It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic1, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential2 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, marvelling3 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 strings4 of pearls, and she struck no more right notes than was suitable for one of her age and situation. Nor was she the passionate5 young lady, who performs so tragically8 on a summer's evening with the window open. Passion was there, but it could not be easily labelled; it slipped between love and hatred9 and jealousy10, and all the furniture of the pictorial11 style. And she was tragical6 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 sonatas12 of Beethoven are written tragic7 no one can gainsay13; yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides, and Lucy had decided14 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, dispersed15 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 Lavish16, nor of Miss Lavish looking for her cigarette-case. Like every true performer, she was intoxicated17 by the mere18 feel of the notes: they were fingers caressing19 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 auspices20 of their vicar, sang, or recited, or imitated the drawing of a champagne21 cork22. 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 suspense23 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 extraordinarily24; in the chords that herald25 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 winding26 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 perversity27 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 graceful28 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 concealed29 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 sopped30," was Lucy's reply.
The expedition was typical of Miss Bartlett, who would return cold, tired, hungry, and angelic, with a ruined skirt, a pulpy31 Baedeker, and a tickling32 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 hearty33 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 supreme34 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 awe35-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, "dealing36 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 apparently37 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 deflecting38 her from the path of prim39 chaperon, which he had assigned to her at Tunbridge Wells? All his life he had loved to study maiden40 ladies; they were his specialty41, 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 chilly42 in his attitude towards the other sex, and preferred to be interested rather than enthralled43.
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 haze44 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 plaintive45 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 contented46 himself with saying: "I quite agree with you, Miss Alan. The Italians are a most unpleasant people. They pry47 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 foretell48 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 tolerance50, sympathy, and a sense of humour would inhabit that militant51 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 turquoise52 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 complacently53, 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 misuse54 them, and I must say they nearly always do. Anyhow, she left it almost finished in the Grotto55 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 tempted56 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 every one, even if you do not approve of them."
Miss Alan was always thus being charitable against her better judgment57. A delicate pathos58 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 plunged59 into an anecdote60 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 jaw61 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 positively62 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 pointed49 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 censure63 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 tangle64 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, every one, 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 disapprovingly65. 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 avowedly66 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 hazy67 account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly concerted attempt to annex68 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 waylaying69 you to go out with them, dear?" said the little lady inquisitively70.
"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 streaks71 of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery72 light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade73 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 some one who reads me through and through!"
But they still looked disapproval74, 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."
且说露西发现日常生活是着实乱糟糟的，但一打开钢琴，就进入了一个比较扎实的世界。这时她不再百依百顺，也不屈尊俯就；不再是个叛逆者，也不是个奴隶。音乐王国不是这人世间的王国；它愿意接受那些被教养、智能与文化所同样摒弃的人。凡人开始弹钢琴，一下子便毫不费力地升上太空，而我们则抬头望着，对他竟能这样从我们身边逃脱惊讶不止，心想只消他把他脑中的幻象用人的语言表达出来，并且把他的种种经验转化为人的行动，我们将如何崇拜他并爱戴他啊。也许他做不到；他当然没有这样做，或者极难得这样做。露西就从没这样做过。
她不是一位光彩夺目的演奏家；她弹的速奏段子根本不像一串串珠子般圆润，而她弹出的正确音符也不比像她那种年龄和地位的人所应弹出的更多。她也不是一位热情奔放的小姐，在一个夏日的傍晚打开了窗子，演奏悲悲切切的曲调。演奏中有的是热情，不过这份热情很难加以归类；它介于爱与恨与嫉妒之间，溶化在形象化的演奏风格的所有内涵之中。而且只是凭她是伟大的这一点来看她才是带有悲剧性的，因为她喜欢表现胜利这一方面。至于这是什么胜利、对什么取得胜利——那是日常生活中的语言不足以告诉我们的了。不过贝多芬有几支奏呜曲是写得很悲怆的，这是没人能否认的，然而它们可以由演奏者来决定表现胜利还是绝望，而露西决定它们该表现胜利。
在贝尔托利尼公寓，一天下午大雨滂沱，这使她能干她衷心喜欢的事，于是午餐后就打开了那架罩着套子的小钢琴。有几个人逗留在侧，赞她演奏得出色，不过，见她并不作答，便分头回自己的房间去把当天的日记写完或上床睡觉。她没有注意到艾默森先生正在寻找他的儿子，巴特利特小姐正在寻找拉维希小姐，也没有注意到拉维希小姐正在寻找她的烟盒。跟每一位真正的演奏家一样，一接触那些音键，她就给陶醉了：这些音键像手指般爱抚着她自己的手指；因而不仅仅通过乐音本身，也通过触觉，她被激起了情欲。
毕比先生坐在窗前，并不引人注目，正在思考霍尼彻奇小姐身上这种不合乎逻辑的素质，并回想起在顿桥井的那一次际遇，当时他就发现这一情况。那是一次上层人士款待下等人的联欢活动。座位上坐满了毕恭毕敬的听众，而本教区的太太小姐和绅士们在他们那教区牧师的主持下，演唱、朗诵或者模仿拔出香槟酒瓶瓶塞的动作。预定的演出节目中有一项是“霍尼彻奇小姐。钢琴独奏。贝多芬”，于是毕比先生思量着不知道会是《阿黛莱德》还是《雅典的废墟》中的那支进行曲①（译注：①《阿黛莱德）为贝多芬于1795年作的著名歌曲，歌颂11世纪的德王奥托一世的王后阿黛莱德。《雅典的废墟》为德国作家科策布的剧作，贝多芬为之写了配乐，包括序曲及八段乐曲，其中有著名的《土耳其进行曲》。），这时他平静的心境被《作品第111号》①（译注：①指《c小调钢琴奏鸣曲》，为贝多芬所作的最后一支钢琴奏鸣曲。）开头的那几小节所打乱了。在弹奏引子的全过程中，他感到捉摸不透，因为要直到节奏加快才能领会演奏者的意图。听到咆哮般的开头的主题，他明白这次演奏进行得非同寻常；在预告即将曲终的那些和弦声中，他听出了宣告胜利的锤击般的声响。他庆幸她只弹了第一乐章，因为他实在无法全神贯注地倾听那十六分之九拍的蜿蜒起伏、错综复杂的段子。听众鼓起掌来，同样是毕恭毕敬的。正是毕比先生带头跺脚的；人们也至多做到这地步了。
“她是谁呀？”他后来问那教区牧师。
“是我教区一位教友的表亲。我认为她这乐曲挑选得不大恰当。一般说来，贝多芬的感染力是那样地简朴单纯而直截了当，以致选择这样的乐曲完全是一种任性的表现，这支乐曲如果有什么作用的话，那就是使人心绪不宁。”
“把我介绍给她。”
“她一定会很高兴的。她跟巴特利特小姐对你的布道赞不绝口。”
“我的布道？”毕比先生叫道。“为什么她竟会去听我布道？”
等他被介绍给她时，他明白了，原来霍尼彻奇小姐一旦从琴凳上站起来了，只不过是个有一头浓密的黑发和一张非常秀气、苍白而尚未成熟的脸的年轻闺秀。她喜欢去听音乐会，她喜欢在她表姐家小住，她喜欢冰咖啡和蛋白酥皮饼。他并不怀疑她也喜欢他的布道。但是在离开顿桥井之前，他曾对教区牧师讲过一句话，现在当露西阖上小钢琴的琴盖、向他飘飘然地走来时，他对她本人说这同样的话。
“要是霍尼彻奇小姐竞能对生活和弹琴采取同样的态度，那会是非常激动人心的——对我们和对她都一样。”
露西顿时回进了日常生活。
“哦，说得多有意思啊！有人对妈妈说过完全同样的话，她就说她相信我将永远不会在生活中弹二重奏。”
“难道霍尼彻奇太太不喜欢音乐？”
“她对音乐无所谓。不过她不赞成有人对任何事情感到激动；她认为我对音乐的态度很荒谬。她认为——我也说不上来。有一次，你知道，我说我喜欢自己的演奏胜过任何别人的演奏。她就此没法原谅这句话。当然，我并不是说自己弹得多么好；我只是说——”
“当然，”他说，觉得奇怪，她为什么要费心解释。
“音乐——”露西说，似乎在努力探索某种概括性的说法。她没法说完这句话，只顾心不在焉地望着窗外的意大利雨景。在南方，整个生活都乱了套，这个欧洲最最优雅的国家变成了一个个不像样子的衣服堆。街道和河流都是脏兮兮的黄色的，那桥是脏兮兮的灰色的，而群山是脏兮兮的紫色的。拉维希小姐和巴特利特小姐正隐身在这重重叠叠的小山之间的某处地方，她们选择这一下午去观光加卢塔①。（译注：①加卢塔高625英尺，始建于14世纪，以建造者命名。据说伽利略曾在上面作出过几次重要的天文方面的观察。从塔顶可俯瞰佛罗伦萨及阿诺河河谷的全景。）
“音乐怎么样？”毕比先生说。
“可怜的夏绿蒂要成为落汤鸡了，”露西这样回答。
这次出游完全符合巴特利特小姐的性格，她将又冷又累又饿地回来，但仍不失为一位天使，裙子给糟蹋得不成样子．一本旅游指南淋湿得软乎乎的，喉咙痒痒地不时要咳嗽。但是在另一天上，当整个世界在欢唱、进入口腔的空气像美酒时，她却会不愿离开会客室，说什么她是个老家伙了，不适合和一个活泼的姑娘做伴。
“拉维希小姐把你的表亲带错了路。我相信，她希望看到雨中的真正的意大利。”
“拉维希小姐真是别出心裁，”露西喃喃地说。这是一句套话，是贝尔托利尼膳宿公寓在下定义方面的杰作。拉维希小姐真是别出心裁。这一点毕比先生不敢尽信，不过人们会认为这是由于牧师思想褊狭所致。正因为如此，加上其他的原因，他保持了沉默。
露西用一种敬畏的语调说，“拉维希小姐在写一本书，这是真的吗？”
“人家是这么说的。”
“这本书写什么？”
“是一部长篇小说，”毕比先生回答道，“写现代意大利。我看你还是去请教凯瑟琳·艾伦小姐，让她给你讲讲，她比我认识的任何人都善于辞令。”
“我倒希望由拉维希小姐本人来告诉我。我们刚相识就是好朋友。不过我认为那天在圣克罗彻她不应该拿着我的旅游指南不告而别。夏绿蒂看到我实际上只有一个人站在那里，非常生气，所以我忍不住对拉维希小姐也有点生气。”
“不管怎么样，这两位女士已经言归于好了。”
他对巴特利特小姐与拉维希小姐这样两个显然大相径庭的女性突然建立起友谊很感兴趣。她们两位总是在一起，而露西却成为受到怠慢的第三者了。他自以为很了解拉维希小姐，至于巴特利特小姐则可能会流露出以前鲜为人知的古怪脾气，虽然这不一定具有丰富的内涵。难道意大利使她偏离了充当一本正经的保护人的道路？而这身份正是他在顿桥井分派给她的。他一生中一直喜欢研究独身女士；她们是他的研究专题，而他的职业又为这项工作提供了充分的机会。尽管像露西这样的姑娘秀色可餐，可是由于一些相当深奥的理由，毕比先生对待女性的态度显得有几分冷淡，他宁愿对她们表示兴趣，而不愿为之神魂颠倒。
露西第三次重复说可怜的夏绿蒂将成为落汤鸡了。阿诺河河水上涨泛滥，把河滩上马车的轮印冲洗得一千二净。但在西南方向出现了一片暗淡的黄色迷雾，如果不是预示天气将变得更糟的话，那么很有可能转晴。她打开窗户看去，一阵冷风吹进房来，刚巧凯瑟琳·艾伦小姐同一时刻进入房门，不由得发出一声哀叫。
“嗳呀，亲爱的霍尼彻奇小姐，你要着凉的！这里还有毕比先生呢。谁会想到意大利是这个样子的？我姐姐竟然抱着热水罐呢；毫无使人舒适的设施可言，伙食也不合格。”
她侧身向他们走去，就了座，有点忸怩，每逢她进入房间，里面只有一位男士或一位男士和一位女士时，她总感到不自然。
“霍尼彻奇小姐，我听到了你那优美的钢琴演奏，虽然我在自己的房间里，房门是关着的。房门紧闭；确实很有必要。在这个国家里，人人都毫无隐私观念。这种现象一个传染一个。”
露西很得体地做了回答。毕比先生却无法告诉女士们他在摩德纳的那一番奇遇。当时他正在洗澡，收拾房间的侍女闯了进来，乐呵呵地嚷道，“这没什么，我反正年纪大了。”他只能满足于这样说，“艾伦小姐，我很同意你的意见。意大利这个民族实在使人讨厌。他们到处探听，什么都不放过，我们自己还不知道想要什么，他们倒先知道了。我们完全听凭他们摆布。他们知道我们心里在想什么，能预先说出我们的愿望。从赶马车的一直到——到乔托，他们把我们心里所想的都暴露无遗，我就讨厌这一点。然而在他们的内心深处，他们又是——多么肤浅啊！他们根本不懂得什么是精神生活。那天，贝尔托利尼太太向我诉说，‘唉，毕比先生，你不知道我为了孩子们的教育所受的那份罪呀！他可不答应让一个什么都讲不清楚的意大利佬来教我的小维多利亚！’她说得多么正确啊。”
艾伦小姐没有听懂，不过她猜想毕比先生是在善意地揶揄她。她的姐姐对毕比先生感到有点儿失望，因为原以为这样一位两鬓有赤褐色连腮胡子的秃顶牧师该具备更加值得称道的品质。的确，谁能想象这个有军人风度的身躯里蕴藏着宽容、同情心和幽默感呢？
她怀着满意的心情，仍然侧着身子，终于真相大白了。只见她从坐着的椅子下面抽出一只炮铜制的烟盒来，上面的姓名首字母E．L搽成蓝绿色。
“那是拉维希的，”牧师说。“拉维希是个好人，不过我倒希望她今后改抽烟斗。”
“哎呀，毕比先生，”艾伦小姐又是惊讶，又是高兴地说。“说实话，她吸烟是很糟糕，但是并不像你想象的那样糟糕。那是她的一生心血在一次塌方中被毁了以后，她简直绝望了，就抽起烟来。这当然使之看来比较情有可原。”
“什么一生心血？”露西问。
毕比先生得意地往后靠，坐得舒服些，艾伦小姐就开始讲下面的故事：
“那是一部长篇小说——据我了解，我怕这不是一部十分好的小说。有才华的人滥用他们的才华，真是可悲呀！而我必须说人们几乎总是重蹈覆辙。不管怎么样，她几乎完成了，出去买一些墨水，就把这作品放在阿马尔菲的卡普契尼饭店的耶稣受难神龛里。她说：‘请卖给我一些墨水，好吗？’可你是知道意大利人是惯于磨蹭的，就在那当儿，只听见轰的一声，神龛倒塌在海滩上，而最伤脑筋的是她怎么也想不起来写了些什么啦。这件事以后，这可怜人生了一场大病，于是就忍不住抽起烟来了。这可是个大秘密，不过我很乐意告诉你们，她正在写另外一部小说。前几天她对特莉莎和波尔小姐说，她已经收集了本地所有乡土色彩的资料——这部小说写的是现代意大利；那一部写的是历史上的意大利——不过她一定要先有构思才能动笔。最初她到佩鲁吉亚①（译注：①意大利中部一城市，在佛罗伦萨东南。）去，希望能得到灵感，后来就到这里来了——这些你们可不能对外人讲呀！她经历了这一切，情绪甭说有多高涨！这使我不能不这样想，每个人身上都有一些值得赞美的东西，即使你并不欣赏那些东西。”
艾伦小姐总是这样宽厚，尽管这样做是违心的。一种微妙的怜悯心使得她那些前言不接后语的谈话变得动听起来，使人感到出乎意外的美妙，就像萧条的秋天树林里，有时候会升腾起种种香味，使人想起春天。她觉察到自己讲的话已经几乎太体谅了，便匆匆忙忙地为自己的这种宽容态度表示歉意。
“话是这么说，可是她还是有点儿太——我可不大情愿说太不像妇道人家了，不过当艾默森父子来到时，她的举止就显得很特别，”
艾伦小姐毅然谈起一件轶事，毕比先生知道只要有男士在场，她是不可能把它讲到底的，不禁嘴角挂起了微笑。
“霍尼彻奇小姐，我不清楚你是否注意到波尔小姐，那位长着许多黄头发的女士，喜欢喝柠檬水。那位老艾默森先生讲起话来非常奇怪--”
她的嘴巴张开了。但是保持了沉默。毕比先生在社交方面是足智多谋的，便走出去吩咐准备一些茶，艾伦小姐则继续同露西匆忙地低声密谈：
“胃。他提醒过波尔小姐，要她当心她的胃——他管它叫酸性——而他的用心很可能是好的。我必须说我有点忘乎所以，竟然笑了出来；这一切来得太突然了。特莉莎说得对，这种事情并没有什么好笑。不过问题是拉维希小姐完全被他提起的那个S①（译注：S为stomach胃的第一个字母。）吸引住了，她说她喜欢说话直截了当并接触不同层次的思想。她认定他们是旅行推销员——她用了‘drummer’②（译注：这是美国俚语。）这个词儿—一而整个晚餐时间里，她企图证明我们这伟大可爱的祖国，英国，依靠的不是别的，而是经商。特莉莎非常恼火，干酪还没有上桌，她就离席走开，一面说‘拉维希小姐，这一位能驳倒你，胜过我多了’，说着，用手指指那幅优美的丁尼生勋爵的画像。这下子拉维希小姐发话了：‘嘿！这些早期维多利亚时代的人士。’你想想，这口气！‘嘿！这些早期维多利亚时代的人士。’我姐姐已经走了，我感到非得说几句不可。我说：‘拉维希小姐，我就是个早期维多利亚时代的人士；至少，也就是说，我不愿意听到指责我们敬爱的女王的话。’这样讲话实在太可怕了。我提醒她女王当年不想去爱尔兰，可是还是去了，我必须告诉你她吃惊得哑口无言，什么话都说不出来。可是不巧的是艾默森先生听到了这些话，就用深沉的嗓音说：‘不错，不错！正是她的爱尔兰之行使我很尊敬这个女人。，这个女人！我叙述往事太不行了；不过你该明白到这个时候我们给卷入了多么糟的纠葛，都只怪一开始提到了S。可是事情到此并没有结束。晚饭后，拉维希小姐居然走到我面前说：．艾伦小姐，我要到吸烟室去和那两位和气的先生谈谈。你也来吧。’不消说得，对这样不合时宜的邀请我当然拒绝了，而她竟然无礼之极，对我说去谈谈会开阔我的思想，还说她有四个兄弟，除了一个在军队里服役外，都在大学里工作，他们都很重视和旅行推销员交谈。”
毕比先生已回到房间里来，他说，“我来把这个故事讲完吧！拉维希小姐劝波尔小姐、我本人以及房间里每一个人都去，最后她说：‘我就一个人去好了。’她去了。五分钟后，她悄悄地回来了，拿着一块绿色绒面板，一个人玩起通五关来了。”
“到底发生了什么事啊？”露西大声说。
“没人知道。永远也不会有人知道。拉维希小姐永远不敢讲出来，而艾默森先生却认为不值得一谈。”
“毕比先生——老艾默森先生，他是好人，还是不是好人？我真想知道。”
毕比先生大笑起来，表示她应该自己为自己解答这个问题。
“不；这太难了。有时候他很傻，可我也不在乎。艾伦小姐，你觉得怎么样？他人好吗？”
身材矮小的老太太摇摇头，不满地叹了口气。毕比先生觉得谈话内容很有趣，就用话来激她：
“艾伦小姐，我认为发生了那次紫罗兰事件，你一定会把他列为好人的。”
“紫罗兰事件？天哪！谁告诉你有关紫罗兰的事情的？消息是怎么传出去的？膳宿公寓可真是个传布流言的地方。不，我忘不了伊格先生在圣克罗彻教堂讲解时他们的表现。唉，可怜的霍尼彻奇小姐！那次实在太糟糕了！我已经改变主意了。我不喜欢艾默森父子俩。他们不好。”
毕比先生冷漠地笑笑。他曾客气地将艾默森父子引进贝尔托利尼的社交圈子，但是这努力失败了。他几乎是唯一仍然对他们保持友好态度的人。拉维希小姐这位智力的代表，公开流露出她的敌对情绪，而现在又加上了两位艾伦小姐，她们代表着良好的家庭教养。巴特利特小姐由于欠了他们的情而感到懊恼，她的态度也几乎绝对不会是友好的。露西的情况却不同。她曾含含糊糊地对他讲了她在圣克罗彻教堂的经历，他估计很可能这父子俩曾出奇地联合起来争取她，用他们的独特的观点，向她展示这世界，使她对他们个人的悲哀与喜悦发生兴趣。这实在太无礼了；他不希望让一个年轻姑娘来卫护他们的事业；他宁可它失败。说到底，他对他们一点也不了解，而膳宿公寓内的种种喜怒哀乐，不过是瞬息云烟；然而露西将是他教区里的教友啊！
露西用一部分心思观察着天气，最后说她认为艾默森父子俩是好人；这可不是说她现在对他们有了什么新发现。需知他们在晚餐时的座位也变动过了。
“他们并不老是拦住你，要你陪他们一起出去，是吗，亲爱的？”身材矮小的女士打听道。
“只有过一次。夏绿蒂很不高兴，说了一些话一当然是很客气的啰！”
“她做得对极了。他们不懂得我们的规矩。他们应该找他们那一个层次的人。”
毕比先生却认为他们找过了比他们层次低的人。他们不再作出努力——如果这是一次努力的话——去征服社交界了，因此现在那位做父亲的几乎也像他儿子那样沉默了。毕比先生琢磨着是否要在他们离开以前，让他们欢度一天——也许出游一次，让露西在女伴的充分保护下，对他们表示友好。毕比先生的主要乐趣之一是为人们提供快乐的记忆。
他们聊着天，暮色渐渐降临；空气变得较为清新了，树木和群山的颜色变得纯净了，阿诺河也不再是一片浑浊的泥泞，开始闪烁了。云间出现几道蓝绿色，有几摊带着水汽的微光射在大地上，圣米尼亚托教堂正面墙上淌着水珠，在夕阳中亮得耀眼。
“现在出去可太晚了，”艾伦小姐松了一口气说。“所有的画廊都关门了。”
“我想我还是要出去，”露西说。“我想乘环城电车——站在驾驶员旁边的平台上——到城里去兜一圈。”
她的两位同伴脸色变得庄重起来。毕比先生觉得巴特利特小姐不在，他有责任保护露西，便试探着说：
“但愿我能陪你去。不过很不巧，我有好几封信要写。如果你一定要一个人出去，步行不更好吗？”
“意大利人，亲爱的，你知道是怎么样的，”艾伦小姐说。
“也许我会碰到一个人，他能十十足足看透我的心思！”
可是他们仍然带着不赞成的表情，她便向毕比先生作了一些让步，说她只打算稍为散一会儿步，只去游客常去的那几条街。
他们从窗口望着她走出去，毕比先生说，“说实在的，她根本不应该出去，她也明知道这一点。我把这归结为贝多芬弹得太多了。”
收听单词发音 |
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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strings
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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tragically
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hatred
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jealousy
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pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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sonatas
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gainsay
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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auspices
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champagne
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cork
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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sopped
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| adj.湿透的，浸透的v.将（面包等）在液体中蘸或浸泡( sop的过去式和过去分词 )；用海绵、布等吸起（液体等） | |
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pulpy
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| 果肉状的，多汁的，柔软的； 烂糊； 稀烂 | |
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tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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deflecting
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| （使）偏斜， （使）偏离， （使）转向( deflect的现在分词 ) | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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misuse
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| n.误用，滥用；vt.误用，滥用 | |
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grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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disapprovingly
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| adv.不以为然地，不赞成地，非难地 | |
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avowedly
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| adv.公然地 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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annex
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| vt.兼并，吞并；n.附属建筑物 | |
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waylaying
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的现在分词 ) | |
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inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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