A Room with a View Page #2

among the great painters.

He was practical...

My poor boy has brains,

but he's very muddled.

But why should he be?

Well may you ask.

But think how he's been brought up -

free from the superstition

that leads men to hate in the name of God.

I must go...

I don't require you to fall in love

with my boy, but please help him.

If only one could stop him from brooding.

And on what? The things of the universe.

I don't believe in this world sorrow. Do you?

No, I don't. Not at all, Mr. Emerson.

Well, there you are.

Make my boy realize that,

at the side of the everlasting "why",

there is a "yes".

And a "yes" and a "yes"!

Has your son no particular hobby?

I forget my worries at the piano,

and collecting stamps helped my brother.

Excuse me. My cousin will be

most anxious if I don't get back.

- Poor girl.

- Poor girl?

I think myself most fortunate.

I'm very happy and having a splendid time.

Thank you very much. Goodbye.

Look at that adorable wine cart.

How he stares at us, dear simple soul!

I love these little dark alleys.

They're all peasants, you know. Come along.

I do declare we're lost.

No, Miss Bartlett,

you will not look into your Baedeker.

Two lone females in an unknown city,

that's what I call an adventure.

We will simply drift.

One always has to be wide open.

I think Miss Lucy is.

- Open to what, Miss Lavish?

- To physical sensation.

I'll let you into a secret.

I have my eye on your cousin.

For a character in your novel?

The young English girl, transfigured by Italy.

And why should she not be transfigured?

It happened to the Goths.

Signorina?

The smell!

A true Florentine smell. Inhale, my dear.

Deeper.

Every city, let me tell you, has its own smell.

Grazie.

How are you now?

Perfectly well. Absolutely well.

Then, let's go home.

There's no point in our stopping.

How very kind you've been.

I can go alone. Thank you.

- My photographs!

- What photographs?

I must have dropped them

in the square. Would you be so kind...?

Miss Honeychurch!

You're not fit enough to go alone.

- I am.

- No, you're not!

- But...

- Then I don't get the photographs.

Besides, that way,

you'd have to fly over the wall.

Sit down and don't move until I come back.

Isn't it extraordinary?

I mean, Italians are so kind, so lovable,

and yet at the same time so violent.

Mr. Emerson?

I've never been so ashamed.

I can't think what came over me.

It's perfectly natural.

I nearly fainted myself.

Well, I owe you a thousand apologies.

And... I want to ask you a great favor.

You know how silly people are.

Gossiping.

Ladies especially, I'm afraid.

- You understand what I mean?

- No.

I mean, would you not mention it to anyone,

my foolish behavior.

What was that?

I believe it was my photographs!

I didn't know what to do with them.

They were covered with blood.

There. Now I've told you.

Something tremendous has happened.

Well, thank you... again.

How quickly accidents happen.

Then one returns to the old life.

I don't.

I mean... something's happened to me.

And to you.

- No!

- She is my sister.

- We ought not to allow this.

- They're doing no harm.

You can't object in such a landscape.

As long as she is his sister.

So, Miss Honeychurch, you're traveling.

As a student of art?

- No, I'm afraid not.

- As a student of human nature like myself?

- I'm here as a tourist.

- Indeed?

We residents sometimes pity

you poor tourists not a little.

Handed about like parcels

from Venice to Florence to Rome,

unconscious of anything outside Baedeker,

anxious to get done and go on elsewhere.

I abhor Baedeker.

I'd fling every copy in the Arno.

Towns, rivers, palaces,

all mixed up in an inextricable whirl.

Over there, Miss Honeychurch,

the villa of my dear friend Lady Laverstock,

at present busy

with a Fra Angelico definitive study.

And, on your left - no, just there -

Mr. Henry Burridge lives.

An American of the best type. So rare!

Doubtless you know his monographs

in "Medieval Byways".

Your father, Mr. Emerson, is a journalist?

- He used to be.

- He's retired? And you, yourself?

I'm on the railways.

You know the American girl

in "Punch" who says to her father,

"Say, Poppa, what did we see in Rome?"

The father replies,

"Guess Rome was where we saw the yellow dog."

Yellow dog!

There's traveling for you!

What?! Stop at once!

I'm not having this.

Ferma la carrozza subitol

Have we bolted?

What? Is Phaethon misbehaving

with his Persephone?

- Please, I'll deal with them.

- Leave them.

Do we find happiness

so often that we should turn it away?

Scendal

Beauty!

Espoirl

Is that your son?

Could that be the silent, dour George?

He's saying his creed.

One more lump,

if I might trouble you, Mr. Beebe.

Joy!

Beauty!

Joy...!

He's declaring the eternal "yes".

And a spoon, if there is one.

Love!

- What's that?

- The gentlemen are doubtless having a game.

Why don't you join them, dear?

I want to stop here with you.

Observe my foresight. I never venture forth

without my mackintosh squares.

At any time, one may have to sit

on damp ground or cold marble.

Lucy, you have the other one.

Come on, I insist. The ground will do for me.

I have not had rheumatism for years,

and if I feel a twinge I'll stand up.

And she never went back to Weybridge?

Her friend had to return without her.

She remained at Monteriano.

And did she really...?

No, no. Don't be alarmed. This is not a cold.

Just a slight cough.

I've had it for three days.

Nothing to do with sitting on the ground.

I shall go and find Mr. Beebe.

Oh, do, dear. He will be so pleased.

- Did she really marry this Italian?

- In the church at Monteriano.

A youth. Ten years younger than herself.

Eleanor!

PUCCINI'S "CHI IL BEL SOGNO

DI DORETTA" FROM "LA RONDINE")

Excuse me.

Dove Mr. Beebe?

Buoni uomini?

I think there is something

in the Italian landscape

which inclines

even the most stolid to romance.

It reminds me somewhat

of the country around Shropshire.

Where I once spent a holiday

at the home of my friend Miss Apesbury.

And I divine it, Charlotte.

You had an adventure there.

Vain to deny it.

Lucy!

Mr. Eager, do come and join us.

Miss Honeychurch is feeling unwell.

Andiamo.

Andiamol

George. George.

- Aren't you coming with us?

- I'll walk.

Are you sure?

Courage, Miss Honeychurch, and faith.

Do you suppose this display is called

into existence to extinguish you or me?

Even scientifically, the chances

against being struck are enormous.

The steel knives that might attract

the current are in the other carriage.

What is to be done?

How do you propose to silence him?

- The driver?

- My dear girl, no. Mr. George Emerson.

I don't wish to be uncharitable,

but I know he will talk.

He will not. He never talks.

One's lucky to get

as much as a "yes" or "no" out of him.

Unfortunately, I have met the type before.

They seldom keep their exploits to themselves.

Exploits?

Very well. I'll speak to him.

Oh, no, my dear Lucy.

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