - presumably the very same windows Charlotte and Lucy now possess. We get a glimpse of actual Italians for the first time; they're depicted as disorderly but good-natured animals. The streets outside the hotel are scattered with an interesting assortment of children, soldiers, and bulls. Charlotte comes bustling into Lucy's room, succeeds in spoiling her enjoyment of the pleasant morning, and bustles out. When Lucy eventually makes it down to breakfast, Charlotte is already finished, and is talking with the "clever lady" from the night before. A typical passive exchange starts up between Charlotte and Lucy . The clever lady interrupts, claiming that Lucy will be safe if she goes out alone, since she's an Englishwoman . Charlotte is unimpressed by this claim. The clever lady offers to take Lucy to Santa Croce , via a dirty back way - we have to wonder exactly what that means. She also scolds Lucy for looking at her Baedeker travel guide, since, in her opinion, the travel guide doesn't even touch upon the "true" Italy - and she does! She snatches the book away from poor Lucy. Lucy is fascinated by this claim, and hurries through her breakfast to get started on her quest for the real Italy. The clever lady, whose name is, appropriately, Miss Lavish, starts her journey with Lucy. She's full of little gems of knowledge . She claims that Florence, like all cities, has its own smell. Lucy wants to know if it's a nice smell; Miss Lavish snidely derides the "niceness" Lucy's looking for. Miss Lavish unsurprisingly turns out to be incredibly condescending. She goes around ooh-ing and aah-ing about how very sweet and adorable all the Italians are. For the time being, Lucy's excited to be with such a thrilling and festive person. Lucy and Miss Lavish talk politics briefly, then discover that they have some common acquaintances near the Honeychurches' home in Surrey. The two women chat pleasantly until they discover that they're totally lost. Miss Lavish is unalarmed - in fact, she's excited about the prospect of an adventure. Uh oh. Lucy starts to suspect that something's wrong; she suggests that they ask for directions. Of course, Miss Lavish is so not down with that. This unscheduled and uncharted detour makes Lucy unhappy. However, for a brief moment, she sees something that feels like the real Italy . Miss Lavish quickly pulls her away to keep looking for the elusive Santa Croce. Both proper ladies and unconventional ones get hungry sometimes, and Lucy and Miss Lavish stop to buy some chestnut paste for lunch, simply because it looks so "typical." Whatever its appearance, it clearly doesn't taste so good . Fueled by their unpleasant lunch, the women finally get to Santa Croce which, in someone's opinion is incredibly hideous. Miss Lavish disses some tourists going into the church, dismissing the "Britisher abroad." From Lucy's slightly offended comments, we gather that said tourists are Emerson Jr. and Sr. Suddenly, Miss Lavish flutters off after some unfortunate man she calls her "local-colour box" , leaving Lucy in the dust. Lucy waits... and waits... and then remembers that it's not appropriate for a young unescorted girl to hang around outside churches, or anywhere for that matter. As she heads over to her irresponsible chaperon, however, Miss Lavish and the local-colour box head off merrily. Poor Lucy. Deserted by a flighty, middle-aged fauxhemian and left to her own devices in the big, bad city, she gives in to tears. All she can do is enter the church alone, embarrassed, and decidedly unpleased with everything. The church, Lucy knows, is quite wonderful and important, having been commented on by many famous people. However, she can't help but notice its coldness and barn-like qualities. Furthermore, since she's, as the title of this chapter tells us, In Santa Croce with No Baedeker , she has nobody to tell her which monuments are important or unimportant. She's unwilling to admire the ones that aren't praised in books. Inexplicably, though, Lucy begins to feel happier. She starts to enjoy her surroundings, and settles in to people-watch. The British tourists are everywhere, branded by their red copies of Baedeker and their equally red noses. In her observations, Lucy notices a trio of small Catholic children, "two he-babies and a she-baby." Thinking that they're being serious and religious, the "babies" douse each other with holy water, then go and genuflect dramatically at a memorial that they assume is for a saint. Unfortunately for the babies, the memorial is actually for Niccolo Machiavelli . Perhaps through some particularly cruel divine retribution, the smallest he-baby immediately trips and falls on a statue of some bishop. Lucy and Mr. Emerson both try to sooth the screaming kid, to no avail. Mr. Emerson expresses a comically cynical view of the church, blaming it for the he-baby's state of coldness, injury, and fear. The two would-be good Samaritans have no luck with getting the child to stay upright. Fortunately, a maternal Italian woman comes by and sets him right. Lucy, after her earlier slump, suddenly feels rather charitably towards the Emersons and vows to be nice to them . When asked what she's doing there alone, Lucy explains her abandonment by Miss Lavish and Baedeker. Upon hearing this, Mr. Emerson the Younger matter-of-factly declares that Lucy had better join them. Lucy is shocked. Get used to people being shocked in this world; they're shocked by pretty much everything, pretty much all the time. She responds by putting on a kind of stiff Charlotte act. Mr. Emerson shows us just how different he is from conventional society. He basically calls Lucy out on the fact that she's just mimicking the behavior of her elders, and tells her not to be so touchy. He kindly but bluntly insists that she just give in and tell him which part of the church she'd like to see. Lucy's not even sure how to respond - shocked just doesn't seem to be working, so she does just give in and tell the Emersons what she'd like to see. The trio heads off to look at the Giotto frescoes, Lucy's request. There's already a group there . The group leader is in the midst of a soppy lecture on the virtues of Giotto's paintings. Mr. Emerson loudly interrupts, and makes some somewhat rude and funny comments about Giotto's imaginative religious scenes. He and George have what seems to them to be a fairly harmless exchange; the lecturer and his group are offended. They get all huffy and leave the chapel. Mr. E feels bad for making the group leave. He recognizes the clergyman as one Mr. Eager, whom he and George have met before, and rushes off, leaving Lucy and George together... alone . Unfortunately for us, nothing juicy happens. Lucy and George just have an awkward conversation about the Emersons vs. the World struggle. Frustrated, George starts pacing; Lucy admires him as he skulks about, and feels a certain subtle, ambiguous sense of tragedy and discontent. It's unusual for her to feel such subtle feelings, though, and when Mr. Emerson returns, it goes away. Mr. Emerson still feels rough about ruining the lecturer's talk in the chapel. He continues to watch the group as it circulates around other paintings. He and Lucy wander around the chapel, looking at the art and chatting. Lucy's mental picture of the church transforms as her mood improves. While she still thinks of it as a barn, now she sees it as a barn with a harvest of beautiful things. Mr. Emerson, however, is more interested in watching George than looking at the frescoes. He's worried about his son's melancholy, and, in his blunt, honest way, opens up to Lucy. Apparently, he raised George to be free of the "superstition" of religion. Lucy is shocked again, and this time is somewhat disdainful. She thinks that the old man is both foolish and lacking in religion, and she's certain that neither her mother nor Charlotte would approve of her befriending him. Ignorant of the disapproving thoughts going through Lucy's head, Mr. Emerson just keeps going. Seemingly out of nowhere, he asks Lucy to attempt to "understand" George... whatever that means. Again, nothing racy happens here , so don't get too excited. Lucy is... you guessed it, SHOCKED at this suggestion. Mr. Emerson goes on to detail George's philosophical ordeals; apparently he's dismayed by how the universe doesn't fit together neatly. Lucy thinks this is inane. She then makes a rather inane response of her own. Attempting to put her past experience to work, she suggests rather oddly that George should take up a hobby. Seriously, Lucy, a hobby? Boy ponders the depth of universe; girl suggests stamp collection? Ridiculous. Mr. Emerson also thinks this is ridiculous, and it makes him sad that Lucy doesn't get what he was talking about. He smiles at her, which Lucy takes as meaning "Oh, what jolly good advice! Yes, a hobby is just what my depressed and introspective son really needs right now! Thank you so much, Lucy Honeychurch!" George returns; he's seen Miss Bartlett enter the church. Lucy loses herself for a moment and says some uncharitable things. Mr. Emerson calls her "poor girl," which rouses her temper - she puts the civil Charlotte act on again before going to join the real-life Charlotte.


prompt:
Chapter: 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 cigarette-case. Like every true performer, she was intoxicated by
the mere feel of the notes: they were fingers caressing her own; and by
touch, not by sound alone, did she come to her desire.

Mr. Beebe, sitting unnoticed in the window, pondered this illogical
element in Miss Honeychurch, and recalled the occasion at Tunbridge
Wells when he had discovered it. It was at one of those entertainments
where the upper classes entertain the lower. The seats were filled with
a respectful audience, and the ladies and gentlemen of the parish, under
the auspices of their vicar, sang, or recited, or imitated the drawing
of a champagne cork. Among the promised items was "Miss Honeychurch.
Piano. Beethoven," and Mr. Beebe was wondering whether it would be
Adelaida, or the march of The Ruins of Athens, when his composure
was disturbed by the opening bars of Opus III. He was in suspense all
through the introduction, for not until the pace quickens does one know
what the performer intends. With the roar of the opening theme he knew
that things were going extraordinarily; in the chords that herald the
conclusion he heard the hammer strokes of victory. He was glad that she
only played the first movement, for he could have paid no attention to
the winding intricacies of the measures of nine-sixteen. The audience
clapped, no less respectful. It was Mr. Beebe who started the stamping;
it was all that one could do.

"Who is she?" he asked the vicar afterwards.

"Cousin of one of my parishioners. I do not consider her choice of a
piece happy. Beethoven is so usually simple and direct in his appeal
that it is sheer perversity to choose a thing like that, which, if
anything, disturbs."

"Introduce me."

"She will be delighted. She and Miss Bartlett are full of the praises of
your sermon."

"My sermon?" cried Mr. Beebe. "Why ever did she listen to it?"

When he was introduced he understood why, for Miss Honeychurch,
disjoined from her music stool, was only a young lady with a quantity of
dark hair and a very pretty, pale, undeveloped face. She loved going to
concerts, she loved stopping with her cousin, she loved iced coffee and
meringues. He did not doubt that she loved his sermon also. But before
he left Tunbridge Wells he made a remark to the vicar, which he now
made to Lucy herself when she closed the little piano and moved dreamily
towards him:

"If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very
exciting both for us and for her."

Lucy at once re-entered daily life.

"Oh, what a funny thing! Some one said just the same to mother, and she
said she trusted I should never live a duet."

"Doesn't Mrs. Honeychurch like music?"

"She doesn't mind it. But she doesn't like one to get excited over
anything; she thinks I am silly about it. She thinks--I can't make
out. Once, you know, I said that I liked my own playing better than any
one's. She has never got over it. Of course, I didn't mean that I played
well; I only meant--"

"Of course," said he, wondering why she bothered to explain.

"Music--" said Lucy, as if attempting some generality. She could not
complete it, and looked out absently upon Italy in the wet. The whole
life of the South was disorganized, and the most graceful nation in
Europe had turned into formless lumps of clothes.

The street and the river were dirty yellow, the bridge was dirty grey,
and the hills were dirty purple. Somewhere in their folds were concealed
Miss Lavish and Miss Bartlett, who had chosen this afternoon to visit
the Torre del Gallo.

"What about music?" said Mr. Beebe.

"Poor Charlotte will be sopped," was Lucy's reply.

The expedition was typical of Miss Bartlett, who would return cold,
tired, hungry, and angelic, with a ruined skirt, a pulpy Baedeker, and
a tickling cough in her throat. On another day, when the whole world was
singing and the air ran into the mouth, like wine, she would refuse to
stir from the drawing-room, saying that she was an old thing, and no fit
companion for a hearty girl.

"Miss Lavish has led your cousin astray. She hopes to find the true
Italy in the wet I believe."

"Miss Lavish is so original," murmured Lucy. This was a stock remark,
the supreme achievement of the Pension Bertolini in the way of
definition. Miss Lavish was so original. Mr. Beebe had his doubts, but
they would have been put down to clerical narrowness. For that, and for
other reasons, he held his peace.

"Is it true," continued Lucy in awe-struck tone, "that Miss Lavish is
writing a book?"

"They do say so."

"What is it about?"

"It will be a novel," replied Mr. Beebe, "dealing with modern Italy.
Let me refer you for an account to Miss Catharine Alan, who uses words
herself more admirably than any one I know."

"I wish Miss Lavish would tell me herself. We started such friends. But
I don't think she ought to have run away with Baedeker that morning in
Santa Croce. Charlotte was most annoyed at finding me practically alone,
and so I couldn't help being a little annoyed with Miss Lavish."

"The two ladies, at all events, have made it up."

He was interested in the sudden friendship between women so apparently
dissimilar as Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish. They were always in each
other's company, with Lucy a slighted third. Miss Lavish he believed
he understood, but Miss Bartlett might reveal unknown depths of
strangeness, though not perhaps, of meaning. Was Italy deflecting
her from the path of prim chaperon, which he had assigned to her at
Tunbridge Wells? All his life he had loved to study maiden ladies;
they were his specialty, and his profession had provided him with ample
opportunities for the work. Girls like Lucy were charming to look at,
but Mr. Beebe was, from rather profound reasons, somewhat chilly in his
attitude towards the other sex, and preferred to be interested rather
than enthralled.

Lucy, for the third time, said that poor Charlotte would be sopped. The
Arno was rising in flood, washing away the traces of the little carts
upon the foreshore. But in the south-west there had appeared a dull haze
of yellow, which might mean better weather if it did not mean worse. She
opened the window to inspect, and a cold blast entered the room, drawing
a plaintive cry from Miss Catharine Alan, who entered at the same moment
by the door.

"Oh, dear Miss Honeychurch, you will catch a chill! And Mr. Beebe here
besides. Who would suppose this is Italy? There is my sister actually
nursing the hot-water can; no comforts or proper provisions."

She sidled towards them and sat down, self-conscious as she always was
on entering a room which contained one man, or a man and one woman.

"I could hear your beautiful playing, Miss Honeychurch, though I was in
my room with the door shut. Doors shut; indeed, most necessary. No one
has the least idea of privacy in this country. And one person catches it
from another."

Lucy answered suitably. Mr. Beebe was not able to tell the ladies of
his adventure at Modena, where the chambermaid burst in upon him in his
bath, exclaiming cheerfully, "Fa niente, sono vecchia." He contented
himself with saying: "I quite agree with you, Miss Alan. The Italians
are a most unpleasant people. They pry everywhere, they see everything,
and they know what we want before we know it ourselves. We are at their
mercy. They read our thoughts, they foretell our desires. From the
cab-driver down to--to Giotto, they turn us inside out, and I resent
it. Yet in their heart of hearts they are--how superficial! They have no
conception of the intellectual life. How right is Signora Bertolini, who
exclaimed to me the other day: 'Ho, Mr. Beebe, if you knew what I suffer
over the children's edjucaishion. HI won't 'ave my little Victorier
taught by a hignorant Italian what can't explain nothink!'"

Miss Alan did not follow, but gathered that she was being mocked in an
agreeable way. Her sister was a little disappointed in Mr. Beebe, having
expected better things from a clergyman whose head was bald and who
wore a pair of russet whiskers. Indeed, who would have supposed that
tolerance, sympathy, and a sense of humour would inhabit that militant
form?

In the midst of her satisfaction she continued to sidle, and at last
the cause was disclosed. From the chair beneath her she extracted
a gun-metal cigarette-case, on which were powdered in turquoise the
initials "E. L."

"That belongs to Lavish." said the clergyman. "A good fellow, Lavish,
but I wish she'd start a pipe."

"Oh, Mr. Beebe," said Miss Alan, divided between awe and mirth. "Indeed,
though it is dreadful for her to smoke, it is not quite as dreadful as
you suppose. She took to it, practically in despair, after her
life's work was carried away in a landslip. Surely that makes it more
excusable."

"What was that?" asked Lucy.

Mr. Beebe sat back complacently, and Miss Alan began as follows: "It was
a novel--and I am afraid, from what I can gather, not a very nice novel.
It is so sad when people who have abilities misuse them, and I must say
they nearly always do. Anyhow, she left it almost finished in the Grotto
of the Calvary at the Capuccini Hotel at Amalfi while she went for a
little ink. She said: 'Can I have a little ink, please?' But you know
what Italians are, and meanwhile the Grotto fell roaring on to the
beach, and the saddest thing of all is that she cannot remember what she
has written. The poor thing was very ill after it, and so got tempted
into cigarettes. It is a great secret, but I am glad to say that she is
writing another novel. She told Teresa and Miss Pole the other day that
she had got up all the local colour--this novel is to be about modern
Italy; the other was historical--but that she could not start till she
had an idea. First she tried Perugia for an inspiration, then she came
here--this must on no account get round. And so cheerful through it all!
I cannot help thinking that there is something to admire in everyone,
even if you do not approve of them."

Miss Alan was always thus being charitable against her better judgement.
A delicate pathos perfumed her disconnected remarks, giving them
unexpected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn woods there sometimes
rise odours reminiscent of spring. She felt she had made almost too many
allowances, and apologized hurriedly for her toleration.

"All the same, she is a little too--I hardly like to say unwomanly, but
she behaved most strangely when the Emersons arrived."

Mr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an anecdote which he knew she
would be unable to finish in the presence of a gentleman.

"I don't know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss Pole, the
lady who has so much yellow hair, takes lemonade. That old Mr. Emerson,
who puts things very strangely--"

Her jaw dropped. She was silent. Mr. Beebe, whose social resources were
endless, went out to order some tea, and she continued to Lucy in a
hasty whisper:

"Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity, he called it--and
he may have meant to be kind. I must say I forgot myself and laughed; it
was so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no laughing matter. But the
point is that Miss Lavish was positively ATTRACTED by his mentioning
S., and said she liked plain speaking, and meeting different grades of
thought. She thought they were commercial travellers--'drummers' was the
word she used--and all through dinner she tried to prove that England,
our great and beloved country, rests on nothing but commerce. Teresa was
very much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese, saying as she
did so: 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute you better than I,'
and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then Miss
Lavish said: 'Tut! The early Victorians.' Just imagine! 'Tut! The early
Victorians.' My sister had gone, and I felt bound to speak. I said:
'Miss Lavish, I am an early Victorian; at least, that is to say, I
will hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen.' It was horrible
speaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did
not want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no reply.
But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and called in his deep
voice: 'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit.' The
woman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were in
by this time, all on account of S. having been mentioned in the first
place. But that was not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up
and said: 'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to those
two nice men. Come, too.' Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable
invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would
broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all University
men, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talking
to commercial travellers."

"Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned.

"Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, everyone, and finally said:
'I shall go alone.' She went. At the end of five minutes she returned
unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began playing patience."

"Whatever happened?" cried Lucy.

"No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to
tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling."

"Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to
know."

Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for
herself.

"No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do not
mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?"

The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr.
Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:

"I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after
that business of the violets."

"Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things get
round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot forget how
they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce. Oh, poor Miss
Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite changed. I do NOT
like the Emersons. They are not nice."

Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introduce
the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He was
almost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, who
represented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans,
who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting
under an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was
different. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa
Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly
concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their own
strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys.
This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by a
young girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothing
about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things;
whereas Lucy would be his parishioner.

Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she thought the
Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even their
seats at dinner had been moved.

"But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?" said
the little lady inquisitively.

"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite
politely, of course."

"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must find their
level."

Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up their
attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father was
almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan a
pleasant day for these folk before they left--some expedition, perhaps,
with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's
chief pleasures to provide people with happy memories.

Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter; the
colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno lost its
muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few streaks of
bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery light upon the
earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in
the declining sun.

"Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All the
galleries are shut."

"I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town in the
circular tram--on the platform by the driver."

Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her
in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:

"I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out
alone, won't you be better on your feet?"

"Italians, dear, you know," said Miss Alan.

"Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!"

But they still looked disapproval, and she so far conceded to Mr. Beebe
as to say that she would only go for a little walk, and keep to the
street frequented by tourists.

"She oughtn't really to go at all," said Mr. Beebe, as they watched
her from the window, "and she knows it. I put it down to too much
Beethoven."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Lucy, it turns out, is a devoted and uniquely talented pianist. We begin to suspect again that there's more to her than meets the eye. Though she's neither a flawless performer nor a dramatically passionate one, she is clearly a remarkable one. On a rainy day at the hotel, she settles in to play, and enters her own private musical world. For the first time, we see the real Lucy without the limitations of polite society. Mr. Beebe, watching our heroine, is reminded of the first time he saw her play, when they met in Tunbridge Wells. He recalls his surprise at the extraordinary manner in which she banged out Beethoven's Opus III; he was totally blown away by the victorious and unexpected tone of her playing. Upon meeting her, though, he was perhaps disappointed to find that she was a conventional, very pretty, "undeveloped," and polite young lady. He wishes she would start living the way she plays. In the present, he makes this very same comment to Lucy. Lucy, back from the world of music, remembers that someone else once made the same comment about her to her mother, who doesn't feel the same way about music that her daughter does. After she emerges from her playing, the outside world seems particularly disorganized and dirty to Lucy. We learn that Charlotte and Miss Lavish are out having an adventure. Mr. Beebe attempts to tease out Lucy's real thoughts about music, but she instead responds with some dull and polite comments about her cousin and Miss Lavish. The Lucy of the piano is already gone. Miss Lavish, apparently, is a wannabe novelist . She is in the midst of a novel about modern Italy, for which she is presumably doing research now. Mr. Beebe is fascinated by the close relationship between Charlotte and Miss Lavish, who are complete opposites. Despite her annoyance at finding Lucy deserted and Baedeker-less in Santa Croce, Charlotte forgave the irresponsible novelist, and now they're totally BFFs. He wonders if Italy has changed Charlotte - he loves observing ladies and their behavior, though he is, we learn, simply "interested," not personally affected by women, if you catch our drift. Miss Catherine Alan, one of the genteel spinster tourists staying at the hotel, appears and complains about the bad weather. Of course, she phrases it in a much more polite fashion, but you get the picture. She compliments Lucy on her playing. Mr. Beebe makes a sarcastic and sublimely British comment about the general badness of Italians. Miss Alan doesn't quite get what he's going for, but knows that she's being amiably mocked. This reminds her that her sister, who she's traveling with, is unsettled by Mr. Beebe's sense of humor and all around niceness - after all, nobody expects a clergyman to be a regular person. Miss Alan discovers Miss Lavish's cigarette case, which she was searching for earlier. Some comments are made about Miss Lavish's naughty smoking habit . Miss Alan excuses it as a consequence of losing her first draft of her novel; after it was swept away on a beach, she was "tempted" into smoking in her period of depression. Interesting explanation... We hear a little bit about Miss Lavish's new novel, which is about contemporary Italy. Miss Alan, though she doesn't approve of the novelist, is very charitable about her. Miss Alan starts in on a somewhat less charitable story about the Emersons' arrival at the hotel, and Miss Lavish's reaction to them. Mr. Beebe, knowing that a sensitive topic is coming up, politely leaves the room. Miss Alan's story is a pretty hilarious one, though to her it's very serious. It goes a little like this: on the first night of the Emersons' stay, Mr. Emerson made a comment to some lady about how she should be careful about drinking too much lemonade, since it might upset her stomach. Horror of horrors! Shock of shocks! Mr. Emerson actually came right out and said "stomach!" And to a lady! Everyone was horrified. Ridiculous though it may seem to the modern reader , "stomach" is apparently just not a word that one says in polite company. Miss Alan is so embarrassed by it that, throughout the rest of the story, she has to refer to it as "S." . Miss Lavish, however, was not shocked by the use of "S." at the dinner table - rather, she was fascinated by the old man's plain-speaking. She then made the mistake of insulting Queen Victoria and the stuffy manner of the generation of "Early Victorians" . After dinner, things just got worse - Miss Lavish actually followed the men into the smoking room to attempt to talk to Mr. Emerson, another thing that is just not done. She was mysteriously ejected from the lair of the men, and acted like nothing happened. Back to the present - Lucy is fascinated. She again wants to know if Mr. Emerson is nice or not nice. Mr. Beebe thinks he's fine, albeit occasionally silly . Miss Alan, though, is sure that the Emersons are definitely not nice, despite some incident with violets that the clergyman alludes to . We discover that, despite Mr. Beebe's efforts to make the Emersons socially acceptable, the rest of the guests have flat out rejected them. Leading the way in the anti-Emerson faction are Miss Lavish, who represents intellectuals everywhere, and Miss Alan and her sister, representing the well-bred everywhere. Mr. Beebe suspects that Lucy is the only other person interested in the father and son, but he's worried that they might interest her too much. Miss Alan makes a snide comment about the Emersons being on another "level" - presumably a lower one. A much lower one. Mr. Beebe thinks that the Emersons have been conquered by the other guests' attitudes. He decides to try and come up with some kind of nice outing for the father-son dynamic duo, perhaps with Lucy and some other guests. The weather improves as the evening wears on, and though Miss Alan declares that it's too late to leave the hotel , Lucy decides to go out alone. The two older people disapprove, even Mr. Beebe. Lucy agrees to stay on streets with lots of tourists, to make her companions happy. Mr. Beebe blames Beethoven's influence for Lucy's wild behavior.


prompt:
Chapter: Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as after
music. She had not really appreciated the clergyman's wit, nor the
suggestive twitterings of Miss Alan. Conversation was tedious; she
wanted something big, and she believed that it would have come to her on
the wind-swept platform of an electric tram. This she might not attempt.
It was unladylike. Why? Why were most big things unladylike? Charlotte
had once explained to her why. It was not that ladies were inferior
to men; it was that they were different. Their mission was to inspire
others to achievement rather than to achieve themselves. Indirectly, by
means of tact and a spotless name, a lady could accomplish much. But
if she rushed into the fray herself she would be first censured, then
despised, and finally ignored. Poems had been written to illustrate this
point.

There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady. The dragons have
gone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our midst. She
reigned in many an early Victorian castle, and was Queen of much early
Victorian song. It is sweet to protect her in the intervals of business,
sweet to pay her honour when she has cooked our dinner well. But alas!
the creature grows degenerate. In her heart also there are springing
up strange desires. She too is enamoured of heavy winds, and vast
panoramas, and green expanses of the sea. She has marked the kingdom
of this world, how full it is of wealth, and beauty, and war--a radiant
crust, built around the central fires, spinning towards the receding
heavens. Men, declaring that she inspires them to it, move joyfully over
the surface, having the most delightful meetings with other men, happy,
not because they are masculine, but because they are alive. Before the
show breaks up she would like to drop the august title of the Eternal
Woman, and go there as her transitory self.

Lucy does not stand for the medieval lady, who was rather an ideal to
which she was bidden to lift her eyes when feeling serious. Nor has
she any system of revolt. Here and there a restriction annoyed her
particularly, and she would transgress it, and perhaps be sorry that she
had done so. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. She would really
like to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As she might
not go on the electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop.

There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus." Venus,
being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming, and Miss
Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of course
signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of
the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felt
a little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's
"Ascension of St. John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido
Reni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncritical
approval to every well-known name.

But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemed
still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to her
to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought, "is certainly full
of beautiful things, if only I could come across them." It was not
surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that it
always left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy.

"Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the Piazza
Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now fairly familiar to
her. The great square was in shadow; the sunshine had come too late to
strike it. Neptune was already unsubstantial in the twilight, half god,
half ghost, and his fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who
idled together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance of
a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking forth
upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the hour of
unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real. An older
person at such an hour and in such a place might think that sufficient
was happening to him, and rest content. Lucy desired more.

She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which rose
out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold. It seemed
no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but some unattainable
treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerized her,
still dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and
started towards home.

Then something did happen.

Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinque
lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, and
one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towards
Lucy with a look of interest, as if he had an important message for her.
He opened his lips to deliver it, and a stream of red came out between
them and trickled down his unshaven chin.

That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinary
man from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emerson
happened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot where
the man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caught
sight of him he grew dim; the palace itself grew dim, swayed above her,
fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.

She thought: "Oh, what have I done?"

"Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes.

George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She had
complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another held
her in his arms.

They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have
carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his knees. She
repeated:

"Oh, what have I done?"

"You fainted."

"I--I am very sorry."

"How are you now?"

"Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and smile.

"Then let us come home. 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 never ceased--rang emptily. The whole
world seemed pale and void of its original meaning.

"How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now
I am well. I can go alone, thank you."

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.

"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."

"Yes, I am, thank you so very much."

"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. "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. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulous
over the incident that had made her faint five minutes 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.
"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 down-stream. "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."

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. 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 would do her no harm by
idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might
even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts,
like his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say
to him, "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. 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.

"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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: On her scandalous journey alone, Lucy does in fact feel impassioned and emboldened by the Beethoven. The piano always makes her feel like she wants something more than witty or gossipy conversation, so she takes off. What she really wants to do is go on the electric tram , but she knows it's too unladylike. This frustrates Lucy to no end. She can't understand why some things are unladylike - women who do daring or unexpected things are not respected, and there are many informative poems that demonstrate this fact. The idea of the "mediaeval lady" comes up here - this is important, so remember it later. A "mediaeval lady" is the ideal Victorian woman, who does her duties and stays at home, despite her longings to travel. While men are allowed to go off and have a fine time and be truly alive, women are expected to uphold a certain idealized standard, even if they want to drop the image and just go off on their own. This just pisses Lucy off, though she has difficulty coming to terms with her discontentment. To feel more under control, she stages a personal rebellion - no, she doesn't run off with a hot Latin lover, nor does she run away from the Bertolini and join the circus. She doesn't even go on the coveted ride on the electric tram. Instead, Lucy rebels by going to a shop and purchasing some postcards. These aren't just any postcards, though. One of them is of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus," a card that Charlotte had convinced her not to buy earlier, since Venus is a "pity" . Lucy also buys a variety of other well known pictures, since she has quite a wide-ranging appreciation for well-known artists . After her giddy shopping spree, Lucy is still unsatisfied. She wanders around, wondering why nothing exciting happens in her life. Surrounded by somewhat eerie and beautiful statues, the narrator implies that something is happening, though Lucy wants more. Fortunately, more is about to happen. The beauty of the buildings and the sky at twilight astound Lucy. She prepares to walk home. Suddenly the "more" we just promised you would happen comes to pass. Lucy witnesses two Italian men fighting briefly over a small debt; all of a sudden, one of them stabs the other. The victim looks at Lucy as though he has something to say to her, but instead, he opens his mouth and blood pours out. A crowd appears suddenly and hides the men from her view. George Emerson, who apparently has been slinking around in the shadows, appears. Lucy feels profoundly guilty for the man's death - after all, she wished that something would happen, then, tragically, something did. All of a sudden, George Emerson is holding Lucy in his arms . She'd fainted after the crime, and now George attempts to help her home. Lucy, however, is aware of the potential for scandal. In a surprisingly crafty move, she asks George to fetch the photographs she purchased, which she dropped in the square. When he goes to do it, she tries to run away, fairly ridiculously. George discovers her making off like a bandit, and stops her. He orders her to stop and rest until he gets back, which she actually does this time. While he's gone, Lucy realizes that she, like the stabbed man, has undergone some kind of spiritual change. George returns, and Lucy talks about the murder. She's strangely excited and confused by the events. George throws something into the river; Lucy realizes that it's her packet of photographs. She's angry, and he admits that he just threw them in because they were covered in blood and he didn't know what to do with them - he thinks perhaps they frightened him. For a moment, he's boyish and embarrassed, not stiff and awkward. He opens up to Lucy, and she knows something more scandalous is about to happen unless she stops it. The pair is almost at the hotel. To avert disaster, Lucy attempts to make George bend to the rules of polite society . George agrees, but Lucy has the sense that, though he's trustworthy and kind, he's not "chivalrous." He remembers everything that happens, even if he won't say anything about it, and they both feel like something has changed - the narrator tells us that it's "Childhood" shifting into "Youth." Lucy tries to act like things are back to normal. George refuses to believe this. She asks him why, and he mysteriously just says that he wants to live. She wonders what he means as she looks out over the river, whose sound reminds her of music. We also end the chapter wondering exactly what he meant.