diff --git a/CHANGELOG.md b/CHANGELOG.md index 8485bb48..8ef69d51 100644 --- a/CHANGELOG.md +++ b/CHANGELOG.md @@ -1,5 +1,11 @@ # Changelog +## v0.3.1 + +### What's New + +- Handle more levels of newlines. Will now find the largest newline sequence in the text, and then work back from there, treating each consecutive newline sequence length as its own semantic level. + ## v0.3.0 ### Breaking Changes diff --git a/Cargo.toml b/Cargo.toml index dee9bf68..99e1a032 100644 --- a/Cargo.toml +++ b/Cargo.toml @@ -1,6 +1,6 @@ [package] name = "text-splitter" -version = "0.3.0" +version = "0.3.1" authors = ["Ben Brandt "] edition = "2021" description = "Split text into semantic chunks, up to a desired chunk size. Supports calculating length by characters and tokens (when used with large language models)." @@ -42,8 +42,3 @@ opt-level = 3 [profile.dev.package.similar] opt-level = 3 -[profile.dev.package.tiktoken-rs] -opt-level = 3 - -[profile.dev.package.tokenizers] -opt-level = 3 diff --git a/README.md b/README.md index 24945014..5d236a82 100644 --- a/README.md +++ b/README.md @@ -29,7 +29,7 @@ let chunks = splitter.chunks("your document text", max_characters); ### By Tokens ```rust -use text_splitter::{TextSplitter}; +use text_splitter::TextSplitter; // Can also use tiktoken-rs, or anything that implements the TokenCount // trait from the text_splitter crate. use tokenizers::Tokenizer; @@ -52,14 +52,13 @@ To preserve as much semantic meaning within a chunk as possible, a recursive app - Yes. Merge as many of these neighboring sections into a chunk as possible to maximize chunk length. - No. Split by the next level and repeat. -The boundaries used to split the text if using the top-level `split` method, in descending length: +The boundaries used to split the text if using the top-level `chunks` method, in descending length: -1. 2 or more newlines (Newline is `\r\n`, `\n`, or `\r`) -2. 1 newline -3. [Unicode Sentence Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Sentence_Boundaries) -4. [Unicode Word Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Word_Boundaries) -5. [Unicode Grapheme Cluster Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Grapheme_Cluster_Boundaries) -6. Characters +1. Descending sequence length of newlines. (Newline is `\r\n`, `\n`, or `\r`) Each unique length of consecutive newline sequences is treated as its own semantic level. +2. [Unicode Sentence Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Sentence_Boundaries) +3. [Unicode Word Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Word_Boundaries) +4. [Unicode Grapheme Cluster Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Grapheme_Cluster_Boundaries) +5. Characters Splitting doesn't occur below the character level, otherwise you could get partial bytes of a char, which may not be a valid unicode str. diff --git a/src/lib.rs b/src/lib.rs index 16b1bf14..031c5b03 100644 --- a/src/lib.rs +++ b/src/lib.rs @@ -55,12 +55,11 @@ To preserve as much semantic meaning within a chunk as possible, a recursive app The boundaries used to split the text if using the top-level `chunks` method, in descending length: -1. 2 or more newlines (Newline is `\r\n`, `\n`, or `\r`) -2. 1 newline -3. [Unicode Sentence Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Sentence_Boundaries) -4. [Unicode Word Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Word_Boundaries) -5. [Unicode Grapheme Cluster Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Grapheme_Cluster_Boundaries) -6. Characters +1. Descending sequence length of newlines. (Newline is `\r\n`, `\n`, or `\r`) Each unique length of consecutive newline sequences is treated as its own semantic level. +2. [Unicode Sentence Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Sentence_Boundaries) +3. [Unicode Word Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Word_Boundaries) +4. [Unicode Grapheme Cluster Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Grapheme_Cluster_Boundaries) +5. Characters Splitting doesn't occur below the character level, otherwise you could get partial bytes of a char, which may not be a valid unicode str. @@ -188,12 +187,11 @@ where /// /// The boundaries used to split the text if using the top-level `split` method, in descending length: /// - /// 1. 2 or more newlines (Newline is `\r\n`, `\n`, or `\r`) - /// 2. 1 newline - /// 3. [Unicode Sentence Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Sentence_Boundaries) - /// 4. [Unicode Word Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Word_Boundaries) - /// 5. [Unicode Grapheme Cluster Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Grapheme_Cluster_Boundaries) - /// 6. Characters + /// 1. Descending sequence length of newlines. (Newline is `\r\n`, `\n`, or `\r`) Each unique length of consecutive newline sequences is treated as its own semantic level. + /// 2. [Unicode Sentence Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Sentence_Boundaries) + /// 3. [Unicode Word Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Word_Boundaries) + /// 4. [Unicode Grapheme Cluster Boundaries](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Grapheme_Cluster_Boundaries) + /// 5. Characters /// /// Splitting doesn't occur below the character level, otherwise you could get partial /// bytes of a char, which may not be a valid unicode str. @@ -233,27 +231,14 @@ where text: &'text str, chunk_size: usize, ) -> TextChunks<'text, 'splitter, V> { - TextChunks::new( - chunk_size, - &self.chunk_validator, - SemanticLevel::DoubleLineBreak, - text, - self.trim_chunks, - ) + TextChunks::new(chunk_size, &self.chunk_validator, text, self.trim_chunks) } } -// Lazy so that we don't have to compile them more than once -/// Any sequence of 2 or more newlines -static DOUBLE_LINEBREAK: Lazy = - Lazy::new(|| Regex::new(r"(\r\n){2,}|\r{2,}|\n{2,}").unwrap()); -/// Fallback for anything else -static LINEBREAK: Lazy = Lazy::new(|| Regex::new(r"(\r|\n)+").unwrap()); - /// Different semantic levels that text can be split by. /// Each level provides a method of splitting text into chunks of a given level /// as well as a fallback in case a given fallback is too large. -#[derive(Clone, Copy, Debug)] +#[derive(Clone, Copy, Debug, Eq, PartialEq, Ord, PartialOrd)] enum SemanticLevel { /// Split by individual chars. May be larger than a single byte, /// but we don't go lower so we always have valid UTF str's. @@ -267,40 +252,84 @@ enum SemanticLevel { /// Split by [unicode sentences](https://www.unicode.org/reports/tr29/#Sentence_Boundaries) /// Falls back to [`Self::Word`] Sentence, - /// Split by single linebreak, either `\n`, `\r`, or `\r\n`. - /// Falls back to [`Self::Sentence`] - LineBreak, - /// Split by 2 or more linebreaks, either `\n`, `\r`, or `\r\n`. - /// Falls back to [`Self::LineBreak`] - DoubleLineBreak, + /// Split by given number of linebreaks, either `\n`, `\r`, or `\r\n`. + /// Falls back to the next lower number, or else [`Self::Sentence`] + LineBreak(usize), } -impl SemanticLevel { - /// Optional fallback, if available, if the current level is too large - fn fallback(self) -> Option { - match self { - Self::Char => None, - Self::GraphemeCluster => Some(Self::Char), - Self::Word => Some(Self::GraphemeCluster), - Self::Sentence => Some(Self::Word), - Self::LineBreak => Some(Self::Sentence), - Self::DoubleLineBreak => Some(Self::LineBreak), +// Lazy so that we don't have to compile them more than once +static LINEBREAKS: Lazy = Lazy::new(|| Regex::new(r"(\r\n)+|\r+|\n+").unwrap()); + +/// Captures information about linebreaks for a given text, and their +/// various semantic levels. +#[derive(Debug)] +struct LineBreaks { + /// Range of each line break and its precalculated semantic level + line_breaks: Vec<(SemanticLevel, Range)>, + /// Maximum number of linebreaks in a given text + max_level: SemanticLevel, +} + +impl LineBreaks { + /// Generate linebreaks for a given text + fn new(text: &str) -> Self { + let linebreaks = LINEBREAKS + .find_iter(text) + .map(|m| { + let range = m.range(); + let level = text + .get(range.start..range.end) + .unwrap() + .graphemes(true) + .count(); + ( + match level { + 0 => SemanticLevel::Sentence, + n => SemanticLevel::LineBreak(n), + }, + range, + ) + }) + .collect::>(); + + let max_level = *linebreaks + .iter() + .map(|(l, _)| l) + .max_by_key(|level| match level { + SemanticLevel::LineBreak(n) => n, + _ => &0, + }) + .unwrap_or(&SemanticLevel::Sentence); + + Self { + line_breaks: linebreaks, + max_level, } } - /// Split a given text into iterator over each semantic chunk - #[auto_enum(Iterator)] - fn chunks(self, text: &str) -> impl Iterator { - match self { - Self::Char => text - .char_indices() - .map(|(i, c)| text.get(i..i + c.len_utf8()).expect("char should be valid")), - Self::GraphemeCluster => text.graphemes(true), - Self::Word => text.split_word_bounds(), - Self::Sentence => text.split_sentence_bounds(), - Self::LineBreak => split_str_by_regex_separator(text, &LINEBREAK), - Self::DoubleLineBreak => split_str_by_regex_separator(text, &DOUBLE_LINEBREAK), - } + /// Retrieve ranges for all linebreaks of a given level after an offset + fn ranges( + &self, + offset: usize, + level: SemanticLevel, + ) -> impl Iterator)> + '_ { + self.line_breaks + .iter() + .filter(move |(l, sep)| l >= &level && sep.start >= offset) + } + + /// Return a unique, sorted list of all line break levels present before the next max level + fn levels_in_next_max_chunk(&self, offset: usize) -> impl Iterator + '_ { + self.line_breaks + .iter() + // Only start taking them from the offset + .filter(|(_, sep)| sep.start >= offset) + // Stop once we hit the first of the max level + .take_while(|(l, _)| l < &self.max_level) + .map(|(l, _)| l) + .sorted() + .dedup() + .copied() } } @@ -316,8 +345,9 @@ where chunk_validator: &'validator V, /// Current byte offset in the `text` cursor: usize, - /// Largest Semantic Level we are splitting by - semantic_level: SemanticLevel, + /// Ranges where linebreaks occur. Save to optimize how many regex + /// passes we need to do. + line_breaks: LineBreaks, /// Original text to iterate over and generate chunks from text: &'text str, /// Whether or not chunks should be trimmed @@ -333,7 +363,6 @@ where fn new( chunk_size: usize, chunk_validator: &'validator V, - semantic_level: SemanticLevel, text: &'text str, trim_chunks: bool, ) -> Self { @@ -341,7 +370,7 @@ where cursor: 0, chunk_size, chunk_validator, - semantic_level, + line_breaks: LineBreaks::new(text), text, trim_chunks, } @@ -365,18 +394,21 @@ where fn next_chunk(&mut self) -> Option<(usize, &'text str)> { let start = self.cursor; + let mut end = self.cursor; // Consume as many as we can fit for str in self.next_sections()? { - let chunk = self.text.get(start..self.cursor + str.len())?; + let chunk = self.text.get(start..end + str.len())?; // If this doesn't fit, as log as it isn't our first one, end the check here, // we have a chunk. - if !self.validate_chunk(chunk) && start != self.cursor { + if !self.validate_chunk(chunk) && start != end { break; } - self.cursor += str.len(); + end += str.len(); } + self.cursor = end; + let chunk = self.text.get(start..self.cursor)?; // Trim whitespace if user requested it @@ -389,35 +421,65 @@ where }) } - /// Find the ideal next sections, breaking up the next section if it - /// too large to fit within the chunk size - fn next_sections(&self) -> Option> { - let mut sections = self - .semantic_level - .chunks(self.text.get(self.cursor..)?) - .peekable(); + /// Split a given text into iterator over each semantic chunk + #[auto_enum(Iterator)] + fn semantic_chunks( + &self, + semantic_level: SemanticLevel, + ) -> impl Iterator + '_ { + let text = self.text.get(self.cursor..).unwrap(); + match semantic_level { + SemanticLevel::Char => text + .char_indices() + .map(|(i, c)| text.get(i..i + c.len_utf8()).expect("char should be valid")), + SemanticLevel::GraphemeCluster => text.graphemes(true), + SemanticLevel::Word => text.split_word_bounds(), + SemanticLevel::Sentence => text.split_sentence_bounds(), + SemanticLevel::LineBreak(_) => split_str_by_separator( + text, + true, + self.line_breaks + .ranges(self.cursor, semantic_level) + .map(|(_, sep)| sep.start - self.cursor..sep.end - self.cursor), + ), + } + } - // Check if we need to split it up first - let mut current_level = self.semantic_level; - loop { - match (sections.peek(), current_level.fallback()) { + /// Find the ideal next sections, breaking it up until we find the largest chunk. + /// Increasing length of chunk until we find biggest size to minimize validation time + /// on huge chunks + fn next_sections(&self) -> Option + '_> { + let mut semantic_level = SemanticLevel::Char; + // Next levels to try. Will stop at max level. We check only levels in the next max level + // chunk so we don't bypass it if not all levels are present in every chunk. + let levels = [ + SemanticLevel::GraphemeCluster, + SemanticLevel::Word, + SemanticLevel::Sentence, + self.line_breaks.max_level, + ] + .into_iter() + .chain(self.line_breaks.levels_in_next_max_chunk(self.cursor)) + .sorted() + .dedup(); + + for current_level in levels { + match self.semantic_chunks(current_level).next() { // Break early, nothing to do here - (None, _) => return None, - // If we can't break up further, exit loop - (Some(_), None) => break, - // If this is a valid chunk, we are fine - (Some(str), _) if self.validate_chunk(str) => { + None => return None, + // If this no longer fits, we use the level we are at. Or if we already + // have the rest of the string + Some(str) if !self.validate_chunk(str) || self.text.get(self.cursor..)? == str => { break; } - // Otherwise break up the text with the fallback - (Some(str), Some(fallback)) => { - sections = fallback.chunks(str).peekable(); - current_level = fallback; + // Otherwise break up the text with the next level + Some(_) => { + semantic_level = current_level; } } } - Some(sections) + Some(self.semantic_chunks(semantic_level)) } } @@ -444,15 +506,6 @@ where } } -/// Generate iter of str indices from a regex separator. These won't be -/// batched yet in case further fallbacks are needed. -fn split_str_by_regex_separator<'sep, 'text: 'sep>( - text: &'text str, - separator: &'sep Regex, -) -> impl Iterator + 'sep { - split_str_by_separator(text, true, separator.find_iter(text).map(|sep| sep.range())) -} - /// Given a list of separator ranges, construct the sections of the text fn split_str_by_separator( text: &str, @@ -505,15 +558,9 @@ mod tests { #[test] fn returns_one_chunk_if_text_is_shorter_than_max_chunk_size() { let text = Faker.fake::(); - let chunks = TextChunks::new( - text.chars().count(), - &Characters, - SemanticLevel::Char, - &text, - false, - ) - .map(|(_, c)| c) - .collect::>(); + let chunks = TextChunks::new(text.chars().count(), &Characters, &text, false) + .map(|(_, c)| c) + .collect::>(); assert_eq!(vec![&text], chunks); } @@ -525,15 +572,9 @@ mod tests { // Round up to one above half so it goes to 2 chunks let max_chunk_size = text.chars().count() / 2 + 1; - let chunks = TextChunks::new( - max_chunk_size, - &Characters, - SemanticLevel::Char, - &text, - false, - ) - .map(|(_, c)| c) - .collect::>(); + let chunks = TextChunks::new(max_chunk_size, &Characters, &text, false) + .map(|(_, c)| c) + .collect::>(); assert!(chunks.iter().all(|c| c.chars().count() <= max_chunk_size)); @@ -553,7 +594,7 @@ mod tests { #[test] fn empty_string() { let text = ""; - let chunks = TextChunks::new(100, &Characters, SemanticLevel::Char, text, false) + let chunks = TextChunks::new(100, &Characters, text, false) .map(|(_, c)| c) .collect::>(); assert!(chunks.is_empty()); @@ -562,7 +603,7 @@ mod tests { #[test] fn can_handle_unicode_characters() { let text = "éé"; // Char that is more than one byte - let chunks = TextChunks::new(1, &Characters, SemanticLevel::Char, text, false) + let chunks = TextChunks::new(1, &Characters, text, false) .map(|(_, c)| c) .collect::>(); assert_eq!(vec!["é", "é"], chunks); @@ -580,7 +621,7 @@ mod tests { #[test] fn custom_len_function() { let text = "éé"; // Char that is two bytes each - let chunks = TextChunks::new(2, &Str, SemanticLevel::Char, text, false) + let chunks = TextChunks::new(2, &Str, text, false) .map(|(_, c)| c) .collect::>(); assert_eq!(vec!["é", "é"], chunks); @@ -589,7 +630,7 @@ mod tests { #[test] fn handles_char_bigger_than_len() { let text = "éé"; // Char that is two bytes each - let chunks = TextChunks::new(1, &Str, SemanticLevel::Char, text, false) + let chunks = TextChunks::new(1, &Str, text, false) .map(|(_, c)| c) .collect::>(); // We can only go so small @@ -600,7 +641,7 @@ mod tests { fn chunk_by_graphemes() { let text = "a̐éö̲\r\n"; - let chunks = TextChunks::new(3, &Characters, SemanticLevel::GraphemeCluster, text, false) + let chunks = TextChunks::new(3, &Characters, text, false) .map(|(_, g)| g) .collect::>(); // \r\n is grouped together not separated @@ -611,8 +652,7 @@ mod tests { fn trim_char_indices() { let text = " a b "; - let chunks = - TextChunks::new(1, &Characters, SemanticLevel::Char, text, true).collect::>(); + let chunks = TextChunks::new(1, &Characters, text, true).collect::>(); assert_eq!(vec![(1, "a"), (3, "b")], chunks); } @@ -620,7 +660,7 @@ mod tests { fn graphemes_fallback_to_chars() { let text = "a̐éö̲\r\n"; - let chunks = TextChunks::new(1, &Characters, SemanticLevel::GraphemeCluster, text, false) + let chunks = TextChunks::new(1, &Characters, text, false) .map(|(_, g)| g) .collect::>(); assert_eq!( @@ -633,8 +673,7 @@ mod tests { fn trim_grapheme_indices() { let text = "\r\na̐éö̲\r\n"; - let chunks = TextChunks::new(3, &Characters, SemanticLevel::GraphemeCluster, text, true) - .collect::>(); + let chunks = TextChunks::new(3, &Characters, text, true).collect::>(); assert_eq!(vec![(2, "a̐é"), (7, "ö̲")], chunks); } @@ -642,7 +681,7 @@ mod tests { fn chunk_by_words() { let text = "The quick (\"brown\") fox can't jump 32.3 feet, right?"; - let chunks = TextChunks::new(10, &Characters, SemanticLevel::Word, text, false) + let chunks = TextChunks::new(10, &Characters, text, false) .map(|(_, w)| w) .collect::>(); assert_eq!( @@ -661,7 +700,7 @@ mod tests { #[test] fn words_fallback_to_graphemes() { let text = "Thé quick\r\n"; - let chunks = TextChunks::new(2, &Characters, SemanticLevel::Word, text, false) + let chunks = TextChunks::new(2, &Characters, text, false) .map(|(_, w)| w) .collect::>(); assert_eq!(vec!["Th", "é ", "qu", "ic", "k", "\r\n"], chunks); @@ -670,8 +709,7 @@ mod tests { #[test] fn trim_word_indices() { let text = "Some text from a document"; - let chunks = - TextChunks::new(10, &Characters, SemanticLevel::Word, text, true).collect::>(); + let chunks = TextChunks::new(10, &Characters, text, true).collect::>(); assert_eq!( vec![(0, "Some text"), (10, "from a"), (17, "document")], chunks @@ -681,7 +719,7 @@ mod tests { #[test] fn chunk_by_sentences() { let text = "Mr. Fox jumped. [...] The dog was too lazy."; - let chunks = TextChunks::new(21, &Characters, SemanticLevel::Sentence, text, false) + let chunks = TextChunks::new(21, &Characters, text, false) .map(|(_, s)| s) .collect::>(); assert_eq!( @@ -693,7 +731,7 @@ mod tests { #[test] fn sentences_falls_back_to_words() { let text = "Mr. Fox jumped. [...] The dog was too lazy."; - let chunks = TextChunks::new(16, &Characters, SemanticLevel::Sentence, text, false) + let chunks = TextChunks::new(16, &Characters, text, false) .map(|(_, s)| s) .collect::>(); assert_eq!( @@ -705,8 +743,7 @@ mod tests { #[test] fn trim_sentence_indices() { let text = "Some text. From a document."; - let chunks = TextChunks::new(10, &Characters, SemanticLevel::Sentence, text, true) - .collect::>(); + let chunks = TextChunks::new(10, &Characters, text, true).collect::>(); assert_eq!( vec![(0, "Some text."), (11, "From a"), (18, "document.")], chunks @@ -716,11 +753,24 @@ mod tests { #[test] fn trim_paragraph_indices() { let text = "Some text\n\nfrom a\ndocument"; - let chunks = TextChunks::new(10, &Characters, SemanticLevel::DoubleLineBreak, text, true) - .collect::>(); + let chunks = TextChunks::new(10, &Characters, text, true).collect::>(); assert_eq!( vec![(0, "Some text"), (11, "from a"), (18, "document")], chunks ); } + + #[test] + fn correctly_determines_newlines() { + let text = "\r\n\r\ntext\n\n\ntext2"; + let linebreaks = LineBreaks::new(text); + assert_eq!( + vec![ + (SemanticLevel::LineBreak(2), 0..4), + (SemanticLevel::LineBreak(3), 8..11) + ], + linebreaks.line_breaks + ); + assert_eq!(SemanticLevel::LineBreak(3), linebreaks.max_level); + } } diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap index a1e39abf..2ce35465 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap @@ -12,9 +12,12 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook.\n\n" - "Title: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\n" - "Release Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English" -- "\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n" -- "*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET" -- "\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\n" +- "\n\n\n" +- "Produced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n" +- "*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\n" +- "THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\n" +- "by William Shakespeare\n\n\n" +- "Contents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\n" - "ACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\n" - "Scene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\n" - "ACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\n" @@ -27,7 +30,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Scene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\n" - "Scene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\n" - "ACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n" -- "Scene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ\n\n" +- "Scene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n" +- " Dramatis Personæ\n\n" - "ESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\n" - "PARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\n" - "MONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\n" @@ -49,8 +53,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\n" - "Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\n" - "The which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n" -- " [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n" -- " Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\n" +- " [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\n" - "SAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\n" - "SAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\n" - "GREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\n" @@ -230,9 +234,10 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "The lady widow of Utruvio;\nSignior Placentio and his lovely nieces;\n" - "Mercutio and his brother Valentine;\nMine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;\n" - "My fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\nSignior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt;\n" -- "Lucio and the lively Helena. _\n\n\nA fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?" -- "\n\nSERVANT.\nUp.\n\nROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?\n\n" -- "SERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\nROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before.\n\n" +- "Lucio and the lively Helena. _\n\n\n" +- "A fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?\n\nSERVANT.\nUp.\n\n" +- "ROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?\n\nSERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\n" +- "ROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before.\n\n" - "SERVANT.\nNow I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet,\n" - "and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a\ncup of wine. Rest you merry.\n\n" - " [_Exit._]\n\n" @@ -467,7 +472,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Prodigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\n" - "NURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n" - " [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n" -- " [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\n" +- " [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\n" - "CHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\n" - "That fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\n" - "Now Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\n" @@ -869,7 +875,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.\n\n" - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\n" - "For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" -- "\n\n\n\nACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\n" +- "\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\n" - "BENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\n" - "And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\n" - "MERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\n" @@ -1585,7 +1592,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - " ‘Then music with her silver sound\n With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n" - "FIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!\n\n" - "SECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n" -- " [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\n" +- " [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\n" - "ROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\n" - "My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\n" - "Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\n" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap index 01b36fbd..fad872a4 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap @@ -3,14 +3,14 @@ source: tests/text_splitter_snapshots.rs expression: chunks input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt --- -- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook.\n\nTitle: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\n" -- "ACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\nACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n\nACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n\nACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ\n\n" -- "ESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\nMONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.\n\nCAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\nGREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\nSCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\n" -- "THE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\nThe fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\n" -- "SAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\nSAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it." -- "\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\n" -- "SAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\n" -- "CAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\nCAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants.\n\n" +- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook.\n\nTitle: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\n" +- "THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\nACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n\nACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n\nACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n" +- " Dramatis Personæ\n\nESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\nMONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.\n\nCAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\nGREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\n" +- "SCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\nTHE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\nThe fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\n" +- "SAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\n" +- "ABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me.\n\n" +- "TYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\nCAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants.\n\n" - "PRINCE.\nRebellious subjects, enemies to peace,\nProfaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—\nWill they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts,\nThat quench the fire of your pernicious rage\nWith purple fountains issuing from your veins,\nOn pain of torture, from those bloody hands\nThrow your mistemper’d weapons to the ground\nAnd hear the sentence of your moved prince.\nThree civil brawls, bred of an airy word,\nBy thee, old Capulet, and Montague,\nHave thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,\nAnd made Verona’s ancient citizens\nCast by their grave beseeming ornaments,\nTo wield old partisans, in hands as old,\nCanker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.\nIf ever you disturb our streets again,\nYour lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.\nFor this time all the rest depart away:\nYou, Capulet, shall go along with me,\nAnd Montague, come you this afternoon,\nTo know our farther pleasure in this case,\nTo old Free-town, our common judgement-place.\nOnce more, on pain of death, all men depart.\n\n" - " [_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt,\n Citizens and Servants._]\n\nMONTAGUE.\nWho set this ancient quarrel new abroach?\nSpeak, nephew, were you by when it began?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere were the servants of your adversary\nAnd yours, close fighting ere I did approach.\nI drew to part them, in the instant came\nThe fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d,\nWhich, as he breath’d defiance to my ears,\nHe swung about his head, and cut the winds,\nWho nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn.\nWhile we were interchanging thrusts and blows\nCame more and more, and fought on part and part,\nTill the Prince came, who parted either part.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nO where is Romeo, saw you him today?\nRight glad I am he was not at this fray.\n\n" - "BENVOLIO.\nMadam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun\nPeer’d forth the golden window of the east,\nA troubled mind drave me to walk abroad,\nWhere underneath the grove of sycamore\nThat westward rooteth from this city side,\nSo early walking did I see your son.\nTowards him I made, but he was ware of me,\nAnd stole into the covert of the wood.\nI, measuring his affections by my own,\nWhich then most sought where most might not be found,\nBeing one too many by my weary self,\nPursu’d my humour, not pursuing his,\nAnd gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.\n\n" @@ -23,8 +23,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "CAPULET.\nBut saying o’er what I have said before.\nMy child is yet a stranger in the world,\nShe hath not seen the change of fourteen years;\nLet two more summers wither in their pride\nEre we may think her ripe to be a bride.\n\nPARIS.\nYounger than she are happy mothers made.\n\n" - "CAPULET.\nAnd too soon marr’d are those so early made.\nThe earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,\nShe is the hopeful lady of my earth:\nBut woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,\nMy will to her consent is but a part;\nAnd she agree, within her scope of choice\nLies my consent and fair according voice.\nThis night I hold an old accustom’d feast,\nWhereto I have invited many a guest,\nSuch as I love, and you among the store,\nOne more, most welcome, makes my number more.\nAt my poor house look to behold this night\nEarth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:\nSuch comfort as do lusty young men feel\nWhen well apparell’d April on the heel\nOf limping winter treads, even such delight\nAmong fresh female buds shall you this night\nInherit at my house. Hear all, all see,\nAnd like her most whose merit most shall be:\nWhich, on more view of many, mine, being one,\nMay stand in number, though in reckoning none.\nCome, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about\nThrough fair Verona; find those persons out\n" - "Whose names are written there, [_gives a paper_] and to them say,\nMy house and welcome on their pleasure stay.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet and Paris._]\n\nSERVANT.\nFind them out whose names are written here! It is written that the\nshoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the\nfisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to\nfind those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what\nnames the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good\ntime!\n\n Enter Benvolio and Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning,\nOne pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;\nTurn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;\nOne desperate grief cures with another’s languish:\nTake thou some new infection to thy eye,\nAnd the rank poison of the old will die.\n\nROMEO.\nYour plantain leaf is excellent for that.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nFor what, I pray thee?\n\nROMEO.\nFor your broken shin.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy, Romeo, art thou mad?\n\n" -- "ROMEO.\nNot mad, but bound more than a madman is:\nShut up in prison, kept without my food,\nWhipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.\n\nSERVANT.\nGod gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, mine own fortune in my misery.\n\nSERVANT.\nPerhaps you have learned it without book.\nBut I pray, can you read anything you see?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, If I know the letters and the language.\n\nSERVANT.\nYe say honestly, rest you merry!\n\nROMEO.\nStay, fellow; I can read.\n\n [_He reads the letter._]\n\n_Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;\nCounty Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;\nThe lady widow of Utruvio;\nSignior Placentio and his lovely nieces;\nMercutio and his brother Valentine;\nMine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;\nMy fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\nSignior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt;\nLucio and the lively Helena. _\n\n\nA fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?\n\nSERVANT.\nUp.\n\nROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?\n\n" -- "SERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\nROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before.\n\nSERVANT.\nNow I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet,\nand if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a\ncup of wine. Rest you merry.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt this same ancient feast of Capulet’s\nSups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st;\nWith all the admired beauties of Verona.\nGo thither and with unattainted eye,\nCompare her face with some that I shall show,\nAnd I will make thee think thy swan a crow.\n\nROMEO.\nWhen the devout religion of mine eye\nMaintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire;\nAnd these who, often drown’d, could never die,\nTransparent heretics, be burnt for liars.\nOne fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun\nNe’er saw her match since first the world begun.\n\n" +- "ROMEO.\nNot mad, but bound more than a madman is:\nShut up in prison, kept without my food,\nWhipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.\n\nSERVANT.\nGod gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, mine own fortune in my misery.\n\nSERVANT.\nPerhaps you have learned it without book.\nBut I pray, can you read anything you see?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, If I know the letters and the language.\n\nSERVANT.\nYe say honestly, rest you merry!\n\nROMEO.\nStay, fellow; I can read.\n\n [_He reads the letter._]\n\n_Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;\nCounty Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;\nThe lady widow of Utruvio;\nSignior Placentio and his lovely nieces;\nMercutio and his brother Valentine;\nMine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;\nMy fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\nSignior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt;\nLucio and the lively Helena. _\n\n\n" +- "A fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?\n\nSERVANT.\nUp.\n\nROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?\n\nSERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\nROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before.\n\nSERVANT.\nNow I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet,\nand if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a\ncup of wine. Rest you merry.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt this same ancient feast of Capulet’s\nSups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st;\nWith all the admired beauties of Verona.\nGo thither and with unattainted eye,\nCompare her face with some that I shall show,\nAnd I will make thee think thy swan a crow.\n\nROMEO.\nWhen the devout religion of mine eye\nMaintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire;\nAnd these who, often drown’d, could never die,\nTransparent heretics, be burnt for liars.\nOne fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun\nNe’er saw her match since first the world begun.\n\n" - "BENVOLIO.\nTut, you saw her fair, none else being by,\nHerself pois’d with herself in either eye:\nBut in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d\nYour lady’s love against some other maid\nThat I will show you shining at this feast,\nAnd she shall scant show well that now shows best.\n\nROMEO.\nI’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,\nBut to rejoice in splendour of my own.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me.\n\nNURSE.\nNow, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old,\nI bade her come. What, lamb! What ladybird!\nGod forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet!\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nHow now, who calls?\n\nNURSE.\nYour mother.\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, I am here. What is your will?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThis is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile,\nWe must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again,\nI have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.\nThou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age.\n\n" - "NURSE.\nFaith, I can tell her age unto an hour.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nShe’s not fourteen.\n\nNURSE.\nI’ll lay fourteen of my teeth,\nAnd yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,\nShe is not fourteen. How long is it now\nTo Lammas-tide?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA fortnight and odd days.\n\n" - "NURSE.\nEven or odd, of all days in the year,\nCome Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.\nSusan and she,—God rest all Christian souls!—\nWere of an age. Well, Susan is with God;\nShe was too good for me. But as I said,\nOn Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;\nThat shall she, marry; I remember it well.\n’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;\nAnd she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it—,\nOf all the days of the year, upon that day:\nFor I had then laid wormwood to my dug,\nSitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall;\nMy lord and you were then at Mantua:\nNay, I do bear a brain. But as I said,\nWhen it did taste the wormwood on the nipple\nOf my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,\nTo see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug!\nShake, quoth the dovehouse: ’twas no need, I trow,\nTo bid me trudge.\nAnd since that time it is eleven years;\nFor then she could stand alone; nay, by th’rood\nShe could have run and waddled all about;\nFor even the day before she broke her brow,\n" @@ -44,9 +44,9 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "CAPULET.\nHe shall be endur’d.\nWhat, goodman boy! I say he shall, go to;\nAm I the master here, or you? Go to.\nYou’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul,\nYou’ll make a mutiny among my guests!\nYou will set cock-a-hoop, you’ll be the man!\n\nTYBALT.\nWhy, uncle, ’tis a shame.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo to, go to!\nYou are a saucy boy. Is’t so, indeed?\nThis trick may chance to scathe you, I know what.\nYou must contrary me! Marry, ’tis time.\nWell said, my hearts!—You are a princox; go:\nBe quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame!\nI’ll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts.\n\nTYBALT.\nPatience perforce with wilful choler meeting\nMakes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.\nI will withdraw: but this intrusion shall,\nNow seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\n[_To Juliet._] If I profane with my unworthiest hand\nThis holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,\nMy lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand\nTo smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nGood pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,\nWhich mannerly devotion shows in this;\nFor saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,\nAnd palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.\n\nROMEO.\nHave not saints lips, and holy palmers too?\n\nJULIET.\nAy, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.\n\nROMEO.\nO, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do:\nThey pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.\n\nJULIET.\nSaints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.\n\nROMEO.\nThen move not while my prayer’s effect I take.\nThus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg’d.\n[_Kissing her._]\n\nJULIET.\nThen have my lips the sin that they have took.\n\nROMEO.\nSin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d!\nGive me my sin again.\n\nJULIET.\nYou kiss by the book.\n\nNURSE.\nMadam, your mother craves a word with you.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat is her mother?\n\n" - "NURSE.\nMarry, bachelor,\nHer mother is the lady of the house,\nAnd a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.\nI nurs’d her daughter that you talk’d withal.\nI tell you, he that can lay hold of her\nShall have the chinks.\n\nROMEO.\nIs she a Capulet?\nO dear account! My life is my foe’s debt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAway, be gone; the sport is at the best.\n\nROMEO.\nAy, so I fear; the more is my unrest.\n\nCAPULET.\nNay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,\nWe have a trifling foolish banquet towards.\nIs it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;\nI thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.\nMore torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.\nAh, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late,\nI’ll to my rest.\n\n [_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nCome hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?\n\nNURSE.\nThe son and heir of old Tiberio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that now is going out of door?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, that I think be young Petruchio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that follows here, that would not dance?\n\nNURSE.\nI know not.\n\n" -- "JULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\nJULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\n" -- "CHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:\nBeing held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed.\n\n" -- "BENVOLIO.\nHe ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:\nCall, good Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, I’ll conjure too.\nRomeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover!\nAppear thou in the likeness of a sigh,\nSpeak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;\nCry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove;\nSpeak to my gossip Venus one fair word,\nOne nickname for her purblind son and heir,\nYoung Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim\nWhen King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.\nHe heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;\nThe ape is dead, and I must conjure him.\nI conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,\nBy her high forehead and her scarlet lip,\nBy her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,\nAnd the demesnes that there adjacent lie,\nThat in thy likeness thou appear to us.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAn if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.\n\n" +- "JULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\nJULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:\nBeing held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\n" +- "MERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHe ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:\nCall, good Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, I’ll conjure too.\nRomeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover!\nAppear thou in the likeness of a sigh,\nSpeak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;\nCry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove;\nSpeak to my gossip Venus one fair word,\nOne nickname for her purblind son and heir,\nYoung Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim\nWhen King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.\nHe heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;\nThe ape is dead, and I must conjure him.\nI conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,\nBy her high forehead and her scarlet lip,\nBy her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,\nAnd the demesnes that there adjacent lie,\nThat in thy likeness thou appear to us.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAn if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.\n\n" - "MERCUTIO.\nThis cannot anger him. ’Twould anger him\nTo raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle,\nOf some strange nature, letting it there stand\nTill she had laid it, and conjur’d it down;\nThat were some spite. My invocation\nIs fair and honest, and, in his mistress’ name,\nI conjure only but to raise up him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, he hath hid himself among these trees\nTo be consorted with the humorous night.\nBlind is his love, and best befits the dark.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.\nNow will he sit under a medlar tree,\nAnd wish his mistress were that kind of fruit\nAs maids call medlars when they laugh alone.\nO Romeo, that she were, O that she were\nAn open-arse and thou a poperin pear!\nRomeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle-bed.\nThis field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.\nCome, shall we go?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGo then; for ’tis in vain\nTo seek him here that means not to be found.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\n" - "ROMEO.\nHe jests at scars that never felt a wound.\n\n Juliet appears above at a window.\n\n" - "But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?\nIt is the east, and Juliet is the sun!\nArise fair sun and kill the envious moon,\nWho is already sick and pale with grief,\nThat thou her maid art far more fair than she.\nBe not her maid since she is envious;\nHer vestal livery is but sick and green,\nAnd none but fools do wear it; cast it off.\nIt is my lady, O it is my love!\nO, that she knew she were!\nShe speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?\nHer eye discourses, I will answer it.\nI am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks.\nTwo of the fairest stars in all the heaven,\nHaving some business, do entreat her eyes\nTo twinkle in their spheres till they return.\nWhat if her eyes were there, they in her head?\nThe brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,\nAs daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven\nWould through the airy region stream so bright\nThat birds would sing and think it were not night.\nSee how she leans her cheek upon her hand.\nO that I were a glove upon that hand,\n" @@ -80,8 +80,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "NURSE.\nWell, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man.\nRomeo? No, not he. Though his face be better than any man’s, yet his\nleg excels all men’s, and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though\nthey be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the\nflower of courtesy, but I’ll warrant him as gentle as a lamb. Go thy\nways, wench, serve God. What, have you dined at home?\n\nJULIET.\nNo, no. But all this did I know before.\nWhat says he of our marriage? What of that?\n\nNURSE.\nLord, how my head aches! What a head have I!\nIt beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.\nMy back o’ t’other side,—O my back, my back!\nBeshrew your heart for sending me about\nTo catch my death with jauncing up and down.\n\nJULIET.\nI’faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.\nSweet, sweet, sweet Nurse, tell me, what says my love?\n\nNURSE.\nYour love says like an honest gentleman,\nAnd a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome,\nAnd I warrant a virtuous,—Where is your mother?\n\n" - "JULIET.\nWhere is my mother? Why, she is within.\nWhere should she be? How oddly thou repliest.\n‘Your love says, like an honest gentleman,\n‘Where is your mother?’\n\nNURSE.\nO God’s lady dear,\nAre you so hot? Marry, come up, I trow.\nIs this the poultice for my aching bones?\nHenceforward do your messages yourself.\n\nJULIET.\nHere’s such a coil. Come, what says Romeo?\n\nNURSE.\nHave you got leave to go to shrift today?\n\nJULIET.\nI have.\n\nNURSE.\nThen hie you hence to Friar Lawrence’ cell;\nThere stays a husband to make you a wife.\nNow comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks,\nThey’ll be in scarlet straight at any news.\nHie you to church. I must another way,\nTo fetch a ladder by the which your love\nMust climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark.\nI am the drudge, and toil in your delight;\nBut you shall bear the burden soon at night.\nGo. I’ll to dinner; hie you to the cell.\n\nJULIET.\nHie to high fortune! Honest Nurse, farewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n" - " Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSo smile the heavens upon this holy act\nThat after-hours with sorrow chide us not.\n\nROMEO.\nAmen, amen, but come what sorrow can,\nIt cannot countervail the exchange of joy\nThat one short minute gives me in her sight.\nDo thou but close our hands with holy words,\nThen love-devouring death do what he dare,\nIt is enough I may but call her mine.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThese violent delights have violent ends,\nAnd in their triumph die; like fire and powder,\nWhich as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey\nIs loathsome in his own deliciousness,\nAnd in the taste confounds the appetite.\nTherefore love moderately: long love doth so;\nToo swift arrives as tardy as too slow.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nHere comes the lady. O, so light a foot\nWill ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.\nA lover may bestride the gossamers\nThat idles in the wanton summer air\nAnd yet not fall; so light is vanity.\n\nJULIET.\nGood even to my ghostly confessor.\n\n" -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.\n\nJULIET.\nAs much to him, else is his thanks too much.\n\nROMEO.\nAh, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy\nBe heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue\nUnfold the imagin’d happiness that both\nReceive in either by this dear encounter.\n\nJULIET.\nConceit more rich in matter than in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of ornament.\nThey are but beggars that can count their worth;\nBut my true love is grown to such excess,\nI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\n" -- "BENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?\n\n" +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.\n\nJULIET.\nAs much to him, else is his thanks too much.\n\nROMEO.\nAh, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy\nBe heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue\nUnfold the imagin’d happiness that both\nReceive in either by this dear encounter.\n\nJULIET.\nConceit more rich in matter than in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of ornament.\nThey are but beggars that can count their worth;\nBut my true love is grown to such excess,\nI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?\n\n" - "MERCUTIO.\nNay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would\nkill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a\nhair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel\nwith a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou\nhast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?\nThy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy\nhead hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast\nquarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath\nwakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall\nout with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with\nanother for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt\ntutor me from quarrelling!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee\nsimple of my life for an hour and a quarter.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThe fee simple! O simple!\n\n Enter Tybalt and others.\n\n" - "BENVOLIO.\nBy my head, here comes the Capulets.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBy my heel, I care not.\n\nTYBALT.\nFollow me close, for I will speak to them.\nGentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a\nword and a blow.\n\nTYBALT.\nYou shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me\noccasion.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCould you not take some occasion without giving?\n\nTYBALT.\nMercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nConsort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of\nus, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick, here’s\nthat shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWe talk here in the public haunt of men.\nEither withdraw unto some private place,\nAnd reason coldly of your grievances,\nOr else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nMen’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.\nI will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\n" - "TYBALT.\nWell, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBut I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery.\nMarry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower;\nYour worship in that sense may call him man.\n\nTYBALT.\nRomeo, the love I bear thee can afford\nNo better term than this: Thou art a villain.\n\nROMEO.\nTybalt, the reason that I have to love thee\nDoth much excuse the appertaining rage\nTo such a greeting. Villain am I none;\nTherefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.\n\nTYBALT.\nBoy, this shall not excuse the injuries\nThat thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw.\n\nROMEO.\nI do protest I never injur’d thee,\nBut love thee better than thou canst devise\nTill thou shalt know the reason of my love.\nAnd so good Capulet, which name I tender\nAs dearly as mine own, be satisfied.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO calm, dishonourable, vile submission!\n[_Draws._] Alla stoccata carries it away.\nTybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat wouldst thou have with me?\n\n" @@ -123,10 +123,11 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "CAPULET.\nGod’s bread, it makes me mad!\nDay, night, hour, ride, time, work, play,\nAlone, in company, still my care hath been\nTo have her match’d, and having now provided\nA gentleman of noble parentage,\nOf fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly allied,\nStuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,\nProportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man,\nAnd then to have a wretched puling fool,\nA whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,\nTo answer, ‘I’ll not wed, I cannot love,\nI am too young, I pray you pardon me.’\nBut, and you will not wed, I’ll pardon you.\nGraze where you will, you shall not house with me.\nLook to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.\nThursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise.\nAnd you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;\nAnd you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,\nFor by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,\nNor what is mine shall never do thee good.\nTrust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n" - "JULIET.\nIs there no pity sitting in the clouds,\nThat sees into the bottom of my grief?\nO sweet my mother, cast me not away,\nDelay this marriage for a month, a week,\nOr, if you do not, make the bridal bed\nIn that dim monument where Tybalt lies.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTalk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word.\nDo as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented?\nMy husband is on earth, my faith in heaven.\nHow shall that faith return again to earth,\nUnless that husband send it me from heaven\nBy leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me.\nAlack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems\nUpon so soft a subject as myself.\nWhat say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?\nSome comfort, Nurse.\n\n" - "NURSE.\nFaith, here it is.\nRomeo is banished; and all the world to nothing\nThat he dares ne’er come back to challenge you.\nOr if he do, it needs must be by stealth.\nThen, since the case so stands as now it doth,\nI think it best you married with the County.\nO, he’s a lovely gentleman.\nRomeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,\nHath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye\nAs Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,\nI think you are happy in this second match,\nFor it excels your first: or if it did not,\nYour first is dead, or ’twere as good he were,\nAs living here and you no use of him.\n\nJULIET.\nSpeakest thou from thy heart?\n\nNURSE.\nAnd from my soul too,\nOr else beshrew them both.\n\nJULIET.\nAmen.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat?\n\nJULIET.\nWell, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\nGo in, and tell my lady I am gone,\nHaving displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,\nTo make confession and to be absolv’d.\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, I will; and this is wisely done.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n" -- "JULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\nIf all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\n" -- "PARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society.\nNow do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife.\n\nPARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nI will confess to you that I love him.\n\n" -- "PARIS.\nSo will ye, I am sure, that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf I do so, it will be of more price,\nBeing spoke behind your back than to your face.\n\nPARIS.\nPoor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.\n\nJULIET.\nThe tears have got small victory by that;\nFor it was bad enough before their spite.\n\nPARIS.\nThou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.\n\nJULIET.\nThat is no slander, sir, which is a truth,\nAnd what I spake, I spake it to my face.\n\nPARIS.\nThy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.\n\nJULIET.\nIt may be so, for it is not mine own.\nAre you at leisure, holy father, now,\nOr shall I come to you at evening mass?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nMy leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.—\nMy lord, we must entreat the time alone.\n\nPARIS.\nGod shield I should disturb devotion!—\nJuliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye,\nTill then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO shut the door, and when thou hast done so,\nCome weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!\n\n" -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO Juliet, I already know thy grief;\nIt strains me past the compass of my wits.\nI hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,\nOn Thursday next be married to this County.\n\nJULIET.\nTell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this,\nUnless thou tell me how I may prevent it.\nIf in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,\nDo thou but call my resolution wise,\nAnd with this knife I’ll help it presently.\nGod join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;\nAnd ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d,\nShall be the label to another deed,\nOr my true heart with treacherous revolt\nTurn to another, this shall slay them both.\nTherefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,\nGive me some present counsel, or behold\n’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife\nShall play the empire, arbitrating that\nWhich the commission of thy years and art\nCould to no issue of true honour bring.\nBe not so long to speak. I long to die,\nIf what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.\n\n" +- "JULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\nIf all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\nPARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society.\nNow do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife.\n\n" +- "PARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nI will confess to you that I love him.\n\nPARIS.\nSo will ye, I am sure, that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf I do so, it will be of more price,\nBeing spoke behind your back than to your face.\n\nPARIS.\nPoor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.\n\nJULIET.\nThe tears have got small victory by that;\nFor it was bad enough before their spite.\n\nPARIS.\nThou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.\n\nJULIET.\nThat is no slander, sir, which is a truth,\nAnd what I spake, I spake it to my face.\n\nPARIS.\nThy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.\n\nJULIET.\nIt may be so, for it is not mine own.\nAre you at leisure, holy father, now,\nOr shall I come to you at evening mass?\n\n" +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nMy leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.—\nMy lord, we must entreat the time alone.\n\nPARIS.\nGod shield I should disturb devotion!—\nJuliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye,\nTill then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO shut the door, and when thou hast done so,\nCome weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO Juliet, I already know thy grief;\nIt strains me past the compass of my wits.\nI hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,\nOn Thursday next be married to this County.\n\n" +- "JULIET.\nTell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this,\nUnless thou tell me how I may prevent it.\nIf in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,\nDo thou but call my resolution wise,\nAnd with this knife I’ll help it presently.\nGod join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;\nAnd ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d,\nShall be the label to another deed,\nOr my true heart with treacherous revolt\nTurn to another, this shall slay them both.\nTherefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,\nGive me some present counsel, or behold\n’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife\nShall play the empire, arbitrating that\nWhich the commission of thy years and art\nCould to no issue of true honour bring.\nBe not so long to speak. I long to die,\nIf what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.\n\n" - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope,\nWhich craves as desperate an execution\nAs that is desperate which we would prevent.\nIf, rather than to marry County Paris\nThou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,\nThen is it likely thou wilt undertake\nA thing like death to chide away this shame,\nThat cop’st with death himself to scape from it.\nAnd if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy.\n\nJULIET.\nO, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,\nFrom off the battlements of yonder tower,\nOr walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk\nWhere serpents are. Chain me with roaring bears;\nOr hide me nightly in a charnel-house,\nO’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones,\nWith reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls.\nOr bid me go into a new-made grave,\nAnd hide me with a dead man in his shroud;\nThings that, to hear them told, have made me tremble,\nAnd I will do it without fear or doubt,\nTo live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.\n\n" - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold then. Go home, be merry, give consent\nTo marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow;\nTomorrow night look that thou lie alone,\nLet not thy Nurse lie with thee in thy chamber.\nTake thou this vial, being then in bed,\nAnd this distilled liquor drink thou off,\nWhen presently through all thy veins shall run\nA cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse\nShall keep his native progress, but surcease.\nNo warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest,\nThe roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade\nTo paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall,\nLike death when he shuts up the day of life.\nEach part depriv’d of supple government,\nShall stiff and stark and cold appear like death.\nAnd in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death\nThou shalt continue two and forty hours,\nAnd then awake as from a pleasant sleep.\nNow when the bridegroom in the morning comes\nTo rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.\nThen as the manner of our country is,\nIn thy best robes, uncover’d, on the bier,\n" - "Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault\nWhere all the kindred of the Capulets lie.\nIn the meantime, against thou shalt awake,\nShall Romeo by my letters know our drift,\nAnd hither shall he come, and he and I\nWill watch thy waking, and that very night\nShall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.\nAnd this shall free thee from this present shame,\nIf no inconstant toy nor womanish fear\nAbate thy valour in the acting it.\n\nJULIET.\nGive me, give me! O tell not me of fear!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous\nIn this resolve. I’ll send a friar with speed\nTo Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.\n\nJULIET.\nLove give me strength, and strength shall help afford.\nFarewell, dear father.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse and Servants.\n\nCAPULET.\nSo many guests invite as here are writ.\n\n [_Exit first Servant._]\n\nSirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.\n\n" @@ -146,7 +147,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "CAPULET.\nAll things that we ordained festival\nTurn from their office to black funeral:\nOur instruments to melancholy bells,\nOur wedding cheer to a sad burial feast;\nOur solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;\nOur bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,\nAnd all things change them to the contrary.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSir, go you in, and, madam, go with him,\nAnd go, Sir Paris, everyone prepare\nTo follow this fair corse unto her grave.\nThe heavens do lower upon you for some ill;\nMove them no more by crossing their high will.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris and Friar._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nFaith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.\n\nNURSE.\nHonest good fellows, ah, put up, put up,\nFor well you know this is a pitiful case.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nAy, by my troth, the case may be amended.\n\n [_Exit Nurse._]\n\n Enter Peter.\n\nPETER.\nMusicians, O, musicians, ‘Heart’s ease,’ ‘Heart’s ease’, O, and you\nwill have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhy ‘Heart’s ease’?\n\n" - "PETER.\nO musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full’. O play\nme some merry dump to comfort me.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nNot a dump we, ’tis no time to play now.\n\nPETER.\nYou will not then?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nNo.\n\nPETER.\nI will then give it you soundly.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat will you give us?\n\nPETER.\nNo money, on my faith, but the gleek! I will give you the minstrel.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nThen will I give you the serving-creature.\n\nPETER.\nThen will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate. I will\ncarry no crotchets. I’ll re you, I’ll fa you. Do you note me?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nAnd you re us and fa us, you note us.\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nPray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.\n\n" - "PETER.\nThen have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and\nput up my iron dagger. Answer me like men.\n ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound,\n And doleful dumps the mind oppress,\n Then music with her silver sound’—\nWhy ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you,\nSimon Catling?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nMarry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.\n\nPETER.\nPrates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck?\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nI say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.\n\nPETER.\nPrates too! What say you, James Soundpost?\n\nTHIRD MUSICIAN.\nFaith, I know not what to say.\n\nPETER.\nO, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is\n‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for\nsounding.\n ‘Then music with her silver sound\n With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!\n\n" -- "SECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,\nThat I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well.\n\n" +- "SECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,\nThat I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well.\n\n" - "BALTHASAR.\nThen she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleeps in Capel’s monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you.\nO pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nIs it even so? Then I defy you, stars!\nThou know’st my lodging. Get me ink and paper,\nAnd hire post-horses. I will hence tonight.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI do beseech you sir, have patience.\nYour looks are pale and wild, and do import\nSome misadventure.\n\nROMEO.\nTush, thou art deceiv’d.\nLeave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.\nHast thou no letters to me from the Friar?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nNo, my good lord.\n\nROMEO.\nNo matter. Get thee gone,\nAnd hire those horses. I’ll be with thee straight.\n\n [_Exit Balthasar._]\n\n" - "Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight.\nLet’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift\nTo enter in the thoughts of desperate men.\nI do remember an apothecary,—\nAnd hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted\nIn tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,\nCulling of simples, meagre were his looks,\nSharp misery had worn him to the bones;\nAnd in his needy shop a tortoise hung,\nAn alligator stuff’d, and other skins\nOf ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves\nA beggarly account of empty boxes,\nGreen earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,\nRemnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses\nWere thinly scatter’d, to make up a show.\nNoting this penury, to myself I said,\nAnd if a man did need a poison now,\nWhose sale is present death in Mantua,\nHere lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.\nO, this same thought did but forerun my need,\nAnd this same needy man must sell it me.\nAs I remember, this should be the house.\nBeing holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.\nWhat, ho! Apothecary!\n\n Enter Apothecary." - "\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nWho calls so loud?\n\nROMEO.\nCome hither, man. I see that thou art poor.\nHold, there is forty ducats. Let me have\nA dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear\nAs will disperse itself through all the veins,\nThat the life-weary taker may fall dead,\nAnd that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath\nAs violently as hasty powder fir’d\nDoth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nSuch mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law\nIs death to any he that utters them.\n\nROMEO.\nArt thou so bare and full of wretchedness,\nAnd fear’st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks,\nNeed and oppression starveth in thine eyes,\nContempt and beggary hangs upon thy back.\nThe world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law;\nThe world affords no law to make thee rich;\nThen be not poor, but break it and take this.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nMy poverty, but not my will consents.\n\nROMEO.\nI pay thy poverty, and not thy will.\n\n" @@ -170,7 +172,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Was stay’d by accident; and yesternight\nReturn’d my letter back. Then all alone\nAt the prefixed hour of her waking\nCame I to take her from her kindred’s vault,\nMeaning to keep her closely at my cell\nTill I conveniently could send to Romeo.\nBut when I came, some minute ere the time\nOf her awaking, here untimely lay\nThe noble Paris and true Romeo dead.\nShe wakes; and I entreated her come forth\nAnd bear this work of heaven with patience.\nBut then a noise did scare me from the tomb;\nAnd she, too desperate, would not go with me,\nBut, as it seems, did violence on herself.\nAll this I know; and to the marriage\nHer Nurse is privy. And if ought in this\nMiscarried by my fault, let my old life\nBe sacrific’d, some hour before his time,\nUnto the rigour of severest law.\n\nPRINCE.\nWe still have known thee for a holy man.\nWhere’s Romeo’s man? What can he say to this?\n\n" - "BALTHASAR.\nI brought my master news of Juliet’s death,\nAnd then in post he came from Mantua\nTo this same place, to this same monument.\nThis letter he early bid me give his father,\nAnd threaten’d me with death, going in the vault,\nIf I departed not, and left him there.\n\nPRINCE.\nGive me the letter, I will look on it.\nWhere is the County’s Page that rais’d the watch?\nSirrah, what made your master in this place?\n\nPAGE.\nHe came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave,\nAnd bid me stand aloof, and so I did.\nAnon comes one with light to ope the tomb,\nAnd by and by my master drew on him,\nAnd then I ran away to call the watch.\n\n" - "PRINCE.\nThis letter doth make good the Friar’s words,\nTheir course of love, the tidings of her death.\nAnd here he writes that he did buy a poison\nOf a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal\nCame to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.\nWhere be these enemies? Capulet, Montague,\nSee what a scourge is laid upon your hate,\nThat heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!\nAnd I, for winking at your discords too,\nHave lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d.\n\nCAPULET.\nO brother Montague, give me thy hand.\nThis is my daughter’s jointure, for no more\nCan I demand.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nBut I can give thee more,\nFor I will raise her statue in pure gold,\nThat whiles Verona by that name is known,\nThere shall no figure at such rate be set\nAs that of true and faithful Juliet.\n\nCAPULET.\nAs rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie,\nPoor sacrifices of our enmity.\n\n" -- "PRINCE.\nA glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun for sorrow will not show his head.\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things.\nSome shall be pardon’d, and some punished,\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\n" +- "PRINCE.\nA glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun for sorrow will not show his head.\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things.\nSome shall be pardon’d, and some punished,\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n\n" +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\n" - "Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the\nUnited States without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part\nof this license, apply to copying and distributing Project\nGutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm\nconcept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,\nand may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following\nthe terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use\nof the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for\ncopies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very\neasy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation\nof derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project\n" - "Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may\ndo practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected\nby U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark\nlicense, especially commercial redistribution.\n\nSTART: FULL LICENSE\n\nTHE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE\nPLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK\n\nTo protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free\ndistribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work\n(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase \"Project\nGutenberg\"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full\nProject Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org/license.\n\nSection 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project\nGutenberg-tm electronic works\n\n" - "1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm\nelectronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to\nand accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property\n(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all\nthe terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or\ndestroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your\npossession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a\nProject Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound\nby the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the\nperson or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph\n1.E.8.\n\n" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap index bbd6adc1..bd2988a3 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap @@ -437,8 +437,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "strive to " - "mend.\n\n" - " [_Exit._]" -- "\n\n\n\nACT I" -- "\n\n" +- "\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT I\n\n" - "SCENE I. " - "A public " - "place.\n\n" @@ -12918,8 +12918,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - have power - " to die.\n\n" - " [_Exit._]" -- "\n\n\n\nACT IV" -- "\n\n" +- "\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT IV\n\n" - "SCENE I. " - "Friar " - Lawrence’s diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap index a6bae8f8..b4230405 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap @@ -12,7 +12,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\n" - "Release Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n" - "*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n" -- "A Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n" +- "A Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\n" +- "CONTENTS\n\n" - " Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n" - " Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n" - " Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n" @@ -327,7 +328,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for " - "him. " - "Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to " -- "bed.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n\n\n" +- "bed.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n\n\n" - "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,\n" @@ -712,7 +714,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "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,\n" - "yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\n" -- "She joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n\n\n" +- "She joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n\n\n" - "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.\n" @@ -980,7 +983,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "tourists.\n\n" - "“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.”" -- "\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\n" +- "\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\n" - "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 " @@ -2015,7 +2019,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Lucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. " - "I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n" - "“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\nIn the morning they left for Rome." -- "\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval\n\n\n" +- "\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VIII Medieval\n\n\n" - "The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and " - "deserved protection from the August sun. " - "They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them " @@ -3001,7 +3006,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. " - "I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n" - "“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\n" -- "Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n" +- "Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n" - "“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. " - "Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she" - " would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,\n" @@ -3678,7 +3684,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "minds of elderly people. " - "She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. " - "Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more " -- "vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\n" +- "vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\n" - "The Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. " - "In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with " - "the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. " @@ -3860,7 +3867,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. " - "Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the " - "discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\n" -- "She closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n" +- "She closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n" +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n" - "Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.\n\n" - "Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a " - "United States copyright in these works,\n" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap index a8a2e77e..cfed99f2 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_default@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap @@ -3,11 +3,13 @@ source: tests/text_splitter_snapshots.rs expression: chunks input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt --- -- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n" -- " Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return\n\n" -- " Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\nChapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”\n\n" -- "“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\nthat was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”\n\n“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.\n\n“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!”\n\n" -- "“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a view.”\n\nLucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me:\nof course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—” “You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.\n\n“No, no. You must have it.”\n\n“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”\n\n“She would never forgive _me_.”\n\nThe ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:\n\n“I have a view, I have a view.”\n\n" +- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\n" +- "CONTENTS\n\n Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return\n\n" +- " Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n" +- "“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”\n\n“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\nthat was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”\n\n" +- "“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.\n\n“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!”\n\n“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a view.”\n\nLucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me:\nof course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—” “You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.\n\n“No, no. You must have it.”\n\n“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”\n\n“She would never forgive _me_.”\n\n" +- "The ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:\n\n“I have a view, I have a view.”\n\n" - "Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would “do” till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility.\nWhat exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”\n\n“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view too.”\n\n“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.\n\n“What I mean,” he continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll have yours. We’ll change.”\n\n" - "The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said “Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question.”\n\n“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the table.\n\n“Because it is quite out of the question, thank you.”\n\n“You see, we don’t like to take—” began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.\n\n“But why?” he persisted. “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son,\nsaying, “George, persuade them!”\n\n“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” said the son. “There’s nothing else to say.”\n\n" - "He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as “quite a scene,” and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with—well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour.\n\n" @@ -30,7 +32,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. “Gentlemen sometimes do not realize—” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy,\nshe committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History.\nFor she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said:\n\n“I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move.”\n\n“How you do do everything,” said Lucy.\n\n“Naturally, dear. It is my affair.”\n\n“But I would like to help you.”\n\n“No, dear.”\n\n" - "Charlotte’s energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet—there was a rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.\n\n“I want to explain,” said Miss Bartlett, “why it is that I have taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you;\nbut I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it.”\n\nLucy was bewildered.\n\n“If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this.”\n\n" - "“Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure,” said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues.\n\nMiss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,\nand the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.\n\nMiss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more.\n\n" -- "“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,\nsince it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n\n\n" +- "“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,\nsince it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n\n\n" - "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,\nto 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.\n\n" - "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,\n" - "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.\n\n" @@ -60,10 +63,11 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“...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.\n\n“Don’t let us spoil yours,” he continued to Lucy. “Have you looked at those saints?”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy. “They are lovely. Do you know which is the tombstone that is praised in Ruskin?”\n\nHe did not know, and suggested that they should try to guess it.\nGeorge, 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.\n\n" - "“Why will he look at that fresco?” he said uneasily. “I saw nothing in it.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“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.”\n\nLucy again felt that this did not do.\n\n“In Hell,” he repeated. “He’s unhappy.”\n\n“Oh, dear!” said Lucy.\n\n“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.”\n\nShe 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.\n\n" - "“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?”\n\nLucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said:\n\n“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.\nYou might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time.\nYou 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,\nand 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.”\n\nTo this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer.\n\n" -- "“I only know what it is that’s wrong with him; not why it is.”\n\n“And what is it?” asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.\n\n“The old trouble; things won’t fit.”\n\n“What things?”\n\n“The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?”\n\nIn his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:\n\n“‘From far, from eve and morning,\n And yon twelve-winded sky,\nThe stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I’\n\n\nGeorge 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.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch assented.\n\n" -- "“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.”\n\nSuddenly 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,\nor a Yes, or something!\n\n“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.”\n\n" -- "The old man’s face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand.\nThis 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,\nbefore she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.\n\n" -- "“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_.\nThere’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,\nyes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n\n\n" +- "“I only know what it is that’s wrong with him; not why it is.”\n\n“And what is it?” asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.\n\n“The old trouble; things won’t fit.”\n\n“What things?”\n\n“The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?”\n\nIn his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:\n\n“‘From far, from eve and morning,\n And yon twelve-winded sky,\nThe stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I’\n\n\n" +- "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.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch assented.\n\n“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.”\n\nSuddenly 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,\nor a Yes, or something!\n\n" +- "“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.”\n\nThe old man’s face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand.\nThis 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,\nbefore she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n" +- "“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.\n\n“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_.\nThere’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,\nyes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n\n\n" - "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.\nThe 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.\nPerhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never.\n\n" - "She was no dazzling _exécutante;_ 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.\nPassion 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.\nBut 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.\n\n" - "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.\n\n" @@ -90,7 +94,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "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,\nwho stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett,\nsmarting 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,\nhe knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner.\n\n" - "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.\n\n“But aren’t they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?” said the little lady inquisitively.\n\n“Only once. Charlotte didn’t like it, and said something—quite politely, of course.”\n\n“Most right of her. They don’t understand our ways. They must find their level.”\n\nMr. 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.\n\n" - "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 façade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun.\n\n“Too late to go out,” said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. “All the galleries are shut.”\n\n“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.”\n\nHer two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:\n\n“I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won’t you be better on your feet?”\n\n“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan.\n\n“Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!”\n\n" -- "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.\n\n“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.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\n" +- "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.\n\n“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.”\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\n" - "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?\nCharlotte 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.\nIndirectly, 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.\n\n" - "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.\n" - "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.\n\n" @@ -105,7 +110,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“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.\n“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.”\n\nSomething warned Lucy that she must stop him.\n\n“It has happened,” he repeated, “and I mean to find out what it is.”\n\n“Mr. Emerson—”\n\nHe turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.\n\n“I want to ask you something before we go in.”\n\n" - "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:\n\n“I have behaved ridiculously.”\n\nHe was following his own thoughts.\n\n“I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me.”\n\n“I nearly fainted myself,” he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.\n\n“Well, I owe you a thousand apologies.”\n\n“Oh, all right.”\n\n“And—this is the real point—you know how silly people are gossiping—ladies especially, I am afraid—you understand what I mean?”\n\n“I’m afraid I don’t.”\n\n“I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?”\n\n“Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right—all right.”\n\n“Thank you so much. And would you—”\n\n" - "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;\nhis 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.\n\n" -- "“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”\n\n“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n\n\n" +- "“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”\n\n“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n\n\n" - "It was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one.\n\n" - "For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure,\nnot that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events,\ncontradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.\n\n" - "At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties—all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.\n\n“No, Charlotte!” cried the girl, with real warmth. “It’s very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather.”\n\n“Very well, dear,” said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her.\n\n" @@ -133,7 +139,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“It is indeed,” replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic.\n\n“What do you think about it?” asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress.\n\n“I don’t know what I think, nor what I want.”\n\n“Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn’t boring you. Speak the word,\nand, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow.”\n\n“Thank you, Charlotte,” said Lucy, and pondered over the offer.\n\n" - "There were letters for her at the bureau—one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother’s letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald—all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveller returns.\n\n“And the news?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome,” said Lucy, giving the news that interested her least. “Do you know the Vyses?”\n\n" - "“Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Piazza Signoria.”\n\n“They’re nice people, the Vyses. So clever—my idea of what’s really clever. Don’t you long to be in Rome?”\n\n“I die for it!”\n\nThe Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something,\nand though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god.\n\n" -- "“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them.\n\n\n" +- "“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them.\n\n\n" - "It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guard against imposition. But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god.\n\n" - "Phaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus enabling himself to drive with his arm round her waist. She did not mind. Mr.\nEager, who sat with his back to the horses, saw nothing of the indecorous proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy. The other two occupants of the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and Miss Lavish. For a dreadful thing had happened: Mr. Beebe, without consulting Mr. Eager, had doubled the size of the party. And though Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how the people were to sit, at the critical moment when the carriages came round they lost their heads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while Miss Bartlett, with George Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind.\n\n" - "It was hard on the poor chaplain to have his _partie carrée_ thus transformed. Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated it,\nwas now impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain style about them, and Mr. Beebe, though unreliable, was a man of parts. But a shoddy lady writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife in the sight of God—they should enter no villa at his introduction.\n\n" @@ -158,7 +165,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "She was correct as usual. He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it to make it stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded his hat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than a quarter of a minute was ready to conduct her. Italians are born knowing the way.\nIt would seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but as a chess-board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces as well as the squares. Any one can find places, but the finding of people is a gift from God.\n\nHe only stopped once, to pick her some great blue violets. She thanked him with real pleasure. In the company of this common man the world was beautiful and direct. For the first time she felt the influence of Spring. His arm swept the horizon gracefully; violets, like other things, existed in great profusion there; “would she like to see them?”\n\n“Ma buoni uomini.”\n\n" - "He bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceeded briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. They were nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing round them, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into countless pieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the pliant boughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not a twig, was unimportant to her.\n\n“What is that?”\n\nThere was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The voice of Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian’s ignorance is sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She could not make him understand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view was forming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, other hills.\n\n“Eccolo!” he exclaimed.\n\n" - "At the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end.\n\n“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above.\n“Courage and love.”\n\nShe did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view,\nand violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth.\n\nStanding at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.\nBut he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.\n\n" -- "George had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.\n\nBefore she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII They Return\n\n\n" +- "George had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.\n\nBefore she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VII They Return\n\n\n" - "Some complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye.\nCharlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon had lost the game.\n\n" - "That last fact was undeniable. He climbed on to the box shivering, with his collar up, prophesying the swift approach of bad weather. “Let us go immediately,” he told them. “The signorino will walk.”\n\n“All the way? He will be hours,” said Mr. Beebe.\n\n“Apparently. I told him it was unwise.” He would look no one in the face; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him. He alone had played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the others had used scraps of their intelligence. He alone had divined what things were, and what he wished them to be. He alone had interpreted the message that Lucy had received five days before from the lips of a dying man. Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave—she could interpret it also. Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly,\nand perhaps too late.\n\n" - "The thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, seldom affect the lives of his employers. He was the most competent of Miss Bartlett’s opponents,\nbut infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the town, he and his insight and his knowledge would trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in the bushes; he might make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what have we to do with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed downwards towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious. They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.\n\nRain and darkness came on together. The two ladies huddled together under an inadequate parasol. There was a lightning flash, and Miss Lavish who was nervous, screamed from the carriage in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally:" @@ -181,7 +189,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The girl would not be degraded to this.\n\n“Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one.”\n\nHer promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room.\n\n" - "For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin’s voice had intervened, and, ever since,\nit was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now,\ncould be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time—indeed,\nfor years—she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better—a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most.\n\n" - "Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity,\nof her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul.\n\nThe door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,\nthough she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her.\n\nTo reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.\n\nWhether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:\n\n" -- "“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”\n\nSoon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\nIn the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval\n\n\n" +- "“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”\n\nSoon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\nIn the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VIII Medieval\n\n\n" - "The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,”\nor might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;\nwithin, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man.\n\n" - "Two pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.\n\n“Where aren’t they?” said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy’s brother. “I tell you I’m getting fairly sick.”\n\n“For goodness’ sake go out of my drawing-room, then?” cried Mrs.\nHoneychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally.\n\nFreddy did not move or reply.\n\n“I think things are coming to a head,” she observed, rather wanting her son’s opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.\n\n" - "“Time they did.”\n\n“I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more.”\n\n“It’s his third go, isn’t it?”\n\n“Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind.”\n\n“I didn’t mean to be unkind.” Then he added: “But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don’t know how girls manage things, but she can’t have said ‘No’ properly before, or she wouldn’t have to say it again now. Over the whole thing—I can’t explain—I do feel so uncomfortable.”\n\n“Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!”\n\n“I feel—never mind.”\n\nHe returned to his work.\n\n“Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: ‘Dear Mrs.\nVyse.’”\n\n“Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter.”\n\n" @@ -213,7 +222,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it.\nShe has learnt—you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely—she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides.” It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. “She has learnt through you,” and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; “let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her.”\n\n“Grazie tante!” said Cecil, who did not like parsons.\n\n“Have you heard?” shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden. “Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?”\n\nFreddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact.\n\n" - "“Indeed I have!” he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer—at all events not without apology. “Mrs.\nHoneychurch, I’m going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I’m too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them,\ngrave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my tea.”\n\n“You only asked for it just in time,” the lady retorted. “How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?”\n\nHe took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be serious any more.\n\n" - "An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present.\n\n" -- "So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne,\nputting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped.\nFreddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art\n\n\n" +- "So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne,\nputting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped.\nFreddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art\n\n\n" - "A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\nfor naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man.\n\nCecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers.\n\nAt tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been.\n\n" - "“Do you go to much of this sort of thing?” he asked when they were driving home.\n\n“Oh, now and then,” said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself.\n\n“Is it typical of country society?”\n\n“I suppose so. Mother, would it be?”\n\n“Plenty of society,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses.\n\nSeeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said:\n\n“To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous.”\n\n“I am so sorry that you were stranded.”\n\n“Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property—a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!”\n\n“One has to go through it, I suppose. They won’t notice us so much next time.”\n\n“But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement—horrid word in the first place—is a private matter, and should be treated as such.”\n\n" - "Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them,\nrejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different—personal love. Hence Cecil’s irritation and Lucy’s belief that his irritation was just.\n\n“How tiresome!” she said. “Couldn’t you have escaped to tennis?”\n\n“I don’t play tennis—at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato.”\n\n“Inglese Italianato?”\n\n“E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?”\n\nShe did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement,\nhad taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing.\n\n" @@ -223,8 +233,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“I don’t know. I hate him. I’ve heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I _hate_ him.”\n\n“My goodness gracious me, child!” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “You’ll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen.”\n\nHe smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy’s moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman’s power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth.\n\n" - "Nature—simplest of topics, he thought—lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch’s mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.\n\n" - "“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.\nHoneychurch?”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil,\nwho was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again.\n\n" -- "Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\nLet us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\n" -- "The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.\nPretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil.\n\n" +- "Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\n" +- "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\nThe woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.\nPretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil.\n\n" - "“Cissie” was the name of one of these villas, “Albert” of the other.\nThese titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. “Albert”\nwas inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. “Cissie” was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions.\n\n“The place is ruined!” said the ladies mechanically. “Summer Street will never be the same again.”\n\nAs the carriage passed, “Cissie’s” door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.\n\n“Stop!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.\n“Here’s Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!”\n\n" - "Sir Harry Otway—who need not be described—came to the carriage and said “Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can’t, I really can’t turn out Miss Flack.”\n\n“Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew’s time?”\n\n“But what can I do?” He lowered his voice. “An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden.”\n\n“Turn her out,” said Cecil bravely.\n\n" - "Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack’s intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm.\nHe called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,—a most reasonable and respectful man—who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ,\nhowever, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the façade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative.\n\n" @@ -241,7 +251,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "He meant, “Are you fond of it?” But she answered dreamily, “I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row.”\n\nAt another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool’s edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it,\nand she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green.\n\n“Who found you out?”\n\n“Charlotte,” she murmured. “She was stopping with us.\nCharlotte—Charlotte.”\n\n“Poor girl!”\n\nShe smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk, now appeared practical.\n\n“Lucy!”\n\n“Yes, I suppose we ought to be going,” was her reply.\n\n“Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before.”\n\nAt the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards him.\n\n“What, Cecil?”\n\n" - "“Hitherto never—not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry me—”\n\nHe became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were observed. His courage had gone.\n\n“Yes?”\n\n“Up to now I have never kissed you.”\n\nShe was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately.\n\n“No—more you have,” she stammered.\n\n“Then I ask you—may I now?”\n\n“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can’t run at you, you know.”\n\nAt that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.\nAs he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them.\n\n" - "Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. Lucy was standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.\n\nThey left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.\n\n“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\n" -- "He could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X Cecil as a Humourist\n\n\n" +- "He could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter X Cecil as a Humourist\n\n\n" - "The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,\nand, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter.\n" - "Other houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility. “I cannot think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction—which few honest solicitors despise—of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable.\n\n" - "The best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were rather dull,\nand Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy.\nHitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning—their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags,\norange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to speak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and identical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the London fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished.\n" @@ -262,26 +273,29 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Hullo!” he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed in high spirits. “I was hoping you’d come. I heard you all bear-gardening, but there’s better fun up here. I, even I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith’s right—the cause of Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don’t be angry! Don’t be angry! You’ll forgive me when you hear it all.”\n\nHe looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings at once.\n\n“I have heard,” she said. “Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing!\nCertainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I’d rather have nice friends of yours. But you oughtn’t to tease one so.”\n\n" - "“Friends of mine?” he laughed. “But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come!\nCome here.” But she remained standing where she was. “Do you know where I met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up to see my mother last week.”\n\n“What an odd place to meet people!” she said nervously. “I don’t quite understand.”\n\n“In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca Signorelli—of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy.”\n\n“But, Cecil—” proceeded hilariously.\n\n“In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country cottage—the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends. I thought, ‘What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!’ and I took their address and a London reference, found they weren’t actual blackguards—it was great sport—and wrote to him, making out—”\n\n“Cecil! No, it’s not fair. I’ve probably met them before—”\n\nHe bore her down.\n\n" - "“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time.\nNo, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—”\n\n“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”\n\nHe stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”\n\nHer face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago.\n\n“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”\n\nShe left him.\n\n“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows.\n\n" -- "No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n\n\n" +- "No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n\n\n" - "The Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,\nmet Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die.\n\n" - "Lucy—to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows because there are hills—Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least.\nNow that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little thinking, and—so illogical are girls—the event remained rather greater and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa while she was safe in the London flat.\n\n“Cecil—Cecil darling,” she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept into his arms.\n\n" - "Cecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should,\nand looked up to him because he was a man.\n\n“So you do love me, little thing?” he murmured.\n\n“Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don’t know what I should do without you.”\n\n" - "Several days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what Charlotte would call “the flight to Rome,” and in Rome it had increased amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy’s, and once, in the Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses—Mrs. Vyse was an acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.\n\n“TUNBRIDGE WELLS,\n“_September_.\n\n\n“DEAREST LUCIA," - "\n\n\n“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house. He _said_ he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune,\nand I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\n" -- "Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n" -- "“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,\nand cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,\nthey would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.\nAs for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January.\n\n" -- "“Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do not put ‘Private’ outside your envelope again. No one opens my letters.\n\n\n“Yours affectionately,\n“L. M. HONEYCHURCH.”\n\n\nSecrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil’s life if he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.\n“Emerson, not Harris”; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she stopped.\n\n" +- "Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,\nand cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,\nthey would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.\nAs for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January.\n\n" +- "“Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do not put ‘Private’ outside your envelope again. No one opens my letters.\n\n\n“Yours affectionately,\n“L. M. HONEYCHURCH.”\n\n\n" +- "Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil’s life if he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.\n“Emerson, not Harris”; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she stopped.\n\n" - "She and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool,\nand it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the past.\n\nThe grandchildren asked her to play the piano.\n\n" - "She played Schumann. “Now some Beethoven” called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete—the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art—throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and “Too much Schumann” was not the remark that Mr.\nBeebe had passed to himself when she returned.\n\n" - "When the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son.\nMrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another’s,\nhad been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd.\n\n“Make Lucy one of us,” she said, looking round intelligently at the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again.\n“Lucy is becoming wonderful—wonderful.”\n\n“Her music always was wonderful.”\n\n“Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made.”\n\n“Italy has done it.”\n\n" - "“Perhaps,” she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. “It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January.\nShe is one of us already.”\n\n“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to London. I don’t believe in these London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”\n\n“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.\n\nAs she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek.\n\n" -- "“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”\n\nThe elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII Twelfth Chapter\n\n\nIt was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.\nAll that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n“M’m.”\n\n" -- "“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in.\n\n“I suggested we should hinder them,” said Mr. Beebe. “They are worth it.” Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. “Hullo!” he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible.\n\nA grave voice replied, “Hullo!”\n\n“I’ve brought someone to see you.”\n\n“I’ll be down in a minute.”\n\nThe passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books.\n\n“Are these people great readers?” Freddy whispered. “Are they that sort?”\n\n" -- "“I fancy they know how to read—a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German.\nUm—um—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, look at that,” said Freddy in awestruck tones.\n\nOn the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: “Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.”\n\n“I know. Isn’t it jolly? I like that. I’m certain that’s the old man’s doing.”\n\n“How very odd of him!”\n\n“Surely you agree?”\n\nBut Freddy was his mother’s son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture.\n\n“Pictures!” the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.\n“Giotto—they got that at Florence, I’ll be bound.”\n\n“The same as Lucy’s got.”\n\n“Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?”\n\n“She came back yesterday.”\n\n" -- "“I suppose she had a good time?”\n\n“Yes, very,” said Freddy, taking up a book. “She and Cecil are thicker than ever.”\n\n“That’s good hearing.”\n\n“I wish I wasn’t such a fool, Mr. Beebe.”\n\nMr. Beebe ignored the remark.\n\n“Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it’ll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books.”\n\n“So will you.”\n\n“Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards.\nCecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful.\nThere are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says—”\n\n“What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson—we think we’ll come another time.”\n\nGeorge ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking.\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour.”\n\n" -- "Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George’s face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, “How d’ye do? Come and have a bathe.”\n\n“Oh, all right,” said George, impassive.\n\nMr. Beebe was highly entertained.\n\n“‘How d’ye do? how d’ye do? Come and have a bathe,’” he chuckled.\n“That’s the best conversational opening I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with ‘How do you do? Come and have a bathe’? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal.”\n\n“I tell you that they shall be,” said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same.”\n\n“We are to raise ladies to our level?” the clergyman inquired.\n\n" -- "“The Garden of Eden,” pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, “which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies.”\n\nMr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.\n\n“In this—not in other things—we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden.”\n\n“I say, what about this bathe?” murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him.\n\n“I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage.”\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence.”\n\n" -- "“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry.\nMarriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr.\nVyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”\n\n“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. “I must—that is to say, I have to—have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope.”\n\n“_Call_, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country.”\n\nMr. Beebe came to the rescue.\n\n" +- "“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”\n\nThe elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XII Twelfth Chapter\n\n\n" +- "It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.\nAll that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n“M’m.”\n\n“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in.\n\n“I suggested we should hinder them,” said Mr. Beebe. “They are worth it.” Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. “Hullo!” he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible.\n\n" +- "A grave voice replied, “Hullo!”\n\n“I’ve brought someone to see you.”\n\n“I’ll be down in a minute.”\n\nThe passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books.\n\n“Are these people great readers?” Freddy whispered. “Are they that sort?”\n\n“I fancy they know how to read—a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German.\nUm—um—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, look at that,” said Freddy in awestruck tones.\n\nOn the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: “Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.”\n\n“I know. Isn’t it jolly? I like that. I’m certain that’s the old man’s doing.”\n\n“How very odd of him!”\n\n" +- "“Surely you agree?”\n\nBut Freddy was his mother’s son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture.\n\n“Pictures!” the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.\n“Giotto—they got that at Florence, I’ll be bound.”\n\n“The same as Lucy’s got.”\n\n“Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?”\n\n“She came back yesterday.”\n\n“I suppose she had a good time?”\n\n“Yes, very,” said Freddy, taking up a book. “She and Cecil are thicker than ever.”\n\n“That’s good hearing.”\n\n“I wish I wasn’t such a fool, Mr. Beebe.”\n\nMr. Beebe ignored the remark.\n\n“Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it’ll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books.”\n\n“So will you.”\n\n“Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards.\nCecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful.\nThere are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says—”\n\n" +- "“What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson—we think we’ll come another time.”\n\nGeorge ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking.\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour.”\n\nThen Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George’s face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, “How d’ye do? Come and have a bathe.”\n\n“Oh, all right,” said George, impassive.\n\nMr. Beebe was highly entertained.\n\n“‘How d’ye do? how d’ye do? Come and have a bathe,’” he chuckled.\n“That’s the best conversational opening I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with ‘How do you do? Come and have a bathe’? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal.”\n\n" +- "“I tell you that they shall be,” said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same.”\n\n“We are to raise ladies to our level?” the clergyman inquired.\n\n“The Garden of Eden,” pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, “which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies.”\n\nMr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.\n\n“In this—not in other things—we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden.”\n\n“I say, what about this bathe?” murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him.\n\n“I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage.”\n\n" +- "“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence.”\n\n“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry.\nMarriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr.\nVyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”\n\n“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. “I must—that is to say, I have to—have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope.”\n\n“_Call_, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country.”\n\nMr. Beebe came to the rescue.\n\n" - "“Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days’ interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon.”\n\n“Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can’t believe he’s well.”\n\nGeorge bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture.\n\n“Do you really want this bathe?” Freddy asked him. “It is only a pond,\ndon’t you know. I dare say you are used to something better.”\n\n“Yes—I have said ‘Yes’ already.”\n\n" - "Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads.\n\n“And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?”\n\n“I did not. Miss Lavish told me.”\n\n“When I was a young man, I always meant to write a ‘History of Coincidence.’”\n\nNo enthusiasm.\n\n" - "“Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn’t purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect.”\n\nTo his relief, George began to talk.\n\n“It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate—flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us—we settle nothing—”\n\n“You have not reflected at all,” rapped the clergyman. “Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don’t say, ‘I didn’t do this,’ for you did it, ten to one. Now I’ll cross-question you.\nWhere did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?”\n\n“Italy.”\n\n“And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?”\n\n“National Gallery.”\n\n“Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it.”\n\n" @@ -294,7 +308,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair.\n\n“That’ll do!” shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. “Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!”\n\nYells, and widening circles over the dappled earth.\n\n“Hi! hi! _Ladies!_”\n\nNeither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe’s last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch,\nCecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth.\nFreddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe’s hat.\n\n“Gracious alive!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch. “Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too!\nWhatever has happened?”" - "\n\n“Come this way immediately,” commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed.\n\n“Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil,\nMr. Beebe’s waistcoat—”\n\nNo business of ours, said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently “minded.”\n\n“I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond.”\n\n“This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way.”\n\nThey followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.\n\n“Well, _I_ can’t help it,” said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. “I can’t be trodden on, can I?”\n\n“Good gracious me, dear; so it’s you! What miserable management! Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?”\n\n" - "“Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow’s got to dry, and if another fellow—”\n\n“Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy.” They turned. “Oh, look—don’t look! Oh, poor Mr.\nBeebe! How unfortunate again—”\n\nFor Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.\n\n“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”\n\n“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”\n\n“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”\n\n“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.\n\n" -- "He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed.\n\nThat evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n\n\n" +- "He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed.\n\nThat evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n\n\n" - "How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these.\nBut she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star.\n\n" - "Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. “I will bow,” she had thought. “I will not shake hands with him.\nThat will be just the proper thing.” She had bowed—but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world.\n\n" - "So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and made long, clever answers where “Yes” or “No” would have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed,\nthough not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover.\n\n“Lucy,” said her mother, when they got home, “is anything the matter with Cecil?”\n\nThe question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with charity and restraint.\n\n" @@ -311,7 +326,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“And I have been thinking,” she added rather nervously, “surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while the plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long.”\n\nIt was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother’s goodness to her upstairs.\n\n“Mother, no!” she pleaded. “It’s impossible. We can’t have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we’re squeezed to death as it is. Freddy’s got a friend coming Tuesday, there’s Cecil, and you’ve promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can’t be done.”\n\n“Nonsense! It can.”\n\n“If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise.”\n\n“Minnie can sleep with you.”\n\n“I won’t have her.”\n\n“Then, if you’re so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy.”\n\n“Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett,” moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes.\n\n" - "“It’s impossible,” repeated Lucy. “I don’t want to make difficulties,\nbut it really isn’t fair on the maids to fill up the house so.”\n\nAlas!\n\n“The truth is, dear, you don’t like Charlotte.”\n\n“No, I don’t. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven’t seen her lately, and don’t realize how tiresome she can be,\nthough so good. So please, mother, don’t worry us this last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come.”\n\n“Hear, hear!” said Cecil.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling than she usually permitted herself, replied: “This isn’t very kind of you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are,\nand however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like to grow old.”\n\nCecil crumbled his bread.\n\n" - "“I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on my bike,” put in Freddy. “She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right.”\n\n“I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return.”\n\nBut Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”\n\n“From your own account, you told her as much.”\n\n“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—”\n\n" -- "The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.\n\n“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”\n\nCecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n\n\n" +- "The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.\n\n“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”\n\nCecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n\n\n" - "Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week.\n\n" - "Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.” Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed.\n\n" - "It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, “She loves young Emerson.” A reader in Lucy’s place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome “nerves”\nor any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?\n\nBut the external situation—she will face that bravely.\n\nThe meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,\nand George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy,\nand was glad that he did not seem shy either.\n\n“A nice fellow,” said Mr. Beebe afterwards “He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully.”\n\nLucy said, “He seems in better spirits. He laughs more.”\n\n“Yes,” replied the clergyman. “He is waking up.”\n\n" @@ -325,8 +341,9 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Miss Bartlett sighed “I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me.”\n\n“Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don’t.”\n\nFor the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon.\n\n“Dear, one moment—we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?”\n\n“Yes, I have.”\n\n“What happened?”\n\n“We met at the Rectory.”\n\n“What line is he taking up?”\n\n“No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won’t be any nuisance, Charlotte.”\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion.”\n\n" - "Lucy paused. “Cecil said one day—and I thought it so profound—that there are two kinds of cads—the conscious and the subconscious.” She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil’s profundity.\nThrough the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith’s library. Her mother must have returned from the station.\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad,” droned Miss Bartlett.\n\n" - "“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him,\nand has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden.” She took hold of her guest by the arm. “Suppose we don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.”\n\n" -- "Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\nThe Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells.\n\n" -- "The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her,\nno nonsense”—“Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!”—“Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?” For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church.\n\n" +- "Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\n" +- "The Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells.\n\nThe garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her,\nno nonsense”—“Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!”—“Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?” For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church.\n\n" - "The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan;\non George Emerson cleaning his father’s boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly,\nas though acknowledging the caress.\n\n" - "Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies—an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little—not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills.\n\n“Lucy! Lucy! What’s that book? Who’s been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?”\n\n“It’s only the library book that Cecil’s been reading.”\n\n“But pick it up, and don’t stand idling there like a flamingo.”\n\n" - "Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, “What! you aren’t forgetting your Italy already?” And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun.\n\n“Lucy—have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?”\n\nShe hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster.\n\n" @@ -342,7 +359,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy’s spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses’ hoofs sang a tune to her: “He has not told, he has not told.” Her brain expanded the melody: “He has not told his father—to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone.” She raised her hand to her cheek. “He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did!\nBut he has not told. He will not tell.”\n\nShe longed to shout the words: “It is all right. It’s a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear.” She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded.\n\n" - "Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:\n\n“The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously.”\n\n“How are my protégés?” asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them,\nand had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes.\n\n“Protégés!” she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl’s soul yearned.\n\n“You shall see for yourself how your protégés are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don’t—” She nearly said, “Don’t protect him.” But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte.\n\n" - "Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning,\n" -- "would never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.\n\n" +- "would never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n" +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.\n\n" - "Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,\n" - "and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.\n\nSTART: FULL LICENSE\n\nTHE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK\n\n" - "To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase \"Project Gutenberg\"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.\n\nSection 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works\n\n" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap index 3b0198f9..abafa47e 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap @@ -13,8 +13,10 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Title: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare" - "Release Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English" - "Produced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers." -- "*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET" -- "by William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE." +- "*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***" +- THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET +- by William Shakespeare +- "Contents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE." - "ACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House." - "Scene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House." - "ACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden." @@ -27,7 +29,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Scene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House." - Scene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed. - "ACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell." -- "Scene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ" +- Scene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets. +- Dramatis Personæ - "ESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo." - "PARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris." - "MONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague." @@ -49,8 +52,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage," - "Which, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;" - "The which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend." -- "[_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place." -- Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers. +- "[_Exit._]" +- "ACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers." - "SAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers." - "SAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw." - "GREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar." @@ -229,9 +232,10 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "The lady widow of Utruvio;\nSignior Placentio and his lovely nieces;" - "Mercutio and his brother Valentine;\nMine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;" - "My fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\nSignior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt;" -- "Lucio and the lively Helena. _\n\n\nA fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?" -- "SERVANT.\nUp.\n\nROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?" -- "SERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\nROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before." +- Lucio and the lively Helena. _ +- "A fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?\n\nSERVANT.\nUp." +- "ROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?\n\nSERVANT.\nMy master’s." +- "ROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before." - "SERVANT.\nNow I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet," - "and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a\ncup of wine. Rest you merry." - "[_Exit._]" @@ -463,7 +467,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Prodigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy." - "NURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal." - "[_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone." -- "[_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n Enter Chorus." +- "[_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT II\n\n Enter Chorus." - "CHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;" - "That fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair." - "Now Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;" @@ -1579,7 +1584,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "‘Then music with her silver sound\n With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n [_Exit._]" - "FIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!" - "SECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner." -- "[_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo." +- "[_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo." - "ROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand." - "My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit" - "Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap index f86dcd85..86ad45bc 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap @@ -3,14 +3,14 @@ source: tests/text_splitter_snapshots.rs expression: chunks input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt --- -- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook.\n\nTitle: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE." -- "ACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\nACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n\nACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n\nACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ" -- "ESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\nMONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.\n\nCAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\nGREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\nSCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua." -- "THE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\nThe fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar." -- "SAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\nSAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it." -- "SAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir." -- "SAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet." -- "CAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\nCAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants." +- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook.\n\nTitle: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***" +- "THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\nACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n\nACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n\nACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets." +- "Dramatis Personæ\n\nESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\nMONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.\n\nCAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\nGREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants." +- "SCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\nTHE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\nThe fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]" +- "ACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men." +- "SAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it." +- "ABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me." +- "TYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\nCAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants." - "PRINCE.\nRebellious subjects, enemies to peace,\nProfaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—\nWill they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts,\nThat quench the fire of your pernicious rage\nWith purple fountains issuing from your veins,\nOn pain of torture, from those bloody hands\nThrow your mistemper’d weapons to the ground\nAnd hear the sentence of your moved prince.\nThree civil brawls, bred of an airy word,\nBy thee, old Capulet, and Montague,\nHave thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,\nAnd made Verona’s ancient citizens\nCast by their grave beseeming ornaments,\nTo wield old partisans, in hands as old,\nCanker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.\nIf ever you disturb our streets again,\nYour lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.\nFor this time all the rest depart away:\nYou, Capulet, shall go along with me,\nAnd Montague, come you this afternoon,\nTo know our farther pleasure in this case,\nTo old Free-town, our common judgement-place.\nOnce more, on pain of death, all men depart." - "[_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt,\n Citizens and Servants._]\n\nMONTAGUE.\nWho set this ancient quarrel new abroach?\nSpeak, nephew, were you by when it began?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere were the servants of your adversary\nAnd yours, close fighting ere I did approach.\nI drew to part them, in the instant came\nThe fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d,\nWhich, as he breath’d defiance to my ears,\nHe swung about his head, and cut the winds,\nWho nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn.\nWhile we were interchanging thrusts and blows\nCame more and more, and fought on part and part,\nTill the Prince came, who parted either part.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nO where is Romeo, saw you him today?\nRight glad I am he was not at this fray." - "BENVOLIO.\nMadam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun\nPeer’d forth the golden window of the east,\nA troubled mind drave me to walk abroad,\nWhere underneath the grove of sycamore\nThat westward rooteth from this city side,\nSo early walking did I see your son.\nTowards him I made, but he was ware of me,\nAnd stole into the covert of the wood.\nI, measuring his affections by my own,\nWhich then most sought where most might not be found,\nBeing one too many by my weary self,\nPursu’d my humour, not pursuing his,\nAnd gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me." @@ -23,8 +23,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "CAPULET.\nBut saying o’er what I have said before.\nMy child is yet a stranger in the world,\nShe hath not seen the change of fourteen years;\nLet two more summers wither in their pride\nEre we may think her ripe to be a bride.\n\nPARIS.\nYounger than she are happy mothers made." - "CAPULET.\nAnd too soon marr’d are those so early made.\nThe earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,\nShe is the hopeful lady of my earth:\nBut woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,\nMy will to her consent is but a part;\nAnd she agree, within her scope of choice\nLies my consent and fair according voice.\nThis night I hold an old accustom’d feast,\nWhereto I have invited many a guest,\nSuch as I love, and you among the store,\nOne more, most welcome, makes my number more.\nAt my poor house look to behold this night\nEarth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:\nSuch comfort as do lusty young men feel\nWhen well apparell’d April on the heel\nOf limping winter treads, even such delight\nAmong fresh female buds shall you this night\nInherit at my house. Hear all, all see,\nAnd like her most whose merit most shall be:\nWhich, on more view of many, mine, being one,\nMay stand in number, though in reckoning none.\nCome, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about\nThrough fair Verona; find those persons out" - "Whose names are written there, [_gives a paper_] and to them say,\nMy house and welcome on their pleasure stay.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet and Paris._]\n\nSERVANT.\nFind them out whose names are written here! It is written that the\nshoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the\nfisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to\nfind those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what\nnames the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good\ntime!\n\n Enter Benvolio and Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning,\nOne pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;\nTurn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;\nOne desperate grief cures with another’s languish:\nTake thou some new infection to thy eye,\nAnd the rank poison of the old will die.\n\nROMEO.\nYour plantain leaf is excellent for that.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nFor what, I pray thee?\n\nROMEO.\nFor your broken shin.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy, Romeo, art thou mad?" -- "ROMEO.\nNot mad, but bound more than a madman is:\nShut up in prison, kept without my food,\nWhipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.\n\nSERVANT.\nGod gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, mine own fortune in my misery.\n\nSERVANT.\nPerhaps you have learned it without book.\nBut I pray, can you read anything you see?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, If I know the letters and the language.\n\nSERVANT.\nYe say honestly, rest you merry!\n\nROMEO.\nStay, fellow; I can read.\n\n [_He reads the letter._]\n\n_Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;\nCounty Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;\nThe lady widow of Utruvio;\nSignior Placentio and his lovely nieces;\nMercutio and his brother Valentine;\nMine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;\nMy fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\nSignior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt;\nLucio and the lively Helena. _\n\n\nA fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?\n\nSERVANT.\nUp.\n\nROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?" -- "SERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\nROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before.\n\nSERVANT.\nNow I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet,\nand if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a\ncup of wine. Rest you merry.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt this same ancient feast of Capulet’s\nSups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st;\nWith all the admired beauties of Verona.\nGo thither and with unattainted eye,\nCompare her face with some that I shall show,\nAnd I will make thee think thy swan a crow.\n\nROMEO.\nWhen the devout religion of mine eye\nMaintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire;\nAnd these who, often drown’d, could never die,\nTransparent heretics, be burnt for liars.\nOne fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun\nNe’er saw her match since first the world begun." +- "ROMEO.\nNot mad, but bound more than a madman is:\nShut up in prison, kept without my food,\nWhipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.\n\nSERVANT.\nGod gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, mine own fortune in my misery.\n\nSERVANT.\nPerhaps you have learned it without book.\nBut I pray, can you read anything you see?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, If I know the letters and the language.\n\nSERVANT.\nYe say honestly, rest you merry!\n\nROMEO.\nStay, fellow; I can read.\n\n [_He reads the letter._]\n\n_Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;\nCounty Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;\nThe lady widow of Utruvio;\nSignior Placentio and his lovely nieces;\nMercutio and his brother Valentine;\nMine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;\nMy fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\nSignior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt;\nLucio and the lively Helena. _" +- "A fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?\n\nSERVANT.\nUp.\n\nROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?\n\nSERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\nROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before.\n\nSERVANT.\nNow I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet,\nand if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a\ncup of wine. Rest you merry.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt this same ancient feast of Capulet’s\nSups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st;\nWith all the admired beauties of Verona.\nGo thither and with unattainted eye,\nCompare her face with some that I shall show,\nAnd I will make thee think thy swan a crow.\n\nROMEO.\nWhen the devout religion of mine eye\nMaintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire;\nAnd these who, often drown’d, could never die,\nTransparent heretics, be burnt for liars.\nOne fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun\nNe’er saw her match since first the world begun." - "BENVOLIO.\nTut, you saw her fair, none else being by,\nHerself pois’d with herself in either eye:\nBut in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d\nYour lady’s love against some other maid\nThat I will show you shining at this feast,\nAnd she shall scant show well that now shows best.\n\nROMEO.\nI’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,\nBut to rejoice in splendour of my own.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me.\n\nNURSE.\nNow, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old,\nI bade her come. What, lamb! What ladybird!\nGod forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet!\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nHow now, who calls?\n\nNURSE.\nYour mother.\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, I am here. What is your will?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThis is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile,\nWe must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again,\nI have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.\nThou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age." - "NURSE.\nFaith, I can tell her age unto an hour.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nShe’s not fourteen.\n\nNURSE.\nI’ll lay fourteen of my teeth,\nAnd yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,\nShe is not fourteen. How long is it now\nTo Lammas-tide?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA fortnight and odd days." - "NURSE.\nEven or odd, of all days in the year,\nCome Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.\nSusan and she,—God rest all Christian souls!—\nWere of an age. Well, Susan is with God;\nShe was too good for me. But as I said,\nOn Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;\nThat shall she, marry; I remember it well.\n’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;\nAnd she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it—,\nOf all the days of the year, upon that day:\nFor I had then laid wormwood to my dug,\nSitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall;\nMy lord and you were then at Mantua:\nNay, I do bear a brain. But as I said,\nWhen it did taste the wormwood on the nipple\nOf my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,\nTo see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug!\nShake, quoth the dovehouse: ’twas no need, I trow,\nTo bid me trudge.\nAnd since that time it is eleven years;\nFor then she could stand alone; nay, by th’rood\nShe could have run and waddled all about;\nFor even the day before she broke her brow," @@ -44,9 +44,9 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "CAPULET.\nHe shall be endur’d.\nWhat, goodman boy! I say he shall, go to;\nAm I the master here, or you? Go to.\nYou’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul,\nYou’ll make a mutiny among my guests!\nYou will set cock-a-hoop, you’ll be the man!\n\nTYBALT.\nWhy, uncle, ’tis a shame.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo to, go to!\nYou are a saucy boy. Is’t so, indeed?\nThis trick may chance to scathe you, I know what.\nYou must contrary me! Marry, ’tis time.\nWell said, my hearts!—You are a princox; go:\nBe quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame!\nI’ll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts.\n\nTYBALT.\nPatience perforce with wilful choler meeting\nMakes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.\nI will withdraw: but this intrusion shall,\nNow seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\n[_To Juliet._] If I profane with my unworthiest hand\nThis holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,\nMy lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand\nTo smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss." - "JULIET.\nGood pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,\nWhich mannerly devotion shows in this;\nFor saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,\nAnd palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.\n\nROMEO.\nHave not saints lips, and holy palmers too?\n\nJULIET.\nAy, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.\n\nROMEO.\nO, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do:\nThey pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.\n\nJULIET.\nSaints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.\n\nROMEO.\nThen move not while my prayer’s effect I take.\nThus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg’d.\n[_Kissing her._]\n\nJULIET.\nThen have my lips the sin that they have took.\n\nROMEO.\nSin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d!\nGive me my sin again.\n\nJULIET.\nYou kiss by the book.\n\nNURSE.\nMadam, your mother craves a word with you.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat is her mother?" - "NURSE.\nMarry, bachelor,\nHer mother is the lady of the house,\nAnd a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.\nI nurs’d her daughter that you talk’d withal.\nI tell you, he that can lay hold of her\nShall have the chinks.\n\nROMEO.\nIs she a Capulet?\nO dear account! My life is my foe’s debt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAway, be gone; the sport is at the best.\n\nROMEO.\nAy, so I fear; the more is my unrest.\n\nCAPULET.\nNay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,\nWe have a trifling foolish banquet towards.\nIs it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;\nI thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.\nMore torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.\nAh, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late,\nI’ll to my rest.\n\n [_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nCome hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?\n\nNURSE.\nThe son and heir of old Tiberio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that now is going out of door?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, that I think be young Petruchio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that follows here, that would not dance?\n\nNURSE.\nI know not." -- "JULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\nJULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n Enter Chorus." -- "CHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:\nBeing held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed." -- "BENVOLIO.\nHe ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:\nCall, good Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, I’ll conjure too.\nRomeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover!\nAppear thou in the likeness of a sigh,\nSpeak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;\nCry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove;\nSpeak to my gossip Venus one fair word,\nOne nickname for her purblind son and heir,\nYoung Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim\nWhen King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.\nHe heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;\nThe ape is dead, and I must conjure him.\nI conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,\nBy her high forehead and her scarlet lip,\nBy her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,\nAnd the demesnes that there adjacent lie,\nThat in thy likeness thou appear to us.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAn if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him." +- "JULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\nJULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:\nBeing held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!" +- "MERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHe ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:\nCall, good Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, I’ll conjure too.\nRomeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover!\nAppear thou in the likeness of a sigh,\nSpeak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;\nCry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove;\nSpeak to my gossip Venus one fair word,\nOne nickname for her purblind son and heir,\nYoung Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim\nWhen King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.\nHe heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;\nThe ape is dead, and I must conjure him.\nI conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,\nBy her high forehead and her scarlet lip,\nBy her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,\nAnd the demesnes that there adjacent lie,\nThat in thy likeness thou appear to us.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAn if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him." - "MERCUTIO.\nThis cannot anger him. ’Twould anger him\nTo raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle,\nOf some strange nature, letting it there stand\nTill she had laid it, and conjur’d it down;\nThat were some spite. My invocation\nIs fair and honest, and, in his mistress’ name,\nI conjure only but to raise up him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, he hath hid himself among these trees\nTo be consorted with the humorous night.\nBlind is his love, and best befits the dark.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.\nNow will he sit under a medlar tree,\nAnd wish his mistress were that kind of fruit\nAs maids call medlars when they laugh alone.\nO Romeo, that she were, O that she were\nAn open-arse and thou a poperin pear!\nRomeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle-bed.\nThis field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.\nCome, shall we go?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGo then; for ’tis in vain\nTo seek him here that means not to be found.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo." - "ROMEO.\nHe jests at scars that never felt a wound.\n\n Juliet appears above at a window." - "But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?\nIt is the east, and Juliet is the sun!\nArise fair sun and kill the envious moon,\nWho is already sick and pale with grief,\nThat thou her maid art far more fair than she.\nBe not her maid since she is envious;\nHer vestal livery is but sick and green,\nAnd none but fools do wear it; cast it off.\nIt is my lady, O it is my love!\nO, that she knew she were!\nShe speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?\nHer eye discourses, I will answer it.\nI am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks.\nTwo of the fairest stars in all the heaven,\nHaving some business, do entreat her eyes\nTo twinkle in their spheres till they return.\nWhat if her eyes were there, they in her head?\nThe brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,\nAs daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven\nWould through the airy region stream so bright\nThat birds would sing and think it were not night.\nSee how she leans her cheek upon her hand.\nO that I were a glove upon that hand," @@ -80,8 +80,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "NURSE.\nWell, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man.\nRomeo? No, not he. Though his face be better than any man’s, yet his\nleg excels all men’s, and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though\nthey be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the\nflower of courtesy, but I’ll warrant him as gentle as a lamb. Go thy\nways, wench, serve God. What, have you dined at home?\n\nJULIET.\nNo, no. But all this did I know before.\nWhat says he of our marriage? What of that?\n\nNURSE.\nLord, how my head aches! What a head have I!\nIt beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.\nMy back o’ t’other side,—O my back, my back!\nBeshrew your heart for sending me about\nTo catch my death with jauncing up and down.\n\nJULIET.\nI’faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.\nSweet, sweet, sweet Nurse, tell me, what says my love?\n\nNURSE.\nYour love says like an honest gentleman,\nAnd a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome,\nAnd I warrant a virtuous,—Where is your mother?" - "JULIET.\nWhere is my mother? Why, she is within.\nWhere should she be? How oddly thou repliest.\n‘Your love says, like an honest gentleman,\n‘Where is your mother?’\n\nNURSE.\nO God’s lady dear,\nAre you so hot? Marry, come up, I trow.\nIs this the poultice for my aching bones?\nHenceforward do your messages yourself.\n\nJULIET.\nHere’s such a coil. Come, what says Romeo?\n\nNURSE.\nHave you got leave to go to shrift today?\n\nJULIET.\nI have.\n\nNURSE.\nThen hie you hence to Friar Lawrence’ cell;\nThere stays a husband to make you a wife.\nNow comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks,\nThey’ll be in scarlet straight at any news.\nHie you to church. I must another way,\nTo fetch a ladder by the which your love\nMust climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark.\nI am the drudge, and toil in your delight;\nBut you shall bear the burden soon at night.\nGo. I’ll to dinner; hie you to the cell.\n\nJULIET.\nHie to high fortune! Honest Nurse, farewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell." - "Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSo smile the heavens upon this holy act\nThat after-hours with sorrow chide us not.\n\nROMEO.\nAmen, amen, but come what sorrow can,\nIt cannot countervail the exchange of joy\nThat one short minute gives me in her sight.\nDo thou but close our hands with holy words,\nThen love-devouring death do what he dare,\nIt is enough I may but call her mine.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThese violent delights have violent ends,\nAnd in their triumph die; like fire and powder,\nWhich as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey\nIs loathsome in his own deliciousness,\nAnd in the taste confounds the appetite.\nTherefore love moderately: long love doth so;\nToo swift arrives as tardy as too slow.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nHere comes the lady. O, so light a foot\nWill ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.\nA lover may bestride the gossamers\nThat idles in the wanton summer air\nAnd yet not fall; so light is vanity.\n\nJULIET.\nGood even to my ghostly confessor." -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.\n\nJULIET.\nAs much to him, else is his thanks too much.\n\nROMEO.\nAh, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy\nBe heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue\nUnfold the imagin’d happiness that both\nReceive in either by this dear encounter.\n\nJULIET.\nConceit more rich in matter than in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of ornament.\nThey are but beggars that can count their worth;\nBut my true love is grown to such excess,\nI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants." -- "BENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?" +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.\n\nJULIET.\nAs much to him, else is his thanks too much.\n\nROMEO.\nAh, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy\nBe heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue\nUnfold the imagin’d happiness that both\nReceive in either by this dear encounter.\n\nJULIET.\nConceit more rich in matter than in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of ornament.\nThey are but beggars that can count their worth;\nBut my true love is grown to such excess,\nI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?" - "MERCUTIO.\nNay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would\nkill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a\nhair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel\nwith a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou\nhast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?\nThy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy\nhead hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast\nquarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath\nwakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall\nout with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with\nanother for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt\ntutor me from quarrelling!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee\nsimple of my life for an hour and a quarter.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThe fee simple! O simple!\n\n Enter Tybalt and others." - "BENVOLIO.\nBy my head, here comes the Capulets.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBy my heel, I care not.\n\nTYBALT.\nFollow me close, for I will speak to them.\nGentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a\nword and a blow.\n\nTYBALT.\nYou shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me\noccasion.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCould you not take some occasion without giving?\n\nTYBALT.\nMercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nConsort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of\nus, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick, here’s\nthat shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWe talk here in the public haunt of men.\nEither withdraw unto some private place,\nAnd reason coldly of your grievances,\nOr else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nMen’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.\nI will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.\n\n Enter Romeo." - "TYBALT.\nWell, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBut I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery.\nMarry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower;\nYour worship in that sense may call him man.\n\nTYBALT.\nRomeo, the love I bear thee can afford\nNo better term than this: Thou art a villain.\n\nROMEO.\nTybalt, the reason that I have to love thee\nDoth much excuse the appertaining rage\nTo such a greeting. Villain am I none;\nTherefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.\n\nTYBALT.\nBoy, this shall not excuse the injuries\nThat thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw.\n\nROMEO.\nI do protest I never injur’d thee,\nBut love thee better than thou canst devise\nTill thou shalt know the reason of my love.\nAnd so good Capulet, which name I tender\nAs dearly as mine own, be satisfied.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO calm, dishonourable, vile submission!\n[_Draws._] Alla stoccata carries it away.\nTybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat wouldst thou have with me?" @@ -123,10 +123,11 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "CAPULET.\nGod’s bread, it makes me mad!\nDay, night, hour, ride, time, work, play,\nAlone, in company, still my care hath been\nTo have her match’d, and having now provided\nA gentleman of noble parentage,\nOf fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly allied,\nStuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,\nProportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man,\nAnd then to have a wretched puling fool,\nA whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,\nTo answer, ‘I’ll not wed, I cannot love,\nI am too young, I pray you pardon me.’\nBut, and you will not wed, I’ll pardon you.\nGraze where you will, you shall not house with me.\nLook to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.\nThursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise.\nAnd you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;\nAnd you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,\nFor by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,\nNor what is mine shall never do thee good.\nTrust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.\n\n [_Exit._]" - "JULIET.\nIs there no pity sitting in the clouds,\nThat sees into the bottom of my grief?\nO sweet my mother, cast me not away,\nDelay this marriage for a month, a week,\nOr, if you do not, make the bridal bed\nIn that dim monument where Tybalt lies.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTalk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word.\nDo as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented?\nMy husband is on earth, my faith in heaven.\nHow shall that faith return again to earth,\nUnless that husband send it me from heaven\nBy leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me.\nAlack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems\nUpon so soft a subject as myself.\nWhat say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?\nSome comfort, Nurse." - "NURSE.\nFaith, here it is.\nRomeo is banished; and all the world to nothing\nThat he dares ne’er come back to challenge you.\nOr if he do, it needs must be by stealth.\nThen, since the case so stands as now it doth,\nI think it best you married with the County.\nO, he’s a lovely gentleman.\nRomeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,\nHath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye\nAs Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,\nI think you are happy in this second match,\nFor it excels your first: or if it did not,\nYour first is dead, or ’twere as good he were,\nAs living here and you no use of him.\n\nJULIET.\nSpeakest thou from thy heart?\n\nNURSE.\nAnd from my soul too,\nOr else beshrew them both.\n\nJULIET.\nAmen.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat?\n\nJULIET.\nWell, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\nGo in, and tell my lady I am gone,\nHaving displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,\nTo make confession and to be absolv’d.\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, I will; and this is wisely done.\n\n [_Exit._]" -- "JULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\nIf all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not." -- "PARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society.\nNow do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife.\n\nPARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nI will confess to you that I love him." -- "PARIS.\nSo will ye, I am sure, that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf I do so, it will be of more price,\nBeing spoke behind your back than to your face.\n\nPARIS.\nPoor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.\n\nJULIET.\nThe tears have got small victory by that;\nFor it was bad enough before their spite.\n\nPARIS.\nThou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.\n\nJULIET.\nThat is no slander, sir, which is a truth,\nAnd what I spake, I spake it to my face.\n\nPARIS.\nThy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.\n\nJULIET.\nIt may be so, for it is not mine own.\nAre you at leisure, holy father, now,\nOr shall I come to you at evening mass?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nMy leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.—\nMy lord, we must entreat the time alone.\n\nPARIS.\nGod shield I should disturb devotion!—\nJuliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye,\nTill then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO shut the door, and when thou hast done so,\nCome weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!" -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO Juliet, I already know thy grief;\nIt strains me past the compass of my wits.\nI hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,\nOn Thursday next be married to this County.\n\nJULIET.\nTell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this,\nUnless thou tell me how I may prevent it.\nIf in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,\nDo thou but call my resolution wise,\nAnd with this knife I’ll help it presently.\nGod join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;\nAnd ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d,\nShall be the label to another deed,\nOr my true heart with treacherous revolt\nTurn to another, this shall slay them both.\nTherefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,\nGive me some present counsel, or behold\n’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife\nShall play the empire, arbitrating that\nWhich the commission of thy years and art\nCould to no issue of true honour bring.\nBe not so long to speak. I long to die,\nIf what thou speak’st speak not of remedy." +- "JULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\nIf all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]" +- "ACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\nPARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society.\nNow do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife." +- "PARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nI will confess to you that I love him.\n\nPARIS.\nSo will ye, I am sure, that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf I do so, it will be of more price,\nBeing spoke behind your back than to your face.\n\nPARIS.\nPoor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.\n\nJULIET.\nThe tears have got small victory by that;\nFor it was bad enough before their spite.\n\nPARIS.\nThou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.\n\nJULIET.\nThat is no slander, sir, which is a truth,\nAnd what I spake, I spake it to my face.\n\nPARIS.\nThy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.\n\nJULIET.\nIt may be so, for it is not mine own.\nAre you at leisure, holy father, now,\nOr shall I come to you at evening mass?" +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nMy leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.—\nMy lord, we must entreat the time alone.\n\nPARIS.\nGod shield I should disturb devotion!—\nJuliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye,\nTill then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO shut the door, and when thou hast done so,\nCome weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO Juliet, I already know thy grief;\nIt strains me past the compass of my wits.\nI hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,\nOn Thursday next be married to this County." +- "JULIET.\nTell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this,\nUnless thou tell me how I may prevent it.\nIf in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,\nDo thou but call my resolution wise,\nAnd with this knife I’ll help it presently.\nGod join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;\nAnd ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d,\nShall be the label to another deed,\nOr my true heart with treacherous revolt\nTurn to another, this shall slay them both.\nTherefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,\nGive me some present counsel, or behold\n’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife\nShall play the empire, arbitrating that\nWhich the commission of thy years and art\nCould to no issue of true honour bring.\nBe not so long to speak. I long to die,\nIf what thou speak’st speak not of remedy." - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope,\nWhich craves as desperate an execution\nAs that is desperate which we would prevent.\nIf, rather than to marry County Paris\nThou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,\nThen is it likely thou wilt undertake\nA thing like death to chide away this shame,\nThat cop’st with death himself to scape from it.\nAnd if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy.\n\nJULIET.\nO, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,\nFrom off the battlements of yonder tower,\nOr walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk\nWhere serpents are. Chain me with roaring bears;\nOr hide me nightly in a charnel-house,\nO’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones,\nWith reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls.\nOr bid me go into a new-made grave,\nAnd hide me with a dead man in his shroud;\nThings that, to hear them told, have made me tremble,\nAnd I will do it without fear or doubt,\nTo live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love." - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold then. Go home, be merry, give consent\nTo marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow;\nTomorrow night look that thou lie alone,\nLet not thy Nurse lie with thee in thy chamber.\nTake thou this vial, being then in bed,\nAnd this distilled liquor drink thou off,\nWhen presently through all thy veins shall run\nA cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse\nShall keep his native progress, but surcease.\nNo warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest,\nThe roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade\nTo paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall,\nLike death when he shuts up the day of life.\nEach part depriv’d of supple government,\nShall stiff and stark and cold appear like death.\nAnd in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death\nThou shalt continue two and forty hours,\nAnd then awake as from a pleasant sleep.\nNow when the bridegroom in the morning comes\nTo rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.\nThen as the manner of our country is,\nIn thy best robes, uncover’d, on the bier," - "Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault\nWhere all the kindred of the Capulets lie.\nIn the meantime, against thou shalt awake,\nShall Romeo by my letters know our drift,\nAnd hither shall he come, and he and I\nWill watch thy waking, and that very night\nShall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.\nAnd this shall free thee from this present shame,\nIf no inconstant toy nor womanish fear\nAbate thy valour in the acting it.\n\nJULIET.\nGive me, give me! O tell not me of fear!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous\nIn this resolve. I’ll send a friar with speed\nTo Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.\n\nJULIET.\nLove give me strength, and strength shall help afford.\nFarewell, dear father.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse and Servants.\n\nCAPULET.\nSo many guests invite as here are writ.\n\n [_Exit first Servant._]\n\nSirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks." @@ -146,7 +147,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "CAPULET.\nAll things that we ordained festival\nTurn from their office to black funeral:\nOur instruments to melancholy bells,\nOur wedding cheer to a sad burial feast;\nOur solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;\nOur bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,\nAnd all things change them to the contrary.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSir, go you in, and, madam, go with him,\nAnd go, Sir Paris, everyone prepare\nTo follow this fair corse unto her grave.\nThe heavens do lower upon you for some ill;\nMove them no more by crossing their high will.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris and Friar._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nFaith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.\n\nNURSE.\nHonest good fellows, ah, put up, put up,\nFor well you know this is a pitiful case.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nAy, by my troth, the case may be amended.\n\n [_Exit Nurse._]\n\n Enter Peter.\n\nPETER.\nMusicians, O, musicians, ‘Heart’s ease,’ ‘Heart’s ease’, O, and you\nwill have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhy ‘Heart’s ease’?" - "PETER.\nO musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full’. O play\nme some merry dump to comfort me.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nNot a dump we, ’tis no time to play now.\n\nPETER.\nYou will not then?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nNo.\n\nPETER.\nI will then give it you soundly.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat will you give us?\n\nPETER.\nNo money, on my faith, but the gleek! I will give you the minstrel.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nThen will I give you the serving-creature.\n\nPETER.\nThen will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate. I will\ncarry no crotchets. I’ll re you, I’ll fa you. Do you note me?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nAnd you re us and fa us, you note us.\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nPray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit." - "PETER.\nThen have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and\nput up my iron dagger. Answer me like men.\n ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound,\n And doleful dumps the mind oppress,\n Then music with her silver sound’—\nWhy ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you,\nSimon Catling?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nMarry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.\n\nPETER.\nPrates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck?\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nI say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.\n\nPETER.\nPrates too! What say you, James Soundpost?\n\nTHIRD MUSICIAN.\nFaith, I know not what to say.\n\nPETER.\nO, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is\n‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for\nsounding.\n ‘Then music with her silver sound\n With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!" -- "SECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,\nThat I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well." +- "SECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,\nThat I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well." - "BALTHASAR.\nThen she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleeps in Capel’s monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you.\nO pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nIs it even so? Then I defy you, stars!\nThou know’st my lodging. Get me ink and paper,\nAnd hire post-horses. I will hence tonight.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI do beseech you sir, have patience.\nYour looks are pale and wild, and do import\nSome misadventure.\n\nROMEO.\nTush, thou art deceiv’d.\nLeave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.\nHast thou no letters to me from the Friar?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nNo, my good lord.\n\nROMEO.\nNo matter. Get thee gone,\nAnd hire those horses. I’ll be with thee straight.\n\n [_Exit Balthasar._]" - "Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight.\nLet’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift\nTo enter in the thoughts of desperate men.\nI do remember an apothecary,—\nAnd hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted\nIn tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,\nCulling of simples, meagre were his looks,\nSharp misery had worn him to the bones;\nAnd in his needy shop a tortoise hung,\nAn alligator stuff’d, and other skins\nOf ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves\nA beggarly account of empty boxes,\nGreen earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,\nRemnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses\nWere thinly scatter’d, to make up a show.\nNoting this penury, to myself I said,\nAnd if a man did need a poison now,\nWhose sale is present death in Mantua,\nHere lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.\nO, this same thought did but forerun my need,\nAnd this same needy man must sell it me.\nAs I remember, this should be the house.\nBeing holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.\nWhat, ho! Apothecary!\n\n Enter Apothecary." - "APOTHECARY.\nWho calls so loud?\n\nROMEO.\nCome hither, man. I see that thou art poor.\nHold, there is forty ducats. Let me have\nA dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear\nAs will disperse itself through all the veins,\nThat the life-weary taker may fall dead,\nAnd that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath\nAs violently as hasty powder fir’d\nDoth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nSuch mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law\nIs death to any he that utters them.\n\nROMEO.\nArt thou so bare and full of wretchedness,\nAnd fear’st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks,\nNeed and oppression starveth in thine eyes,\nContempt and beggary hangs upon thy back.\nThe world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law;\nThe world affords no law to make thee rich;\nThen be not poor, but break it and take this.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nMy poverty, but not my will consents.\n\nROMEO.\nI pay thy poverty, and not thy will." @@ -170,7 +172,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Was stay’d by accident; and yesternight\nReturn’d my letter back. Then all alone\nAt the prefixed hour of her waking\nCame I to take her from her kindred’s vault,\nMeaning to keep her closely at my cell\nTill I conveniently could send to Romeo.\nBut when I came, some minute ere the time\nOf her awaking, here untimely lay\nThe noble Paris and true Romeo dead.\nShe wakes; and I entreated her come forth\nAnd bear this work of heaven with patience.\nBut then a noise did scare me from the tomb;\nAnd she, too desperate, would not go with me,\nBut, as it seems, did violence on herself.\nAll this I know; and to the marriage\nHer Nurse is privy. And if ought in this\nMiscarried by my fault, let my old life\nBe sacrific’d, some hour before his time,\nUnto the rigour of severest law.\n\nPRINCE.\nWe still have known thee for a holy man.\nWhere’s Romeo’s man? What can he say to this?" - "BALTHASAR.\nI brought my master news of Juliet’s death,\nAnd then in post he came from Mantua\nTo this same place, to this same monument.\nThis letter he early bid me give his father,\nAnd threaten’d me with death, going in the vault,\nIf I departed not, and left him there.\n\nPRINCE.\nGive me the letter, I will look on it.\nWhere is the County’s Page that rais’d the watch?\nSirrah, what made your master in this place?\n\nPAGE.\nHe came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave,\nAnd bid me stand aloof, and so I did.\nAnon comes one with light to ope the tomb,\nAnd by and by my master drew on him,\nAnd then I ran away to call the watch." - "PRINCE.\nThis letter doth make good the Friar’s words,\nTheir course of love, the tidings of her death.\nAnd here he writes that he did buy a poison\nOf a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal\nCame to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.\nWhere be these enemies? Capulet, Montague,\nSee what a scourge is laid upon your hate,\nThat heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!\nAnd I, for winking at your discords too,\nHave lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d.\n\nCAPULET.\nO brother Montague, give me thy hand.\nThis is my daughter’s jointure, for no more\nCan I demand.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nBut I can give thee more,\nFor I will raise her statue in pure gold,\nThat whiles Verona by that name is known,\nThere shall no figure at such rate be set\nAs that of true and faithful Juliet.\n\nCAPULET.\nAs rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie,\nPoor sacrifices of our enmity." -- "PRINCE.\nA glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun for sorrow will not show his head.\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things.\nSome shall be pardon’d, and some punished,\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed." +- "PRINCE.\nA glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun for sorrow will not show his head.\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things.\nSome shall be pardon’d, and some punished,\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed." - "Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the\nUnited States without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. 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Redistribution is subject to the trademark\nlicense, especially commercial redistribution.\n\nSTART: FULL LICENSE\n\nTHE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE\nPLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK\n\nTo protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free\ndistribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work\n(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase \"Project\nGutenberg\"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full\nProject Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org/license.\n\nSection 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project\nGutenberg-tm electronic works" - "1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm\nelectronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to\nand accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property\n(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all\nthe terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or\ndestroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your\npossession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a\nProject Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound\nby the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the\nperson or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph\n1.E.8." diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap index f35c23bb..4223a38b 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap @@ -12,7 +12,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster" - "Release Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English" - "*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]" -- "A Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS" +- "A Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster" +- CONTENTS - "Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker" - "Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter" - Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing @@ -326,7 +327,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for" - him. - "Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to" -- "bed.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker" +- bed. +- Chapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker - "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," @@ -709,7 +711,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "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.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”" +- She joined her cousin. +- "Chapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”" - "It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she" - opened the piano. - She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave. @@ -2005,7 +2008,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Lucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled." - "I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall." - "“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\nIn the morning they left for Rome." -- "PART TWO\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval" +- PART TWO +- Chapter VIII Medieval - "The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and" - deserved protection from the August sun. - "They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them" @@ -2979,7 +2983,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. - "I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you." - "“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”" -- "Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n“DEAR CHARLOTTE," +- "Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W." +- "“DEAR CHARLOTTE," - “Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. - "Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she" - "would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise," @@ -3651,7 +3656,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - minds of elderly people. - "She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess." - "Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more" -- "vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV The Disaster Within" +- vividly in her brain. +- Chapter XV The Disaster Within - "The Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year." - "In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with" - "the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold." @@ -3831,7 +3837,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland." - "Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the" - "discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”" -- "She closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***" +- She closed the instrument. +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***" - Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. - Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a - "United States copyright in these works," diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap index a4f5b64f..4898c09e 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__characters_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap @@ -3,11 +3,13 @@ source: tests/text_splitter_snapshots.rs expression: chunks input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt --- -- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS" -- "Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return" -- "Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\nChapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”" -- "“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\nthat was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”\n\n“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.\n\n“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!”" -- "“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a view.”\n\nLucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me:\nof course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—” “You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.\n\n“No, no. You must have it.”\n\n“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”\n\n“She would never forgive _me_.”\n\nThe ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:\n\n“I have a view, I have a view.”" +- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster" +- "CONTENTS\n\n Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return" +- "Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE" +- Chapter I The Bertolini +- "“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”\n\n“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\nthat was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”" +- "“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.\n\n“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!”\n\n“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a view.”\n\nLucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me:\nof course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—” “You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.\n\n“No, no. You must have it.”\n\n“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”\n\n“She would never forgive _me_.”" +- "The ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:\n\n“I have a view, I have a view.”" - "Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would “do” till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility.\nWhat exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”\n\n“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view too.”\n\n“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.\n\n“What I mean,” he continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll have yours. We’ll change.”" - "The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said “Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question.”\n\n“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the table.\n\n“Because it is quite out of the question, thank you.”\n\n“You see, we don’t like to take—” began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.\n\n“But why?” he persisted. “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son,\nsaying, “George, persuade them!”\n\n“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” said the son. “There’s nothing else to say.”" - "He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as “quite a scene,” and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with—well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour." @@ -30,7 +32,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. “Gentlemen sometimes do not realize—” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy,\nshe committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History.\nFor she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said:\n\n“I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move.”\n\n“How you do do everything,” said Lucy.\n\n“Naturally, dear. It is my affair.”\n\n“But I would like to help you.”\n\n“No, dear.”" - "Charlotte’s energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet—there was a rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.\n\n“I want to explain,” said Miss Bartlett, “why it is that I have taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you;\nbut I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it.”\n\nLucy was bewildered.\n\n“If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this.”" - "“Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure,” said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues.\n\nMiss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,\nand the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.\n\nMiss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more." -- "“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,\nsince it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker" +- "“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,\nsince it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed." +- Chapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker - "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,\nto 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." @@ -60,10 +63,11 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“...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.\n\n“Don’t let us spoil yours,” he continued to Lucy. “Have you looked at those saints?”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy. “They are lovely. Do you know which is the tombstone that is praised in Ruskin?”\n\nHe did not know, and suggested that they should try to guess it.\nGeorge, 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.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“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.”\n\nLucy again felt that this did not do.\n\n“In Hell,” he repeated. “He’s unhappy.”\n\n“Oh, dear!” said Lucy.\n\n“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.”\n\nShe 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?”\n\nLucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said:\n\n“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.\nYou might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time.\nYou 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,\nand 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.”\n\nTo this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer." -- "“I only know what it is that’s wrong with him; not why it is.”\n\n“And what is it?” asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.\n\n“The old trouble; things won’t fit.”\n\n“What things?”\n\n“The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?”\n\nIn his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:\n\n“‘From far, from eve and morning,\n And yon twelve-winded sky,\nThe stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I’\n\n\nGeorge 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.”\n\nMiss 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.”\n\nSuddenly 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,\nor a Yes, or something!\n\n“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.\nThis 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,\nbefore she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe 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_.\nThere’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,\nyes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”" +- "“I only know what it is that’s wrong with him; not why it is.”\n\n“And what is it?” asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.\n\n“The old trouble; things won’t fit.”\n\n“What things?”\n\n“The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?”\n\nIn his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:\n\n“‘From far, from eve and morning,\n And yon twelve-winded sky,\nThe 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.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch assented.\n\n“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.”\n\nSuddenly 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,\nor 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.”\n\nThe old man’s face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand.\nThis 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,\nbefore she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”" +- "“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.\n\n“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_.\nThere’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,\nyes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin." +- "Chapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”" - "It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave.\nThe 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.\nPerhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never." - "She was no dazzling _exécutante;_ 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.\nPassion 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.\nBut 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." @@ -90,7 +94,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "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,\nwho stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett,\nsmarting 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,\nhe 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.\n\n“But aren’t they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?” said the little lady inquisitively.\n\n“Only once. Charlotte didn’t like it, and said something—quite politely, of course.”\n\n“Most right of her. They don’t understand our ways. They must find their level.”\n\nMr. 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 façade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun.\n\n“Too late to go out,” said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. “All the galleries are shut.”\n\n“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.”\n\nHer two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:\n\n“I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won’t you be better on your feet?”\n\n“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan.\n\n“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.\n\n“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.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV Fourth Chapter" +- "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.\n\n“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.”" +- Chapter IV Fourth 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?\nCharlotte 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.\nIndirectly, 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." @@ -105,7 +110,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“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.\n“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.”\n\nSomething warned Lucy that she must stop him.\n\n“It has happened,” he repeated, “and I mean to find out what it is.”\n\n“Mr. Emerson—”\n\nHe turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.\n\n“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:\n\n“I have behaved ridiculously.”\n\nHe was following his own thoughts.\n\n“I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me.”\n\n“I nearly fainted myself,” he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.\n\n“Well, I owe you a thousand apologies.”\n\n“Oh, all right.”\n\n“And—this is the real point—you know how silly people are gossiping—ladies especially, I am afraid—you understand what I mean?”\n\n“I’m afraid I don’t.”\n\n“I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?”\n\n“Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right—all right.”\n\n“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;\nhis 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!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”\n\n“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing" +- "“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”\n\n“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears." +- Chapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing - "It was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one." - "For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure,\nnot that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events,\ncontradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong." - "At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties—all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.\n\n“No, Charlotte!” cried the girl, with real warmth. “It’s very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather.”\n\n“Very well, dear,” said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her." @@ -133,7 +139,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“It is indeed,” replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic.\n\n“What do you think about it?” asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress.\n\n“I don’t know what I think, nor what I want.”\n\n“Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn’t boring you. Speak the word,\nand, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow.”\n\n“Thank you, Charlotte,” said Lucy, and pondered over the offer." - "There were letters for her at the bureau—one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother’s letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald—all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveller returns.\n\n“And the news?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome,” said Lucy, giving the news that interested her least. “Do you know the Vyses?”" - "“Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Piazza Signoria.”\n\n“They’re nice people, the Vyses. So clever—my idea of what’s really clever. Don’t you long to be in Rome?”\n\n“I die for it!”\n\nThe Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something,\nand though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god." -- "“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them." +- "“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion." +- "Chapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them." - "It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guard against imposition. But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god." - "Phaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus enabling himself to drive with his arm round her waist. She did not mind. Mr.\nEager, who sat with his back to the horses, saw nothing of the indecorous proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy. The other two occupants of the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and Miss Lavish. For a dreadful thing had happened: Mr. Beebe, without consulting Mr. Eager, had doubled the size of the party. And though Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how the people were to sit, at the critical moment when the carriages came round they lost their heads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while Miss Bartlett, with George Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind." - "It was hard on the poor chaplain to have his _partie carrée_ thus transformed. Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated it,\nwas now impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain style about them, and Mr. Beebe, though unreliable, was a man of parts. But a shoddy lady writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife in the sight of God—they should enter no villa at his introduction." @@ -158,7 +165,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "She was correct as usual. He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it to make it stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded his hat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than a quarter of a minute was ready to conduct her. Italians are born knowing the way.\nIt would seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but as a chess-board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces as well as the squares. Any one can find places, but the finding of people is a gift from God.\n\nHe only stopped once, to pick her some great blue violets. She thanked him with real pleasure. In the company of this common man the world was beautiful and direct. For the first time she felt the influence of Spring. His arm swept the horizon gracefully; violets, like other things, existed in great profusion there; “would she like to see them?”\n\n“Ma buoni uomini.”" - "He bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceeded briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. They were nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing round them, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into countless pieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the pliant boughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not a twig, was unimportant to her.\n\n“What is that?”\n\nThere was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The voice of Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian’s ignorance is sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She could not make him understand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view was forming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, other hills.\n\n“Eccolo!” he exclaimed." - "At the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end.\n\n“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above.\n“Courage and love.”\n\nShe did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view,\nand violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth.\n\nStanding at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.\nBut he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone." -- "George had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.\n\nBefore she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII They Return" +- "George had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.\n\nBefore she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view." +- Chapter VII They Return - "Some complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye.\nCharlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon had lost the game." - "That last fact was undeniable. He climbed on to the box shivering, with his collar up, prophesying the swift approach of bad weather. “Let us go immediately,” he told them. “The signorino will walk.”\n\n“All the way? He will be hours,” said Mr. Beebe.\n\n“Apparently. I told him it was unwise.” He would look no one in the face; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him. He alone had played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the others had used scraps of their intelligence. He alone had divined what things were, and what he wished them to be. He alone had interpreted the message that Lucy had received five days before from the lips of a dying man. Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave—she could interpret it also. Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly,\nand perhaps too late." - "The thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, seldom affect the lives of his employers. He was the most competent of Miss Bartlett’s opponents,\nbut infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the town, he and his insight and his knowledge would trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in the bushes; he might make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what have we to do with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed downwards towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious. They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.\n\nRain and darkness came on together. The two ladies huddled together under an inadequate parasol. There was a lightning flash, and Miss Lavish who was nervous, screamed from the carriage in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally:" @@ -181,7 +189,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The girl would not be degraded to this.\n\n“Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one.”\n\nHer promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room." - "For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin’s voice had intervened, and, ever since,\nit was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now,\ncould be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time—indeed,\nfor years—she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better—a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most." - "Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity,\nof her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul.\n\nThe door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,\nthough she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her.\n\nTo reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.\n\nWhether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:" -- "“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”\n\nSoon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\nIn the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval" +- "“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”\n\nSoon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\nIn the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO" +- Chapter VIII Medieval - "The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,”\nor might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;\nwithin, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man." - "Two pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.\n\n“Where aren’t they?” said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy’s brother. “I tell you I’m getting fairly sick.”\n\n“For goodness’ sake go out of my drawing-room, then?” cried Mrs.\nHoneychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally.\n\nFreddy did not move or reply.\n\n“I think things are coming to a head,” she observed, rather wanting her son’s opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication." - "“Time they did.”\n\n“I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more.”\n\n“It’s his third go, isn’t it?”\n\n“Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind.”\n\n“I didn’t mean to be unkind.” Then he added: “But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don’t know how girls manage things, but she can’t have said ‘No’ properly before, or she wouldn’t have to say it again now. Over the whole thing—I can’t explain—I do feel so uncomfortable.”\n\n“Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!”\n\n“I feel—never mind.”\n\nHe returned to his work.\n\n“Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: ‘Dear Mrs.\nVyse.’”\n\n“Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter.”" @@ -213,7 +222,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it.\nShe has learnt—you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely—she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides.” It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. “She has learnt through you,” and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; “let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her.”\n\n“Grazie tante!” said Cecil, who did not like parsons.\n\n“Have you heard?” shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden. “Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?”\n\nFreddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact." - "“Indeed I have!” he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer—at all events not without apology. “Mrs.\nHoneychurch, I’m going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I’m too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them,\ngrave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my tea.”\n\n“You only asked for it just in time,” the lady retorted. “How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?”\n\nHe took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be serious any more." - "An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present." -- "So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne,\nputting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped.\nFreddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art" +- "So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne,\nputting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped.\nFreddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy." +- Chapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art - "A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\nfor naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man.\n\nCecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers.\n\nAt tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been." - "“Do you go to much of this sort of thing?” he asked when they were driving home.\n\n“Oh, now and then,” said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself.\n\n“Is it typical of country society?”\n\n“I suppose so. Mother, would it be?”\n\n“Plenty of society,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses.\n\nSeeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said:\n\n“To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous.”\n\n“I am so sorry that you were stranded.”\n\n“Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property—a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!”\n\n“One has to go through it, I suppose. They won’t notice us so much next time.”\n\n“But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement—horrid word in the first place—is a private matter, and should be treated as such.”" - "Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them,\nrejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different—personal love. Hence Cecil’s irritation and Lucy’s belief that his irritation was just.\n\n“How tiresome!” she said. “Couldn’t you have escaped to tennis?”\n\n“I don’t play tennis—at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato.”\n\n“Inglese Italianato?”\n\n“E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?”\n\nShe did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement,\nhad taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing." @@ -223,8 +233,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“I don’t know. I hate him. I’ve heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I _hate_ him.”\n\n“My goodness gracious me, child!” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “You’ll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen.”\n\nHe smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy’s moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman’s power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth." - "Nature—simplest of topics, he thought—lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch’s mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch." - "“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.\nHoneychurch?”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil,\nwho was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again." -- "Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\nLet us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself." -- "The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.\nPretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil." +- "Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’" +- "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\nThe woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.\nPretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil." - "“Cissie” was the name of one of these villas, “Albert” of the other.\nThese titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. “Albert”\nwas inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. “Cissie” was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions.\n\n“The place is ruined!” said the ladies mechanically. “Summer Street will never be the same again.”\n\nAs the carriage passed, “Cissie’s” door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.\n\n“Stop!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.\n“Here’s Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!”" - "Sir Harry Otway—who need not be described—came to the carriage and said “Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can’t, I really can’t turn out Miss Flack.”\n\n“Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew’s time?”\n\n“But what can I do?” He lowered his voice. “An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden.”\n\n“Turn her out,” said Cecil bravely." - "Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack’s intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm.\nHe called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,—a most reasonable and respectful man—who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ,\nhowever, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the façade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative." @@ -241,7 +251,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "He meant, “Are you fond of it?” But she answered dreamily, “I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row.”\n\nAt another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool’s edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it,\nand she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green.\n\n“Who found you out?”\n\n“Charlotte,” she murmured. “She was stopping with us.\nCharlotte—Charlotte.”\n\n“Poor girl!”\n\nShe smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk, now appeared practical.\n\n“Lucy!”\n\n“Yes, I suppose we ought to be going,” was her reply.\n\n“Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before.”\n\nAt the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards him.\n\n“What, Cecil?”" - "“Hitherto never—not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry me—”\n\nHe became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were observed. His courage had gone.\n\n“Yes?”\n\n“Up to now I have never kissed you.”\n\nShe was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately.\n\n“No—more you have,” she stammered.\n\n“Then I ask you—may I now?”\n\n“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can’t run at you, you know.”\n\nAt that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.\nAs he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them." - "Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. Lucy was standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.\n\nThey left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.\n\n“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”" -- "He could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X Cecil as a Humourist" +- He could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had. +- Chapter X Cecil as a Humourist - "The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,\nand, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter." - "Other houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility. “I cannot think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction—which few honest solicitors despise—of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable." - "The best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were rather dull,\nand Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy.\nHitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning—their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags,\norange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to speak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and identical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the London fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished." @@ -262,26 +273,29 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Hullo!” he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed in high spirits. “I was hoping you’d come. I heard you all bear-gardening, but there’s better fun up here. I, even I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith’s right—the cause of Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don’t be angry! Don’t be angry! You’ll forgive me when you hear it all.”\n\nHe looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings at once.\n\n“I have heard,” she said. “Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing!\nCertainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I’d rather have nice friends of yours. But you oughtn’t to tease one so.”" - "“Friends of mine?” he laughed. “But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come!\nCome here.” But she remained standing where she was. “Do you know where I met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up to see my mother last week.”\n\n“What an odd place to meet people!” she said nervously. “I don’t quite understand.”\n\n“In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca Signorelli—of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy.”\n\n“But, Cecil—” proceeded hilariously.\n\n“In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country cottage—the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends. I thought, ‘What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!’ and I took their address and a London reference, found they weren’t actual blackguards—it was great sport—and wrote to him, making out—”\n\n“Cecil! No, it’s not fair. I’ve probably met them before—”\n\nHe bore her down." - "“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time.\nNo, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—”\n\n“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”\n\nHe stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”\n\nHer face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago.\n\n“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”\n\nShe left him.\n\n“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows." -- "No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat" +- "No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner." +- Chapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat - "The Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,\nmet Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die." - "Lucy—to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows because there are hills—Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least.\nNow that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little thinking, and—so illogical are girls—the event remained rather greater and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa while she was safe in the London flat.\n\n“Cecil—Cecil darling,” she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept into his arms." - "Cecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should,\nand looked up to him because he was a man.\n\n“So you do love me, little thing?” he murmured.\n\n“Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don’t know what I should do without you.”" - "Several days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what Charlotte would call “the flight to Rome,” and in Rome it had increased amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy’s, and once, in the Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses—Mrs. Vyse was an acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.\n\n“TUNBRIDGE WELLS,\n“_September_.\n\n\n“DEAREST LUCIA," -- "“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house. He _said_ he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune,\nand I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\nLucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:" -- "“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n“DEAR CHARLOTTE," -- "“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,\nand cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,\nthey would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.\nAs for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January." -- "“Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do not put ‘Private’ outside your envelope again. No one opens my letters.\n\n\n“Yours affectionately,\n“L. M. HONEYCHURCH.”\n\n\nSecrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil’s life if he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.\n“Emerson, not Harris”; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she stopped." +- "“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house. He _said_ he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune,\nand I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”" +- "Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W." +- "“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,\nand cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,\nthey would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.\nAs for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January." +- "“Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do not put ‘Private’ outside your envelope again. No one opens my letters.\n\n\n“Yours affectionately,\n“L. M. HONEYCHURCH.”" +- "Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil’s life if he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.\n“Emerson, not Harris”; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she stopped." - "She and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool,\nand it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the past.\n\nThe grandchildren asked her to play the piano." - "She played Schumann. “Now some Beethoven” called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete—the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art—throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and “Too much Schumann” was not the remark that Mr.\nBeebe had passed to himself when she returned." - "When the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son.\nMrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another’s,\nhad been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd.\n\n“Make Lucy one of us,” she said, looking round intelligently at the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again.\n“Lucy is becoming wonderful—wonderful.”\n\n“Her music always was wonderful.”\n\n“Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made.”\n\n“Italy has done it.”" - "“Perhaps,” she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. “It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January.\nShe is one of us already.”\n\n“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to London. I don’t believe in these London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”\n\n“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.\n\nAs she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek." -- "“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”\n\nThe elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII Twelfth Chapter\n\n\nIt was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.\nAll that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n“M’m.”" -- "“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in.\n\n“I suggested we should hinder them,” said Mr. Beebe. “They are worth it.” Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. “Hullo!” he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible.\n\nA grave voice replied, “Hullo!”\n\n“I’ve brought someone to see you.”\n\n“I’ll be down in a minute.”\n\nThe passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books.\n\n“Are these people great readers?” Freddy whispered. “Are they that sort?”" -- "“I fancy they know how to read—a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German.\nUm—um—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, look at that,” said Freddy in awestruck tones.\n\nOn the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: “Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.”\n\n“I know. Isn’t it jolly? I like that. I’m certain that’s the old man’s doing.”\n\n“How very odd of him!”\n\n“Surely you agree?”\n\nBut Freddy was his mother’s son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture.\n\n“Pictures!” the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.\n“Giotto—they got that at Florence, I’ll be bound.”\n\n“The same as Lucy’s got.”\n\n“Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?”\n\n“She came back yesterday.”" -- "“I suppose she had a good time?”\n\n“Yes, very,” said Freddy, taking up a book. “She and Cecil are thicker than ever.”\n\n“That’s good hearing.”\n\n“I wish I wasn’t such a fool, Mr. Beebe.”\n\nMr. Beebe ignored the remark.\n\n“Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it’ll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books.”\n\n“So will you.”\n\n“Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards.\nCecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful.\nThere are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says—”\n\n“What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson—we think we’ll come another time.”\n\nGeorge ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking.\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour.”" -- "Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George’s face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, “How d’ye do? Come and have a bathe.”\n\n“Oh, all right,” said George, impassive.\n\nMr. Beebe was highly entertained.\n\n“‘How d’ye do? how d’ye do? Come and have a bathe,’” he chuckled.\n“That’s the best conversational opening I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with ‘How do you do? Come and have a bathe’? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal.”\n\n“I tell you that they shall be,” said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same.”\n\n“We are to raise ladies to our level?” the clergyman inquired." -- "“The Garden of Eden,” pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, “which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies.”\n\nMr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.\n\n“In this—not in other things—we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden.”\n\n“I say, what about this bathe?” murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him.\n\n“I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage.”\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence.”" -- "“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry.\nMarriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr.\nVyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”\n\n“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. “I must—that is to say, I have to—have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope.”\n\n“_Call_, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country.”\n\nMr. Beebe came to the rescue." +- "“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”\n\nThe elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat." +- Chapter XII Twelfth Chapter +- "It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.\nAll that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n“M’m.”\n\n“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in.\n\n“I suggested we should hinder them,” said Mr. Beebe. “They are worth it.” Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. “Hullo!” he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible." +- "A grave voice replied, “Hullo!”\n\n“I’ve brought someone to see you.”\n\n“I’ll be down in a minute.”\n\nThe passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books.\n\n“Are these people great readers?” Freddy whispered. “Are they that sort?”\n\n“I fancy they know how to read—a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German.\nUm—um—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, look at that,” said Freddy in awestruck tones.\n\nOn the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: “Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.”\n\n“I know. Isn’t it jolly? I like that. I’m certain that’s the old man’s doing.”\n\n“How very odd of him!”" +- "“Surely you agree?”\n\nBut Freddy was his mother’s son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture.\n\n“Pictures!” the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.\n“Giotto—they got that at Florence, I’ll be bound.”\n\n“The same as Lucy’s got.”\n\n“Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?”\n\n“She came back yesterday.”\n\n“I suppose she had a good time?”\n\n“Yes, very,” said Freddy, taking up a book. “She and Cecil are thicker than ever.”\n\n“That’s good hearing.”\n\n“I wish I wasn’t such a fool, Mr. Beebe.”\n\nMr. Beebe ignored the remark.\n\n“Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it’ll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books.”\n\n“So will you.”\n\n“Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards.\nCecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful.\nThere are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says—”" +- "“What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson—we think we’ll come another time.”\n\nGeorge ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking.\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour.”\n\nThen Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George’s face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, “How d’ye do? Come and have a bathe.”\n\n“Oh, all right,” said George, impassive.\n\nMr. Beebe was highly entertained.\n\n“‘How d’ye do? how d’ye do? Come and have a bathe,’” he chuckled.\n“That’s the best conversational opening I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with ‘How do you do? Come and have a bathe’? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal.”" +- "“I tell you that they shall be,” said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same.”\n\n“We are to raise ladies to our level?” the clergyman inquired.\n\n“The Garden of Eden,” pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, “which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies.”\n\nMr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.\n\n“In this—not in other things—we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden.”\n\n“I say, what about this bathe?” murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him.\n\n“I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage.”" +- "“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence.”\n\n“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry.\nMarriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr.\nVyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”\n\n“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. “I must—that is to say, I have to—have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope.”\n\n“_Call_, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country.”\n\nMr. Beebe came to the rescue." - "“Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days’ interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon.”\n\n“Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can’t believe he’s well.”\n\nGeorge bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture.\n\n“Do you really want this bathe?” Freddy asked him. “It is only a pond,\ndon’t you know. I dare say you are used to something better.”\n\n“Yes—I have said ‘Yes’ already.”" - "Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads.\n\n“And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?”\n\n“I did not. Miss Lavish told me.”\n\n“When I was a young man, I always meant to write a ‘History of Coincidence.’”\n\nNo enthusiasm." - "“Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn’t purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect.”\n\nTo his relief, George began to talk.\n\n“It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate—flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us—we settle nothing—”\n\n“You have not reflected at all,” rapped the clergyman. “Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don’t say, ‘I didn’t do this,’ for you did it, ten to one. Now I’ll cross-question you.\nWhere did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?”\n\n“Italy.”\n\n“And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?”\n\n“National Gallery.”\n\n“Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it.”" @@ -294,7 +308,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair.\n\n“That’ll do!” shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. “Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!”\n\nYells, and widening circles over the dappled earth.\n\n“Hi! hi! _Ladies!_”\n\nNeither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe’s last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch,\nCecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth.\nFreddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe’s hat.\n\n“Gracious alive!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch. “Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too!\nWhatever has happened?”" - "“Come this way immediately,” commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed.\n\n“Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil,\nMr. Beebe’s waistcoat—”\n\nNo business of ours, said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently “minded.”\n\n“I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond.”\n\n“This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way.”\n\nThey followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.\n\n“Well, _I_ can’t help it,” said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. “I can’t be trodden on, can I?”\n\n“Good gracious me, dear; so it’s you! What miserable management! Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?”" - "“Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow’s got to dry, and if another fellow—”\n\n“Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy.” They turned. “Oh, look—don’t look! Oh, poor Mr.\nBeebe! How unfortunate again—”\n\nFor Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.\n\n“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”\n\n“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”\n\n“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”\n\n“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped." -- "He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed.\n\nThat evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome" +- "He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed.\n\nThat evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth." +- Chapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome - "How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these.\nBut she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star." - "Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. “I will bow,” she had thought. “I will not shake hands with him.\nThat will be just the proper thing.” She had bowed—but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world." - "So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and made long, clever answers where “Yes” or “No” would have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed,\nthough not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover.\n\n“Lucy,” said her mother, when they got home, “is anything the matter with Cecil?”\n\nThe question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with charity and restraint." @@ -311,7 +326,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“And I have been thinking,” she added rather nervously, “surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while the plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long.”\n\nIt was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother’s goodness to her upstairs.\n\n“Mother, no!” she pleaded. “It’s impossible. We can’t have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we’re squeezed to death as it is. Freddy’s got a friend coming Tuesday, there’s Cecil, and you’ve promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can’t be done.”\n\n“Nonsense! It can.”\n\n“If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise.”\n\n“Minnie can sleep with you.”\n\n“I won’t have her.”\n\n“Then, if you’re so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy.”\n\n“Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett,” moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes." - "“It’s impossible,” repeated Lucy. “I don’t want to make difficulties,\nbut it really isn’t fair on the maids to fill up the house so.”\n\nAlas!\n\n“The truth is, dear, you don’t like Charlotte.”\n\n“No, I don’t. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven’t seen her lately, and don’t realize how tiresome she can be,\nthough so good. So please, mother, don’t worry us this last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come.”\n\n“Hear, hear!” said Cecil.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling than she usually permitted herself, replied: “This isn’t very kind of you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are,\nand however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like to grow old.”\n\nCecil crumbled his bread." - "“I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on my bike,” put in Freddy. “She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right.”\n\n“I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return.”\n\nBut Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”\n\n“From your own account, you told her as much.”\n\n“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—”" -- "The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.\n\n“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”\n\nCecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely" +- "The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.\n\n“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”\n\nCecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”" +- Chapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely - "Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week." - "Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.” Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed." - "It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, “She loves young Emerson.” A reader in Lucy’s place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome “nerves”\nor any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?\n\nBut the external situation—she will face that bravely.\n\nThe meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,\nand George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy,\nand was glad that he did not seem shy either.\n\n“A nice fellow,” said Mr. Beebe afterwards “He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully.”\n\nLucy said, “He seems in better spirits. He laughs more.”\n\n“Yes,” replied the clergyman. “He is waking up.”" @@ -325,8 +341,9 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Miss Bartlett sighed “I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me.”\n\n“Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don’t.”\n\nFor the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon.\n\n“Dear, one moment—we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?”\n\n“Yes, I have.”\n\n“What happened?”\n\n“We met at the Rectory.”\n\n“What line is he taking up?”\n\n“No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won’t be any nuisance, Charlotte.”\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion.”" - "Lucy paused. “Cecil said one day—and I thought it so profound—that there are two kinds of cads—the conscious and the subconscious.” She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil’s profundity.\nThrough the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith’s library. Her mother must have returned from the station.\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad,” droned Miss Bartlett." - "“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him,\nand has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden.” She took hold of her guest by the arm. “Suppose we don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.”" -- "Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\nThe Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells." -- "The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her,\nno nonsense”—“Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!”—“Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?” For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church." +- "Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain." +- Chapter XV The Disaster Within +- "The Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells.\n\nThe garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her,\nno nonsense”—“Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!”—“Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?” For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church." - "The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan;\non George Emerson cleaning his father’s boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly,\nas though acknowledging the caress." - "Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies—an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little—not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills.\n\n“Lucy! Lucy! What’s that book? Who’s been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?”\n\n“It’s only the library book that Cecil’s been reading.”\n\n“But pick it up, and don’t stand idling there like a flamingo.”" - "Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, “What! you aren’t forgetting your Italy already?” And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun.\n\n“Lucy—have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?”\n\nShe hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster." @@ -342,7 +359,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy’s spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses’ hoofs sang a tune to her: “He has not told, he has not told.” Her brain expanded the melody: “He has not told his father—to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone.” She raised her hand to her cheek. “He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did!\nBut he has not told. He will not tell.”\n\nShe longed to shout the words: “It is all right. It’s a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear.” She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded." - "Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:\n\n“The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously.”\n\n“How are my protégés?” asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them,\nand had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes.\n\n“Protégés!” she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl’s soul yearned.\n\n“You shall see for yourself how your protégés are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don’t—” She nearly said, “Don’t protect him.” But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte." - "Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning," -- "would never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed." +- "would never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument." +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed." - "Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark," - "and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.\n\nSTART: FULL LICENSE\n\nTHE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK" - "To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase \"Project Gutenberg\"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.\n\nSection 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap index 66d6eef1..7599346c 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap @@ -6,31 +6,33 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare\n\n" - "This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\n" - "using this eBook.\n\nTitle: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\n" -- "THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\n" +- "THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\n" +- "by William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\n" - "ACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n\n" - "ACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n\n" -- "ACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ\n\n" -- "ESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\n" +- "ACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n" +- " Dramatis Personæ\n\nESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\n" - "MONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.\n\n" - "CAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\n" - "GREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\n" -- "SCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\nTHE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\n" +- "SCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\n" +- "THE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\n" - "CHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\n" -- "The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n" -- " Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\n" -- "SAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\n" -- "SAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\n" -- "GREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\nSAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\n" -- "SAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\n" -- "GREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\n" -- "GREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\n" -- "ABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\n" -- "GREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\n" -- "SAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\n" -- "TYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n" -- " Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\n" -- "LADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\nCAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.\n\n" -- "LADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants.\n\n" +- "The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\n" +- "GREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\n" +- "GREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\n" +- "SAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\n" +- "SAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\n" +- "GREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\n" +- "SAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\n" +- "SAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\n" +- "SAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n" +- " Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n" +- " [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me.\n\n" +- "TYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n" +- " Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\nCAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\n" +- "MONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants.\n\n" - "PRINCE.\nRebellious subjects, enemies to peace,\nProfaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—\nWill they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts,\nThat quench the fire of your pernicious rage\nWith purple fountains issuing from your veins,\nOn pain of torture, from those bloody hands\nThrow your mistemper’d weapons to the ground\nAnd hear the sentence of your moved prince.\n" - "Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,\nBy thee, old Capulet, and Montague,\nHave thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,\nAnd made Verona’s ancient citizens\nCast by their grave beseeming ornaments,\nTo wield old partisans, in hands as old,\nCanker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.\nIf ever you disturb our streets again,\nYour lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.\n" - "For this time all the rest depart away:\nYou, Capulet, shall go along with me,\nAnd Montague, come you this afternoon,\nTo know our farther pleasure in this case,\nTo old Free-town, our common judgement-place.\nOnce more, on pain of death, all men depart.\n\n [_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt,\n Citizens and Servants._]\n\n" @@ -140,7 +142,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - " [_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nCome hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?\n\nNURSE.\nThe son and heir of old Tiberio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that now is going out of door?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, that I think be young Petruchio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that follows here, that would not dance?\n\n" - "NURSE.\nI know not.\n\nJULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\n" -- "NURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\n" +- "NURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\n" - "CHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:\n" - "Being held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\n" - "ROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed.\n\n" @@ -254,8 +257,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot\nWill ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.\nA lover may bestride the gossamers\nThat idles in the wanton summer air\nAnd yet not fall; so light is vanity.\n\nJULIET.\nGood even to my ghostly confessor.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nAs much to him, else is his thanks too much.\n\nROMEO.\nAh, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy\nBe heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue\nUnfold the imagin’d happiness that both\nReceive in either by this dear encounter.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nConceit more rich in matter than in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of ornament.\nThey are but beggars that can count their worth;\nBut my true love is grown to such excess,\nI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.\n\n" -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\n" -- "BENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\n" +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\n" - "MERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?\n\n" - "MERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?\n\n" - "MERCUTIO.\nNay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would\nkill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a\nhair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel\nwith a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou\n" @@ -392,8 +395,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "NURSE.\nAnd from my soul too,\nOr else beshrew them both.\n\nJULIET.\nAmen.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat?\n\nJULIET.\nWell, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\nGo in, and tell my lady I am gone,\nHaving displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,\nTo make confession and to be absolv’d.\n\n" - "NURSE.\nMarry, I will; and this is wisely done.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n" - "JULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\n" -- "If all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\n" -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\n" +- "If all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\n" - "PARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society.\n" - "Now do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife.\n\n" - "PARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\n" @@ -464,7 +467,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "PETER.\nThen have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and\nput up my iron dagger. Answer me like men.\n ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound,\n And doleful dumps the mind oppress,\n Then music with her silver sound’—\nWhy ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you,\nSimon Catling?\n\n" - "FIRST MUSICIAN.\nMarry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.\n\nPETER.\nPrates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck?\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nI say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.\n\nPETER.\nPrates too! What say you, James Soundpost?\n\nTHIRD MUSICIAN.\nFaith, I know not what to say.\n\n" - "PETER.\nO, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is\n‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for\nsounding.\n ‘Then music with her silver sound\n With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!\n\n" -- "SECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\n" +- "SECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\n" - "ROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,\n" - "That I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well.\n\n" - "BALTHASAR.\nThen she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleeps in Capel’s monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you.\nO pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir.\n\n" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap index bdb88673..c9ac9323 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap @@ -3,19 +3,22 @@ source: tests/text_splitter_snapshots.rs expression: chunks input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt --- -- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook.\n\nTitle: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\nACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n\nACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n\nACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ\n\nESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\nMONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.\n\nCAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\nGREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\nSCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\nTHE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\n" -- "CHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\nThe fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\nSAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\n" -- "SAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\nCAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants.\n\nPRINCE.\nRebellious subjects, enemies to peace,\nProfaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—\nWill they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts,\nThat quench the fire of your pernicious rage\nWith purple fountains issuing from your veins,\nOn pain of torture, from those bloody hands\nThrow your mistemper’d weapons to the ground\nAnd hear the sentence of your moved prince.\nThree civil brawls, bred of an airy word,\nBy thee, old Capulet, and Montague,\nHave thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,\nAnd made Verona’s ancient citizens\nCast by their grave beseeming ornaments,\nTo wield old partisans, in hands as old,\nCanker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.\nIf ever you disturb our streets again,\nYour lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.\nFor this time all the rest depart away:\nYou, Capulet, shall go along with me,\nAnd Montague, come you this afternoon,\nTo know our farther pleasure in this case,\nTo old Free-town, our common judgement-place.\nOnce more, on pain of death, all men depart.\n\n [_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt,\n Citizens and Servants._]\n\nMONTAGUE.\nWho set this ancient quarrel new abroach?\nSpeak, nephew, were you by when it began?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere were the servants of your adversary\nAnd yours, close fighting ere I did approach.\nI drew to part them, in the instant came\nThe fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d,\nWhich, as he breath’d defiance to my ears,\nHe swung about his head, and cut the winds,\nWho nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn.\nWhile we were interchanging thrusts and blows\nCame more and more, and fought on part and part,\nTill the Prince came, who parted either part.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nO where is Romeo, saw you him today?\nRight glad I am he was not at this fray.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMadam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun\nPeer’d forth the golden window of the east,\nA troubled mind drave me to walk abroad,\nWhere underneath the grove of sycamore\nThat westward rooteth from this city side,\nSo early walking did I see your son.\nTowards him I made, but he was ware of me,\nAnd stole into the covert of the wood.\nI, measuring his affections by my own,\nWhich then most sought where most might not be found,\nBeing one too many by my weary self,\nPursu’d my humour, not pursuing his,\nAnd gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.\n\n" -- "MONTAGUE.\nMany a morning hath he there been seen,\nWith tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,\nAdding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;\nBut all so soon as the all-cheering sun\nShould in the farthest east begin to draw\nThe shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,\nAway from light steals home my heavy son,\nAnd private in his chamber pens himself,\nShuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out\nAnd makes himself an artificial night.\nBlack and portentous must this humour prove,\nUnless good counsel may the cause remove.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMy noble uncle, do you know the cause?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI neither know it nor can learn of him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHave you importun’d him by any means?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nBoth by myself and many other friends;\nBut he, his own affections’ counsellor,\nIs to himself—I will not say how true—\nBut to himself so secret and so close,\nSo far from sounding and discovery,\nAs is the bud bit with an envious worm\nEre he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,\nOr dedicate his beauty to the sun.\nCould we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,\nWe would as willingly give cure as know.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSee, where he comes. So please you step aside;\nI’ll know his grievance or be much denied.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI would thou wert so happy by thy stay\nTo hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away,\n\n [_Exeunt Montague and Lady Montague._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGood morrow, cousin.\n\nROMEO.\nIs the day so young?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBut new struck nine.\n\nROMEO.\nAy me, sad hours seem long.\nWas that my father that went hence so fast?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nIt was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?\n\nROMEO.\nNot having that which, having, makes them short.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nIn love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nOf love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut of her favour where I am in love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAlas that love so gentle in his view,\nShould be so tyrannous and rough in proof.\n\nROMEO.\nAlas that love, whose view is muffled still,\nShould, without eyes, see pathways to his will!\nWhere shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?\nYet tell me not, for I have heard it all.\nHere’s much to do with hate, but more with love:\nWhy, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!\nO anything, of nothing first create!\nO heavy lightness! serious vanity!\nMisshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!\nFeather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!\nStill-waking sleep, that is not what it is!\nThis love feel I, that feel no love in this.\nDost thou not laugh?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nNo coz, I rather weep.\n\nROMEO.\nGood heart, at what?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt thy good heart’s oppression.\n\nROMEO.\nWhy such is love’s transgression.\nGriefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,\nWhich thou wilt propagate to have it prest\nWith more of thine. This love that thou hast shown\nDoth add more grief to too much of mine own.\nLove is a smoke made with the fume of sighs;\nBeing purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;\nBeing vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:\nWhat is it else? A madness most discreet,\nA choking gall, and a preserving sweet.\nFarewell, my coz.\n\n [_Going._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSoft! I will go along:\nAnd if you leave me so, you do me wrong.\n\nROMEO.\nTut! I have lost myself; I am not here.\nThis is not Romeo, he’s some other where.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTell me in sadness who is that you love?\n\nROMEO.\nWhat, shall I groan and tell thee?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGroan! Why, no; but sadly tell me who.\n\nROMEO.\nBid a sick man in sadness make his will,\nA word ill urg’d to one that is so ill.\nIn sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.\n\n" -- "BENVOLIO.\nI aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.\n\nROMEO.\nA right good markman, and she’s fair I love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nA right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.\n\nROMEO.\nWell, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit\nWith Cupid’s arrow, she hath Dian’s wit;\nAnd in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,\nFrom love’s weak childish bow she lives uncharm’d.\nShe will not stay the siege of loving terms\nNor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes,\nNor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:\nO she’s rich in beauty, only poor\nThat when she dies, with beauty dies her store.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThen she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?\n\nROMEO.\nShe hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;\nFor beauty starv’d with her severity,\nCuts beauty off from all posterity.\nShe is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair,\nTo merit bliss by making me despair.\nShe hath forsworn to love, and in that vow\nDo I live dead, that live to tell it now.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBe rul’d by me, forget to think of her.\n\nROMEO.\nO teach me how I should forget to think.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy giving liberty unto thine eyes;\nExamine other beauties.\n\nROMEO.\n’Tis the way\nTo call hers, exquisite, in question more.\nThese happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows,\nBeing black, puts us in mind they hide the fair;\nHe that is strucken blind cannot forget\nThe precious treasure of his eyesight lost.\nShow me a mistress that is passing fair,\nWhat doth her beauty serve but as a note\nWhere I may read who pass’d that passing fair?\nFarewell, thou canst not teach me to forget.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Street.\n\n Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant.\n\nCAPULET.\nBut Montague is bound as well as I,\nIn penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think,\nFor men so old as we to keep the peace.\n\nPARIS.\nOf honourable reckoning are you both,\nAnd pity ’tis you liv’d at odds so long.\nBut now my lord, what say you to my suit?\n\nCAPULET.\nBut saying o’er what I have said before.\nMy child is yet a stranger in the world,\nShe hath not seen the change of fourteen years;\nLet two more summers wither in their pride\nEre we may think her ripe to be a bride.\n\nPARIS.\nYounger than she are happy mothers made.\n\nCAPULET.\nAnd too soon marr’d are those so early made.\nThe earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,\nShe is the hopeful lady of my earth:\nBut woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,\nMy will to her consent is but a part;\nAnd she agree, within her scope of choice\nLies my consent and fair according voice.\nThis night I hold an old accustom’d feast,\nWhereto I have invited many a guest,\nSuch as I love, and you among the store,\nOne more, most welcome, makes my number more.\nAt my poor house look to behold this night\nEarth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:\nSuch comfort as do lusty young men feel\nWhen well apparell’d April on the heel\nOf limping winter treads, even such delight\nAmong fresh female buds shall you this night\nInherit at my house. Hear all, all see,\nAnd like her most whose merit most shall be:\nWhich, on more view of many, mine, being one,\nMay stand in number, though in reckoning none.\nCome, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about\nThrough fair Verona; find those persons out\nWhose names are written there, [_gives a paper_] and to them say,\nMy house and welcome on their pleasure stay.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet and Paris._]\n\n" -- "SERVANT.\nFind them out whose names are written here! It is written that the\nshoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the\nfisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to\nfind those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what\nnames the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good\ntime!\n\n Enter Benvolio and Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning,\nOne pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;\nTurn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;\nOne desperate grief cures with another’s languish:\nTake thou some new infection to thy eye,\nAnd the rank poison of the old will die.\n\nROMEO.\nYour plantain leaf is excellent for that.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nFor what, I pray thee?\n\nROMEO.\nFor your broken shin.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy, Romeo, art thou mad?\n\nROMEO.\nNot mad, but bound more than a madman is:\nShut up in prison, kept without my food,\nWhipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.\n\nSERVANT.\nGod gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, mine own fortune in my misery.\n\nSERVANT.\nPerhaps you have learned it without book.\nBut I pray, can you read anything you see?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, If I know the letters and the language.\n\nSERVANT.\nYe say honestly, rest you merry!\n\nROMEO.\nStay, fellow; I can read.\n\n [_He reads the letter._]\n\n_Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;\nCounty Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;\nThe lady widow of Utruvio;\nSignior Placentio and his lovely nieces;\nMercutio and his brother Valentine;\nMine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;\nMy fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\nSignior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt;\nLucio and the lively Helena. _\n\n\nA fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?\n\nSERVANT.\nUp.\n\nROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?\n\nSERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\nROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before.\n\nSERVANT.\nNow I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet,\nand if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a\ncup of wine. Rest you merry.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt this same ancient feast of Capulet’s\nSups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st;\nWith all the admired beauties of Verona.\nGo thither and with unattainted eye,\nCompare her face with some that I shall show,\nAnd I will make thee think thy swan a crow.\n\nROMEO.\nWhen the devout religion of mine eye\nMaintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire;\nAnd these who, often drown’d, could never die,\nTransparent heretics, be burnt for liars.\nOne fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun\nNe’er saw her match since first the world begun.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, you saw her fair, none else being by,\nHerself pois’d with herself in either eye:\nBut in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d\nYour lady’s love against some other maid\nThat I will show you shining at this feast,\nAnd she shall scant show well that now shows best.\n\nROMEO.\nI’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,\nBut to rejoice in splendour of my own.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me.\n\nNURSE.\nNow, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old,\nI bade her come. What, lamb! What ladybird!\nGod forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet!\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nHow now, who calls?\n\nNURSE.\nYour mother.\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, I am here. What is your will?\n\n" -- "LADY CAPULET.\nThis is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile,\nWe must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again,\nI have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.\nThou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, I can tell her age unto an hour.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nShe’s not fourteen.\n\nNURSE.\nI’ll lay fourteen of my teeth,\nAnd yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,\nShe is not fourteen. How long is it now\nTo Lammas-tide?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA fortnight and odd days.\n\nNURSE.\nEven or odd, of all days in the year,\nCome Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.\nSusan and she,—God rest all Christian souls!—\nWere of an age. Well, Susan is with God;\nShe was too good for me. But as I said,\nOn Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;\nThat shall she, marry; I remember it well.\n’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;\nAnd she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it—,\nOf all the days of the year, upon that day:\nFor I had then laid wormwood to my dug,\nSitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall;\nMy lord and you were then at Mantua:\nNay, I do bear a brain. But as I said,\nWhen it did taste the wormwood on the nipple\nOf my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,\nTo see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug!\nShake, quoth the dovehouse: ’twas no need, I trow,\nTo bid me trudge.\nAnd since that time it is eleven years;\nFor then she could stand alone; nay, by th’rood\nShe could have run and waddled all about;\nFor even the day before she broke her brow,\nAnd then my husband,—God be with his soul!\nA was a merry man,—took up the child:\n‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame,\nThe pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay’.\nTo see now how a jest shall come about.\nI warrant, and I should live a thousand years,\nI never should forget it. ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he;\nAnd, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nEnough of this; I pray thee hold thy peace.\n\nNURSE.\nYes, madam, yet I cannot choose but laugh,\nTo think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay’;\nAnd yet I warrant it had upon it brow\nA bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone;\nA perilous knock, and it cried bitterly.\n‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted, and said ‘Ay’.\n\nJULIET.\nAnd stint thou too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I.\n\nNURSE.\nPeace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace\nThou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d:\nAnd I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nMarry, that marry is the very theme\nI came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,\nHow stands your disposition to be married?\n\nJULIET.\nIt is an honour that I dream not of.\n\nNURSE.\nAn honour! Were not I thine only nurse,\nI would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, think of marriage now: younger than you,\nHere in Verona, ladies of esteem,\nAre made already mothers. By my count\nI was your mother much upon these years\nThat you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief;\nThe valiant Paris seeks you for his love.\n\nNURSE.\nA man, young lady! Lady, such a man\nAs all the world—why he’s a man of wax.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nVerona’s summer hath not such a flower.\n\nNURSE.\nNay, he’s a flower, in faith a very flower.\n\n" +- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook.\n\nTitle: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\nACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n\nACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n\nACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n" +- " Dramatis Personæ\n\nESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\nMONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.\n\nCAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\nGREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\nSCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\nTHE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\nThe fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\nSAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\n" +- "FIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\nCAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants.\n\nPRINCE.\nRebellious subjects, enemies to peace,\nProfaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—\nWill they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts,\nThat quench the fire of your pernicious rage\nWith purple fountains issuing from your veins,\nOn pain of torture, from those bloody hands\nThrow your mistemper’d weapons to the ground\nAnd hear the sentence of your moved prince.\nThree civil brawls, bred of an airy word,\nBy thee, old Capulet, and Montague,\nHave thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,\nAnd made Verona’s ancient citizens\nCast by their grave beseeming ornaments,\nTo wield old partisans, in hands as old,\nCanker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.\nIf ever you disturb our streets again,\nYour lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.\nFor this time all the rest depart away:\nYou, Capulet, shall go along with me,\nAnd Montague, come you this afternoon,\nTo know our farther pleasure in this case,\nTo old Free-town, our common judgement-place.\nOnce more, on pain of death, all men depart.\n\n [_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt,\n Citizens and Servants._]\n\nMONTAGUE.\nWho set this ancient quarrel new abroach?\nSpeak, nephew, were you by when it began?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere were the servants of your adversary\nAnd yours, close fighting ere I did approach.\nI drew to part them, in the instant came\nThe fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d,\nWhich, as he breath’d defiance to my ears,\nHe swung about his head, and cut the winds,\nWho nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn.\nWhile we were interchanging thrusts and blows\nCame more and more, and fought on part and part,\nTill the Prince came, who parted either part.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nO where is Romeo, saw you him today?\nRight glad I am he was not at this fray.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMadam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun\nPeer’d forth the golden window of the east,\nA troubled mind drave me to walk abroad,\nWhere underneath the grove of sycamore\nThat westward rooteth from this city side,\nSo early walking did I see your son.\nTowards him I made, but he was ware of me,\nAnd stole into the covert of the wood.\nI, measuring his affections by my own,\nWhich then most sought where most might not be found,\nBeing one too many by my weary self,\nPursu’d my humour, not pursuing his,\nAnd gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nMany a morning hath he there been seen,\nWith tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,\nAdding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;\nBut all so soon as the all-cheering sun\nShould in the farthest east begin to draw\nThe shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,\nAway from light steals home my heavy son,\nAnd private in his chamber pens himself,\nShuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out\nAnd makes himself an artificial night.\nBlack and portentous must this humour prove,\nUnless good counsel may the cause remove.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMy noble uncle, do you know the cause?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI neither know it nor can learn of him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHave you importun’d him by any means?\n\n" +- "MONTAGUE.\nBoth by myself and many other friends;\nBut he, his own affections’ counsellor,\nIs to himself—I will not say how true—\nBut to himself so secret and so close,\nSo far from sounding and discovery,\nAs is the bud bit with an envious worm\nEre he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,\nOr dedicate his beauty to the sun.\nCould we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,\nWe would as willingly give cure as know.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSee, where he comes. So please you step aside;\nI’ll know his grievance or be much denied.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI would thou wert so happy by thy stay\nTo hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away,\n\n [_Exeunt Montague and Lady Montague._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGood morrow, cousin.\n\nROMEO.\nIs the day so young?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBut new struck nine.\n\nROMEO.\nAy me, sad hours seem long.\nWas that my father that went hence so fast?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nIt was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?\n\nROMEO.\nNot having that which, having, makes them short.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nIn love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nOf love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut of her favour where I am in love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAlas that love so gentle in his view,\nShould be so tyrannous and rough in proof.\n\nROMEO.\nAlas that love, whose view is muffled still,\nShould, without eyes, see pathways to his will!\nWhere shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?\nYet tell me not, for I have heard it all.\nHere’s much to do with hate, but more with love:\nWhy, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!\nO anything, of nothing first create!\nO heavy lightness! serious vanity!\nMisshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!\nFeather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!\nStill-waking sleep, that is not what it is!\nThis love feel I, that feel no love in this.\nDost thou not laugh?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nNo coz, I rather weep.\n\nROMEO.\nGood heart, at what?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt thy good heart’s oppression.\n\nROMEO.\nWhy such is love’s transgression.\nGriefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,\nWhich thou wilt propagate to have it prest\nWith more of thine. This love that thou hast shown\nDoth add more grief to too much of mine own.\nLove is a smoke made with the fume of sighs;\nBeing purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;\nBeing vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:\nWhat is it else? A madness most discreet,\nA choking gall, and a preserving sweet.\nFarewell, my coz.\n\n [_Going._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSoft! I will go along:\nAnd if you leave me so, you do me wrong.\n\nROMEO.\nTut! I have lost myself; I am not here.\nThis is not Romeo, he’s some other where.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTell me in sadness who is that you love?\n\nROMEO.\nWhat, shall I groan and tell thee?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGroan! Why, no; but sadly tell me who.\n\nROMEO.\nBid a sick man in sadness make his will,\nA word ill urg’d to one that is so ill.\nIn sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.\n\nROMEO.\nA right good markman, and she’s fair I love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nA right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.\n\nROMEO.\nWell, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit\nWith Cupid’s arrow, she hath Dian’s wit;\nAnd in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,\nFrom love’s weak childish bow she lives uncharm’d.\nShe will not stay the siege of loving terms\nNor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes,\nNor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:\nO she’s rich in beauty, only poor\nThat when she dies, with beauty dies her store.\n\n" +- "BENVOLIO.\nThen she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?\n\nROMEO.\nShe hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;\nFor beauty starv’d with her severity,\nCuts beauty off from all posterity.\nShe is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair,\nTo merit bliss by making me despair.\nShe hath forsworn to love, and in that vow\nDo I live dead, that live to tell it now.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBe rul’d by me, forget to think of her.\n\nROMEO.\nO teach me how I should forget to think.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy giving liberty unto thine eyes;\nExamine other beauties.\n\nROMEO.\n’Tis the way\nTo call hers, exquisite, in question more.\nThese happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows,\nBeing black, puts us in mind they hide the fair;\nHe that is strucken blind cannot forget\nThe precious treasure of his eyesight lost.\nShow me a mistress that is passing fair,\nWhat doth her beauty serve but as a note\nWhere I may read who pass’d that passing fair?\nFarewell, thou canst not teach me to forget.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Street.\n\n Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant.\n\nCAPULET.\nBut Montague is bound as well as I,\nIn penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think,\nFor men so old as we to keep the peace.\n\nPARIS.\nOf honourable reckoning are you both,\nAnd pity ’tis you liv’d at odds so long.\nBut now my lord, what say you to my suit?\n\nCAPULET.\nBut saying o’er what I have said before.\nMy child is yet a stranger in the world,\nShe hath not seen the change of fourteen years;\nLet two more summers wither in their pride\nEre we may think her ripe to be a bride.\n\nPARIS.\nYounger than she are happy mothers made.\n\nCAPULET.\nAnd too soon marr’d are those so early made.\nThe earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,\nShe is the hopeful lady of my earth:\nBut woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,\nMy will to her consent is but a part;\nAnd she agree, within her scope of choice\nLies my consent and fair according voice.\nThis night I hold an old accustom’d feast,\nWhereto I have invited many a guest,\nSuch as I love, and you among the store,\nOne more, most welcome, makes my number more.\nAt my poor house look to behold this night\nEarth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:\nSuch comfort as do lusty young men feel\nWhen well apparell’d April on the heel\nOf limping winter treads, even such delight\nAmong fresh female buds shall you this night\nInherit at my house. Hear all, all see,\nAnd like her most whose merit most shall be:\nWhich, on more view of many, mine, being one,\nMay stand in number, though in reckoning none.\nCome, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about\nThrough fair Verona; find those persons out\nWhose names are written there, [_gives a paper_] and to them say,\nMy house and welcome on their pleasure stay.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet and Paris._]\n\nSERVANT.\nFind them out whose names are written here! It is written that the\nshoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the\nfisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to\nfind those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what\nnames the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good\ntime!\n\n Enter Benvolio and Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning,\nOne pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;\nTurn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;\nOne desperate grief cures with another’s languish:\nTake thou some new infection to thy eye,\nAnd the rank poison of the old will die.\n\nROMEO.\nYour plantain leaf is excellent for that.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nFor what, I pray thee?\n\nROMEO.\nFor your broken shin.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy, Romeo, art thou mad?\n\n" +- "ROMEO.\nNot mad, but bound more than a madman is:\nShut up in prison, kept without my food,\nWhipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.\n\nSERVANT.\nGod gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, mine own fortune in my misery.\n\nSERVANT.\nPerhaps you have learned it without book.\nBut I pray, can you read anything you see?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, If I know the letters and the language.\n\nSERVANT.\nYe say honestly, rest you merry!\n\nROMEO.\nStay, fellow; I can read.\n\n [_He reads the letter._]\n\n_Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;\nCounty Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;\nThe lady widow of Utruvio;\nSignior Placentio and his lovely nieces;\nMercutio and his brother Valentine;\nMine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;\nMy fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\nSignior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt;\nLucio and the lively Helena. _\n\n\n" +- "A fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?\n\nSERVANT.\nUp.\n\nROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?\n\nSERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\nROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before.\n\nSERVANT.\nNow I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet,\nand if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a\ncup of wine. Rest you merry.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt this same ancient feast of Capulet’s\nSups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st;\nWith all the admired beauties of Verona.\nGo thither and with unattainted eye,\nCompare her face with some that I shall show,\nAnd I will make thee think thy swan a crow.\n\nROMEO.\nWhen the devout religion of mine eye\nMaintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire;\nAnd these who, often drown’d, could never die,\nTransparent heretics, be burnt for liars.\nOne fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun\nNe’er saw her match since first the world begun.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, you saw her fair, none else being by,\nHerself pois’d with herself in either eye:\nBut in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d\nYour lady’s love against some other maid\nThat I will show you shining at this feast,\nAnd she shall scant show well that now shows best.\n\nROMEO.\nI’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,\nBut to rejoice in splendour of my own.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me.\n\nNURSE.\nNow, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old,\nI bade her come. What, lamb! What ladybird!\nGod forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet!\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nHow now, who calls?\n\nNURSE.\nYour mother.\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, I am here. What is your will?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThis is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile,\nWe must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again,\nI have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.\nThou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, I can tell her age unto an hour.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nShe’s not fourteen.\n\nNURSE.\nI’ll lay fourteen of my teeth,\nAnd yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,\nShe is not fourteen. How long is it now\nTo Lammas-tide?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA fortnight and odd days.\n\n" +- "NURSE.\nEven or odd, of all days in the year,\nCome Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.\nSusan and she,—God rest all Christian souls!—\nWere of an age. Well, Susan is with God;\nShe was too good for me. But as I said,\nOn Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;\nThat shall she, marry; I remember it well.\n’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;\nAnd she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it—,\nOf all the days of the year, upon that day:\nFor I had then laid wormwood to my dug,\nSitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall;\nMy lord and you were then at Mantua:\nNay, I do bear a brain. But as I said,\nWhen it did taste the wormwood on the nipple\nOf my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,\nTo see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug!\nShake, quoth the dovehouse: ’twas no need, I trow,\nTo bid me trudge.\nAnd since that time it is eleven years;\nFor then she could stand alone; nay, by th’rood\nShe could have run and waddled all about;\nFor even the day before she broke her brow,\nAnd then my husband,—God be with his soul!\nA was a merry man,—took up the child:\n‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame,\nThe pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay’.\nTo see now how a jest shall come about.\nI warrant, and I should live a thousand years,\nI never should forget it. ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he;\nAnd, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nEnough of this; I pray thee hold thy peace.\n\nNURSE.\nYes, madam, yet I cannot choose but laugh,\nTo think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay’;\nAnd yet I warrant it had upon it brow\nA bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone;\nA perilous knock, and it cried bitterly.\n‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted, and said ‘Ay’.\n\nJULIET.\nAnd stint thou too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I.\n\nNURSE.\nPeace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace\nThou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d:\nAnd I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nMarry, that marry is the very theme\nI came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,\nHow stands your disposition to be married?\n\nJULIET.\nIt is an honour that I dream not of.\n\nNURSE.\nAn honour! Were not I thine only nurse,\nI would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, think of marriage now: younger than you,\nHere in Verona, ladies of esteem,\nAre made already mothers. By my count\nI was your mother much upon these years\nThat you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief;\nThe valiant Paris seeks you for his love.\n\nNURSE.\nA man, young lady! Lady, such a man\nAs all the world—why he’s a man of wax.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nVerona’s summer hath not such a flower.\n\nNURSE.\nNay, he’s a flower, in faith a very flower.\n\n" - "LADY CAPULET.\nWhat say you, can you love the gentleman?\nThis night you shall behold him at our feast;\nRead o’er the volume of young Paris’ face,\nAnd find delight writ there with beauty’s pen.\nExamine every married lineament,\nAnd see how one another lends content;\nAnd what obscur’d in this fair volume lies,\nFind written in the margent of his eyes.\nThis precious book of love, this unbound lover,\nTo beautify him, only lacks a cover:\nThe fish lives in the sea; and ’tis much pride\nFor fair without the fair within to hide.\nThat book in many’s eyes doth share the glory,\nThat in gold clasps locks in the golden story;\nSo shall you share all that he doth possess,\nBy having him, making yourself no less.\n\nNURSE.\nNo less, nay bigger. Women grow by men.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nSpeak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?\n\nJULIET.\nI’ll look to like, if looking liking move:\nBut no more deep will I endart mine eye\nThan your consent gives strength to make it fly.\n\n Enter a Servant.\n\nSERVANT.\nMadam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady\nasked for, the Nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity.\nI must hence to wait, I beseech you follow straight.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe follow thee.\n\n [_Exit Servant._]\n\nJuliet, the County stays.\n\nNURSE.\nGo, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE IV. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers;\n Torch-bearers and others.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?\nOr shall we on without apology?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThe date is out of such prolixity:\nWe’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf,\nBearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,\nScaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;\nNor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke\nAfter the prompter, for our entrance:\nBut let them measure us by what they will,\nWe’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.\n\nROMEO.\nGive me a torch, I am not for this ambling;\nBeing but heavy I will bear the light.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.\n\nROMEO.\nNot I, believe me, you have dancing shoes,\nWith nimble soles, I have a soul of lead\nSo stakes me to the ground I cannot move.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nYou are a lover, borrow Cupid’s wings,\nAnd soar with them above a common bound.\n\nROMEO.\nI am too sore enpierced with his shaft\nTo soar with his light feathers, and so bound,\nI cannot bound a pitch above dull woe.\nUnder love’s heavy burden do I sink.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd, to sink in it, should you burden love;\nToo great oppression for a tender thing.\n\nROMEO.\nIs love a tender thing? It is too rough,\nToo rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be rough with you, be rough with love;\nPrick love for pricking, and you beat love down.\nGive me a case to put my visage in: [_Putting on a mask._]\nA visor for a visor. What care I\nWhat curious eye doth quote deformities?\nHere are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, knock and enter; and no sooner in\nBut every man betake him to his legs.\n\nROMEO.\nA torch for me: let wantons, light of heart,\nTickle the senseless rushes with their heels;\nFor I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase,\nI’ll be a candle-holder and look on,\nThe game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nTut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word:\nIf thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire\nOr save your reverence love, wherein thou stickest\nUp to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho.\n\nROMEO.\nNay, that’s not so.\n\n" - "MERCUTIO.\nI mean sir, in delay\nWe waste our lights in vain, light lights by day.\nTake our good meaning, for our judgment sits\nFive times in that ere once in our five wits.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd we mean well in going to this mask;\nBut ’tis no wit to go.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhy, may one ask?\n\nROMEO.\nI dreamt a dream tonight.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd so did I.\n\nROMEO.\nWell what was yours?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThat dreamers often lie.\n\nROMEO.\nIn bed asleep, while they do dream things true.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.\nShe is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes\nIn shape no bigger than an agate-stone\nOn the fore-finger of an alderman,\nDrawn with a team of little atomies\nOver men’s noses as they lie asleep:\nHer waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs;\nThe cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;\nHer traces, of the smallest spider’s web;\nThe collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams;\nHer whip of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film;\nHer waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,\nNot half so big as a round little worm\nPrick’d from the lazy finger of a maid:\nHer chariot is an empty hazelnut,\nMade by the joiner squirrel or old grub,\nTime out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers.\nAnd in this state she gallops night by night\nThrough lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;\nO’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight;\nO’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees;\nO’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream,\nWhich oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,\nBecause their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:\nSometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,\nAnd then dreams he of smelling out a suit;\nAnd sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail,\nTickling a parson’s nose as a lies asleep,\nThen dreams he of another benefice:\nSometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,\nAnd then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,\nOf breaches, ambuscados, Spanish blades,\nOf healths five fathom deep; and then anon\nDrums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;\nAnd, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,\nAnd sleeps again. This is that very Mab\nThat plats the manes of horses in the night;\nAnd bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,\nWhich, once untangled, much misfortune bodes:\nThis is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,\nThat presses them, and learns them first to bear,\nMaking them women of good carriage:\nThis is she,—\n\nROMEO.\nPeace, peace, Mercutio, peace,\nThou talk’st of nothing.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nTrue, I talk of dreams,\nWhich are the children of an idle brain,\nBegot of nothing but vain fantasy,\nWhich is as thin of substance as the air,\nAnd more inconstant than the wind, who wooes\nEven now the frozen bosom of the north,\nAnd, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,\nTurning his side to the dew-dropping south.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThis wind you talk of blows us from ourselves:\nSupper is done, and we shall come too late.\n\nROMEO.\nI fear too early: for my mind misgives\nSome consequence yet hanging in the stars,\nShall bitterly begin his fearful date\nWith this night’s revels; and expire the term\nOf a despised life, clos’d in my breast\nBy some vile forfeit of untimely death.\nBut he that hath the steerage of my course\nDirect my suit. On, lusty gentlemen!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nStrike, drum.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Musicians waiting. Enter Servants.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nWhere’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away?\nHe shift a trencher! He scrape a trencher!\n\n" - "SECOND SERVANT.\nWhen good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they\nunwash’d too, ’tis a foul thing.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nAway with the join-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the\nplate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and as thou loves me,\nlet the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony and Potpan!\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nAy, boy, ready.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nYou are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the\ngreat chamber.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nWe cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys. Be brisk awhile, and\nthe longer liver take all.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n Enter Capulet, &c. with the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers.\n\nCAPULET.\nWelcome, gentlemen, ladies that have their toes\nUnplagu’d with corns will have a bout with you.\nAh my mistresses, which of you all\nWill now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,\nShe I’ll swear hath corns. Am I come near ye now?\nWelcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day\nThat I have worn a visor, and could tell\nA whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear,\nSuch as would please; ’tis gone, ’tis gone, ’tis gone,\nYou are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.\nA hall, a hall, give room! And foot it, girls.\n\n [_Music plays, and they dance._]\n\nMore light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,\nAnd quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.\nAh sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well.\nNay sit, nay sit, good cousin Capulet,\nFor you and I are past our dancing days;\nHow long is’t now since last yourself and I\nWere in a mask?\n\nCAPULET’S COUSIN.\nBy’r Lady, thirty years.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat, man, ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much:\n’Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,\nCome Pentecost as quickly as it will,\nSome five and twenty years; and then we mask’d.\n\nCAPULET’S COUSIN.\n’Tis more, ’tis more, his son is elder, sir;\nHis son is thirty.\n\nCAPULET.\nWill you tell me that?\nHis son was but a ward two years ago.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat lady is that, which doth enrich the hand\nOf yonder knight?\n\nSERVANT.\nI know not, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nO, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!\nIt seems she hangs upon the cheek of night\nAs a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear;\nBeauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!\nSo shows a snowy dove trooping with crows\nAs yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.\nThe measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand,\nAnd touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.\nDid my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!\nFor I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.\n\nTYBALT.\nThis by his voice, should be a Montague.\nFetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave\nCome hither, cover’d with an antic face,\nTo fleer and scorn at our solemnity?\nNow by the stock and honour of my kin,\nTo strike him dead I hold it not a sin.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhy how now, kinsman!\nWherefore storm you so?\n\nTYBALT.\nUncle, this is a Montague, our foe;\nA villain that is hither come in spite,\nTo scorn at our solemnity this night.\n\nCAPULET.\nYoung Romeo, is it?\n\nTYBALT.\n’Tis he, that villain Romeo.\n\n" - "CAPULET.\nContent thee, gentle coz, let him alone,\nA bears him like a portly gentleman;\nAnd, to say truth, Verona brags of him\nTo be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth.\nI would not for the wealth of all the town\nHere in my house do him disparagement.\nTherefore be patient, take no note of him,\nIt is my will; the which if thou respect,\nShow a fair presence and put off these frowns,\nAn ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.\n\nTYBALT.\nIt fits when such a villain is a guest:\nI’ll not endure him.\n\nCAPULET.\nHe shall be endur’d.\nWhat, goodman boy! I say he shall, go to;\nAm I the master here, or you? Go to.\nYou’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul,\nYou’ll make a mutiny among my guests!\nYou will set cock-a-hoop, you’ll be the man!\n\nTYBALT.\nWhy, uncle, ’tis a shame.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo to, go to!\nYou are a saucy boy. Is’t so, indeed?\nThis trick may chance to scathe you, I know what.\nYou must contrary me! Marry, ’tis time.\nWell said, my hearts!—You are a princox; go:\nBe quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame!\nI’ll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts.\n\nTYBALT.\nPatience perforce with wilful choler meeting\nMakes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.\nI will withdraw: but this intrusion shall,\nNow seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\n[_To Juliet._] If I profane with my unworthiest hand\nThis holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,\nMy lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand\nTo smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.\n\nJULIET.\nGood pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,\nWhich mannerly devotion shows in this;\nFor saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,\nAnd palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.\n\nROMEO.\nHave not saints lips, and holy palmers too?\n\nJULIET.\nAy, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.\n\nROMEO.\nO, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do:\nThey pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.\n\nJULIET.\nSaints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.\n\nROMEO.\nThen move not while my prayer’s effect I take.\nThus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg’d.\n[_Kissing her._]\n\nJULIET.\nThen have my lips the sin that they have took.\n\nROMEO.\nSin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d!\nGive me my sin again.\n\nJULIET.\nYou kiss by the book.\n\nNURSE.\nMadam, your mother craves a word with you.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat is her mother?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, bachelor,\nHer mother is the lady of the house,\nAnd a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.\nI nurs’d her daughter that you talk’d withal.\nI tell you, he that can lay hold of her\nShall have the chinks.\n\nROMEO.\nIs she a Capulet?\nO dear account! My life is my foe’s debt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAway, be gone; the sport is at the best.\n\nROMEO.\nAy, so I fear; the more is my unrest.\n\nCAPULET.\nNay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,\nWe have a trifling foolish banquet towards.\nIs it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;\nI thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.\nMore torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.\nAh, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late,\nI’ll to my rest.\n\n [_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nCome hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?\n\nNURSE.\nThe son and heir of old Tiberio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that now is going out of door?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, that I think be young Petruchio.\n\n" -- "JULIET.\nWhat’s he that follows here, that would not dance?\n\nNURSE.\nI know not.\n\nJULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\nJULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:\nBeing held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHe ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:\nCall, good Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, I’ll conjure too.\nRomeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover!\nAppear thou in the likeness of a sigh,\nSpeak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;\nCry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove;\nSpeak to my gossip Venus one fair word,\nOne nickname for her purblind son and heir,\nYoung Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim\nWhen King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.\nHe heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;\nThe ape is dead, and I must conjure him.\nI conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,\nBy her high forehead and her scarlet lip,\nBy her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,\nAnd the demesnes that there adjacent lie,\nThat in thy likeness thou appear to us.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAn if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThis cannot anger him. ’Twould anger him\nTo raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle,\nOf some strange nature, letting it there stand\nTill she had laid it, and conjur’d it down;\nThat were some spite. My invocation\nIs fair and honest, and, in his mistress’ name,\nI conjure only but to raise up him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, he hath hid himself among these trees\nTo be consorted with the humorous night.\nBlind is his love, and best befits the dark.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.\nNow will he sit under a medlar tree,\nAnd wish his mistress were that kind of fruit\nAs maids call medlars when they laugh alone.\nO Romeo, that she were, O that she were\nAn open-arse and thou a poperin pear!\nRomeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle-bed.\nThis field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.\nCome, shall we go?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGo then; for ’tis in vain\nTo seek him here that means not to be found.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\n" -- "ROMEO.\nHe jests at scars that never felt a wound.\n\n Juliet appears above at a window.\n\nBut soft, what light through yonder window breaks?\nIt is the east, and Juliet is the sun!\nArise fair sun and kill the envious moon,\nWho is already sick and pale with grief,\nThat thou her maid art far more fair than she.\nBe not her maid since she is envious;\nHer vestal livery is but sick and green,\nAnd none but fools do wear it; cast it off.\nIt is my lady, O it is my love!\nO, that she knew she were!\nShe speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?\nHer eye discourses, I will answer it.\nI am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks.\nTwo of the fairest stars in all the heaven,\nHaving some business, do entreat her eyes\nTo twinkle in their spheres till they return.\nWhat if her eyes were there, they in her head?\nThe brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,\nAs daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven\nWould through the airy region stream so bright\nThat birds would sing and think it were not night.\nSee how she leans her cheek upon her hand.\nO that I were a glove upon that hand,\nThat I might touch that cheek.\n\nJULIET.\nAy me.\n\nROMEO.\nShe speaks.\nO speak again bright angel, for thou art\nAs glorious to this night, being o’er my head,\nAs is a winged messenger of heaven\nUnto the white-upturned wondering eyes\nOf mortals that fall back to gaze on him\nWhen he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds\nAnd sails upon the bosom of the air.\n\nJULIET.\nO Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?\nDeny thy father and refuse thy name.\nOr if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,\nAnd I’ll no longer be a Capulet.\n\nROMEO.\n[_Aside._] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?\n\nJULIET.\n’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;\nThou art thyself, though not a Montague.\nWhat’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot,\nNor arm, nor face, nor any other part\nBelonging to a man. O be some other name.\nWhat’s in a name? That which we call a rose\nBy any other name would smell as sweet;\nSo Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,\nRetain that dear perfection which he owes\nWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,\nAnd for thy name, which is no part of thee,\nTake all myself.\n\nROMEO.\nI take thee at thy word.\nCall me but love, and I’ll be new baptis’d;\nHenceforth I never will be Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat man art thou that, thus bescreen’d in night\nSo stumblest on my counsel?\n\nROMEO.\nBy a name\nI know not how to tell thee who I am:\nMy name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,\nBecause it is an enemy to thee.\nHad I it written, I would tear the word.\n\nJULIET.\nMy ears have yet not drunk a hundred words\nOf thy tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound.\nArt thou not Romeo, and a Montague?\n\nROMEO.\nNeither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.\n\nJULIET.\nHow cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?\nThe orchard walls are high and hard to climb,\nAnd the place death, considering who thou art,\nIf any of my kinsmen find thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nWith love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls,\nFor stony limits cannot hold love out,\nAnd what love can do, that dares love attempt:\nTherefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf they do see thee, they will murder thee.\n\nROMEO.\nAlack, there lies more peril in thine eye\nThan twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet,\nAnd I am proof against their enmity.\n\nJULIET.\nI would not for the world they saw thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nI have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes,\nAnd but thou love me, let them find me here.\nMy life were better ended by their hate\nThan death prorogued, wanting of thy love.\n\nJULIET.\nBy whose direction found’st thou out this place?\n\n" +- "JULIET.\nWhat’s he that follows here, that would not dance?\n\nNURSE.\nI know not.\n\nJULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\nJULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:\nBeing held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHe ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:\nCall, good Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, I’ll conjure too.\nRomeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover!\nAppear thou in the likeness of a sigh,\nSpeak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;\nCry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove;\nSpeak to my gossip Venus one fair word,\nOne nickname for her purblind son and heir,\nYoung Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim\nWhen King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.\nHe heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;\nThe ape is dead, and I must conjure him.\nI conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,\nBy her high forehead and her scarlet lip,\nBy her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,\nAnd the demesnes that there adjacent lie,\nThat in thy likeness thou appear to us.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAn if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThis cannot anger him. ’Twould anger him\nTo raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle,\nOf some strange nature, letting it there stand\nTill she had laid it, and conjur’d it down;\nThat were some spite. My invocation\nIs fair and honest, and, in his mistress’ name,\nI conjure only but to raise up him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, he hath hid himself among these trees\nTo be consorted with the humorous night.\nBlind is his love, and best befits the dark.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.\nNow will he sit under a medlar tree,\nAnd wish his mistress were that kind of fruit\nAs maids call medlars when they laugh alone.\nO Romeo, that she were, O that she were\nAn open-arse and thou a poperin pear!\nRomeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle-bed.\nThis field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.\nCome, shall we go?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGo then; for ’tis in vain\nTo seek him here that means not to be found.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nHe jests at scars that never felt a wound.\n\n Juliet appears above at a window.\n\n" +- "But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?\nIt is the east, and Juliet is the sun!\nArise fair sun and kill the envious moon,\nWho is already sick and pale with grief,\nThat thou her maid art far more fair than she.\nBe not her maid since she is envious;\nHer vestal livery is but sick and green,\nAnd none but fools do wear it; cast it off.\nIt is my lady, O it is my love!\nO, that she knew she were!\nShe speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?\nHer eye discourses, I will answer it.\nI am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks.\nTwo of the fairest stars in all the heaven,\nHaving some business, do entreat her eyes\nTo twinkle in their spheres till they return.\nWhat if her eyes were there, they in her head?\nThe brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,\nAs daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven\nWould through the airy region stream so bright\nThat birds would sing and think it were not night.\nSee how she leans her cheek upon her hand.\nO that I were a glove upon that hand,\nThat I might touch that cheek.\n\nJULIET.\nAy me.\n\nROMEO.\nShe speaks.\nO speak again bright angel, for thou art\nAs glorious to this night, being o’er my head,\nAs is a winged messenger of heaven\nUnto the white-upturned wondering eyes\nOf mortals that fall back to gaze on him\nWhen he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds\nAnd sails upon the bosom of the air.\n\nJULIET.\nO Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?\nDeny thy father and refuse thy name.\nOr if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,\nAnd I’ll no longer be a Capulet.\n\nROMEO.\n[_Aside._] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?\n\nJULIET.\n’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;\nThou art thyself, though not a Montague.\nWhat’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot,\nNor arm, nor face, nor any other part\nBelonging to a man. O be some other name.\nWhat’s in a name? That which we call a rose\nBy any other name would smell as sweet;\nSo Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,\nRetain that dear perfection which he owes\nWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,\nAnd for thy name, which is no part of thee,\nTake all myself.\n\nROMEO.\nI take thee at thy word.\nCall me but love, and I’ll be new baptis’d;\nHenceforth I never will be Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat man art thou that, thus bescreen’d in night\nSo stumblest on my counsel?\n\nROMEO.\nBy a name\nI know not how to tell thee who I am:\nMy name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,\nBecause it is an enemy to thee.\nHad I it written, I would tear the word.\n\nJULIET.\nMy ears have yet not drunk a hundred words\nOf thy tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound.\nArt thou not Romeo, and a Montague?\n\nROMEO.\nNeither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.\n\nJULIET.\nHow cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?\nThe orchard walls are high and hard to climb,\nAnd the place death, considering who thou art,\nIf any of my kinsmen find thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nWith love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls,\nFor stony limits cannot hold love out,\nAnd what love can do, that dares love attempt:\nTherefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf they do see thee, they will murder thee.\n\nROMEO.\nAlack, there lies more peril in thine eye\nThan twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet,\nAnd I am proof against their enmity.\n\nJULIET.\nI would not for the world they saw thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nI have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes,\nAnd but thou love me, let them find me here.\nMy life were better ended by their hate\nThan death prorogued, wanting of thy love.\n\nJULIET.\nBy whose direction found’st thou out this place?\n\n" - "ROMEO.\nBy love, that first did prompt me to enquire;\nHe lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.\nI am no pilot; yet wert thou as far\nAs that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea,\nI should adventure for such merchandise.\n\nJULIET.\nThou knowest the mask of night is on my face,\nElse would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek\nFor that which thou hast heard me speak tonight.\nFain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny\nWhat I have spoke; but farewell compliment.\nDost thou love me? I know thou wilt say Ay,\nAnd I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear’st,\nThou mayst prove false. At lovers’ perjuries,\nThey say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,\nIf thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.\nOr if thou thinkest I am too quickly won,\nI’ll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay,\nSo thou wilt woo. But else, not for the world.\nIn truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;\nAnd therefore thou mayst think my ’haviour light:\nBut trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true\nThan those that have more cunning to be strange.\nI should have been more strange, I must confess,\nBut that thou overheard’st, ere I was ’ware,\nMy true-love passion; therefore pardon me,\nAnd not impute this yielding to light love,\nWhich the dark night hath so discovered.\n\nROMEO.\nLady, by yonder blessed moon I vow,\nThat tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,—\n\nJULIET.\nO swear not by the moon, th’inconstant moon,\nThat monthly changes in her circled orb,\nLest that thy love prove likewise variable.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat shall I swear by?\n\nJULIET.\nDo not swear at all.\nOr if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,\nWhich is the god of my idolatry,\nAnd I’ll believe thee.\n\nROMEO.\nIf my heart’s dear love,—\n\nJULIET.\nWell, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,\nI have no joy of this contract tonight;\nIt is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden,\nToo like the lightning, which doth cease to be\nEre one can say It lightens. Sweet, good night.\nThis bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,\nMay prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.\nGood night, good night. As sweet repose and rest\nCome to thy heart as that within my breast.\n\nROMEO.\nO wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?\n\nJULIET.\nWhat satisfaction canst thou have tonight?\n\nROMEO.\nTh’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.\n\nJULIET.\nI gave thee mine before thou didst request it;\nAnd yet I would it were to give again.\n\nROMEO.\nWould’st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?\n\nJULIET.\nBut to be frank and give it thee again.\nAnd yet I wish but for the thing I have;\nMy bounty is as boundless as the sea,\nMy love as deep; the more I give to thee,\nThe more I have, for both are infinite.\nI hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu.\n[_Nurse calls within._]\nAnon, good Nurse!—Sweet Montague be true.\nStay but a little, I will come again.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nO blessed, blessed night. I am afeard,\nBeing in night, all this is but a dream,\nToo flattering sweet to be substantial.\n\n Enter Juliet above.\n\nJULIET.\nThree words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.\nIf that thy bent of love be honourable,\nThy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow,\nBy one that I’ll procure to come to thee,\nWhere and what time thou wilt perform the rite,\nAnd all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay\nAnd follow thee my lord throughout the world.\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Madam.\n\nJULIET.\nI come, anon.— But if thou meanest not well,\nI do beseech thee,—\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Madam.\n\nJULIET.\nBy and by I come—\nTo cease thy strife and leave me to my grief.\nTomorrow will I send.\n\nROMEO.\nSo thrive my soul,—\n\n" - "JULIET.\nA thousand times good night.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nA thousand times the worse, to want thy light.\nLove goes toward love as schoolboys from their books,\nBut love from love, towards school with heavy looks.\n\n [_Retiring slowly._]\n\n Re-enter Juliet, above.\n\nJULIET.\nHist! Romeo, hist! O for a falconer’s voice\nTo lure this tassel-gentle back again.\nBondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud,\nElse would I tear the cave where Echo lies,\nAnd make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine\nWith repetition of my Romeo’s name.\n\nROMEO.\nIt is my soul that calls upon my name.\nHow silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,\nLike softest music to attending ears.\n\nJULIET.\nRomeo.\n\nROMEO.\nMy nyas?\n\nJULIET.\nWhat o’clock tomorrow\nShall I send to thee?\n\nROMEO.\nBy the hour of nine.\n\nJULIET.\nI will not fail. ’Tis twenty years till then.\nI have forgot why I did call thee back.\n\nROMEO.\nLet me stand here till thou remember it.\n\nJULIET.\nI shall forget, to have thee still stand there,\nRemembering how I love thy company.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,\nForgetting any other home but this.\n\nJULIET.\n’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone,\nAnd yet no farther than a wanton’s bird,\nThat lets it hop a little from her hand,\nLike a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,\nAnd with a silk thread plucks it back again,\nSo loving-jealous of his liberty.\n\nROMEO.\nI would I were thy bird.\n\nJULIET.\nSweet, so would I:\nYet I should kill thee with much cherishing.\nGood night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow\nThat I shall say good night till it be morrow.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nSleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast.\nWould I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest.\nThe grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night,\nChequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light;\nAnd darkness fleckled like a drunkard reels\nFrom forth day’s pathway, made by Titan’s wheels\nHence will I to my ghostly Sire’s cell,\nHis help to crave and my dear hap to tell.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNow, ere the sun advance his burning eye,\nThe day to cheer, and night’s dank dew to dry,\nI must upfill this osier cage of ours\nWith baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.\nThe earth that’s nature’s mother, is her tomb;\nWhat is her burying grave, that is her womb:\nAnd from her womb children of divers kind\nWe sucking on her natural bosom find.\nMany for many virtues excellent,\nNone but for some, and yet all different.\nO, mickle is the powerful grace that lies\nIn plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities.\nFor naught so vile that on the earth doth live\nBut to the earth some special good doth give;\nNor aught so good but, strain’d from that fair use,\nRevolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.\nVirtue itself turns vice being misapplied,\nAnd vice sometime’s by action dignified.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nWithin the infant rind of this weak flower\nPoison hath residence, and medicine power:\nFor this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;\nBeing tasted, slays all senses with the heart.\nTwo such opposed kings encamp them still\nIn man as well as herbs,—grace and rude will;\nAnd where the worser is predominant,\nFull soon the canker death eats up that plant.\n\nROMEO.\nGood morrow, father.\n\n" - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nBenedicite!\nWhat early tongue so sweet saluteth me?\nYoung son, it argues a distemper’d head\nSo soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.\nCare keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,\nAnd where care lodges sleep will never lie;\nBut where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain\nDoth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.\nTherefore thy earliness doth me assure\nThou art uprous’d with some distemperature;\nOr if not so, then here I hit it right,\nOur Romeo hath not been in bed tonight.\n\nROMEO.\nThat last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nGod pardon sin. Wast thou with Rosaline?\n\nROMEO.\nWith Rosaline, my ghostly father? No.\nI have forgot that name, and that name’s woe.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s my good son. But where hast thou been then?\n\nROMEO.\nI’ll tell thee ere thou ask it me again.\nI have been feasting with mine enemy,\nWhere on a sudden one hath wounded me\nThat’s by me wounded. Both our remedies\nWithin thy help and holy physic lies.\nI bear no hatred, blessed man; for lo,\nMy intercession likewise steads my foe.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nBe plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;\nRiddling confession finds but riddling shrift.\n\nROMEO.\nThen plainly know my heart’s dear love is set\nOn the fair daughter of rich Capulet.\nAs mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;\nAnd all combin’d, save what thou must combine\nBy holy marriage. When, and where, and how\nWe met, we woo’d, and made exchange of vow,\nI’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,\nThat thou consent to marry us today.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHoly Saint Francis! What a change is here!\nIs Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear,\nSo soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies\nNot truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.\nJesu Maria, what a deal of brine\nHath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!\nHow much salt water thrown away in waste,\nTo season love, that of it doth not taste.\nThe sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,\nThy old groans yet ring in mine ancient ears.\nLo here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit\nOf an old tear that is not wash’d off yet.\nIf ere thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,\nThou and these woes were all for Rosaline,\nAnd art thou chang’d? Pronounce this sentence then,\nWomen may fall, when there’s no strength in men.\n\nROMEO.\nThou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nFor doting, not for loving, pupil mine.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd bad’st me bury love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNot in a grave\nTo lay one in, another out to have.\n\nROMEO.\nI pray thee chide me not, her I love now\nDoth grace for grace and love for love allow.\nThe other did not so.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO, she knew well\nThy love did read by rote, that could not spell.\nBut come young waverer, come go with me,\nIn one respect I’ll thy assistant be;\nFor this alliance may so happy prove,\nTo turn your households’ rancour to pure love.\n\nROMEO.\nO let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE IV. A Street.\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhere the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home tonight?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nNot to his father’s; I spoke with his man.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhy, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, torments him so\nthat he will sure run mad.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, hath sent a letter to his father’s\nhouse.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nA challenge, on my life.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo will answer it.\n\n" @@ -23,33 +26,36 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "ROMEO.\nI stretch it out for that word broad, which added to the goose, proves\nthee far and wide a broad goose.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhy, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now art thou\nsociable, now art thou Romeo; not art thou what thou art, by art as\nwell as by nature. For this drivelling love is like a great natural,\nthat runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nStop there, stop there.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThou wouldst else have made thy tale large.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO, thou art deceived; I would have made it short, for I was come to the\nwhole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the argument no\nlonger.\n\n Enter Nurse and Peter.\n\nROMEO.\nHere’s goodly gear!\nA sail, a sail!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nTwo, two; a shirt and a smock.\n\nNURSE.\nPeter!\n\nPETER.\nAnon.\n\nNURSE.\nMy fan, Peter.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nGood Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the fairer face.\n\nNURSE.\nGod ye good morrow, gentlemen.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nGod ye good-den, fair gentlewoman.\n\nNURSE.\nIs it good-den?\n\nMERCUTIO.\n’Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the\nprick of noon.\n\nNURSE.\nOut upon you! What a man are you?\n\nROMEO.\nOne, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar.\n\nNURSE.\nBy my troth, it is well said; for himself to mar, quoth a? Gentlemen,\ncan any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo?\n\nROMEO.\nI can tell you: but young Romeo will be older when you have found him\nthan he was when you sought him. I am the youngest of that name, for\nfault of a worse.\n\nNURSE.\nYou say well.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nYea, is the worst well? Very well took, i’faith; wisely, wisely.\n\nNURSE.\nIf you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nShe will endite him to some supper.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nA bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho!\n\nROMEO.\nWhat hast thou found?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNo hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something\nstale and hoar ere it be spent.\n[_Sings._]\n An old hare hoar,\n And an old hare hoar,\n Is very good meat in Lent;\n But a hare that is hoar\n Is too much for a score\n When it hoars ere it be spent.\nRomeo, will you come to your father’s? We’ll to dinner thither.\n\nROMEO.\nI will follow you.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nFarewell, ancient lady; farewell, lady, lady, lady.\n\n [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._]\n\nNURSE.\nI pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his\nropery?\n\nROMEO.\nA gentleman, Nurse, that loves to hear himself talk, and will speak\nmore in a minute than he will stand to in a month.\n\nNURSE.\nAnd a speak anything against me, I’ll take him down, and a were lustier\nthan he is, and twenty such Jacks. And if I cannot, I’ll find those\nthat shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none of\nhis skains-mates.—And thou must stand by too and suffer every knave to\nuse me at his pleasure!\n\nPETER.\nI saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I had, my weapon should\nquickly have been out. I warrant you, I dare draw as soon as another\nman, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side.\n\n" - "NURSE.\nNow, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me quivers. Scurvy\nknave. Pray you, sir, a word: and as I told you, my young lady bid me\nenquire you out; what she bade me say, I will keep to myself. But first\nlet me tell ye, if ye should lead her in a fool’s paradise, as they\nsay, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say; for the\ngentlewoman is young. And therefore, if you should deal double with\nher, truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and\nvery weak dealing.\n\nROMEO. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto\nthee,—\n\nNURSE.\nGood heart, and i’faith I will tell her as much. Lord, Lord, she will\nbe a joyful woman.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat wilt thou tell her, Nurse? Thou dost not mark me.\n\nNURSE.\nI will tell her, sir, that you do protest, which, as I take it, is a\ngentlemanlike offer.\n\nROMEO.\nBid her devise\nSome means to come to shrift this afternoon,\nAnd there she shall at Friar Lawrence’ cell\nBe shriv’d and married. Here is for thy pains.\n\nNURSE.\nNo truly, sir; not a penny.\n\nROMEO.\nGo to; I say you shall.\n\nNURSE.\nThis afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd stay, good Nurse, behind the abbey wall.\nWithin this hour my man shall be with thee,\nAnd bring thee cords made like a tackled stair,\nWhich to the high topgallant of my joy\nMust be my convoy in the secret night.\nFarewell, be trusty, and I’ll quit thy pains;\nFarewell; commend me to thy mistress.\n\nNURSE.\nNow God in heaven bless thee. Hark you, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat say’st thou, my dear Nurse?\n\nNURSE.\nIs your man secret? Did you ne’er hear say,\nTwo may keep counsel, putting one away?\n\nROMEO.\nI warrant thee my man’s as true as steel.\n\nNURSE.\nWell, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady. Lord, Lord! When ’twas a\nlittle prating thing,—O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that\nwould fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief see a\ntoad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her that\nParis is the properer man, but I’ll warrant you, when I say so, she\nlooks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and\nRomeo begin both with a letter?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, Nurse; what of that? Both with an R.\n\nNURSE.\nAh, mocker! That’s the dog’s name. R is for the—no, I know it begins\nwith some other letter, and she hath the prettiest sententious of it,\nof you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it.\n\nROMEO.\nCommend me to thy lady.\n\nNURSE.\nAy, a thousand times. Peter!\n\n [_Exit Romeo._]\n\nPETER.\nAnon.\n\nNURSE.\nBefore and apace.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nThe clock struck nine when I did send the Nurse,\nIn half an hour she promised to return.\nPerchance she cannot meet him. That’s not so.\nO, she is lame. Love’s heralds should be thoughts,\nWhich ten times faster glides than the sun’s beams,\nDriving back shadows over lowering hills:\nTherefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw love,\nAnd therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.\nNow is the sun upon the highmost hill\nOf this day’s journey, and from nine till twelve\nIs three long hours, yet she is not come.\nHad she affections and warm youthful blood,\nShe’d be as swift in motion as a ball;\nMy words would bandy her to my sweet love,\nAnd his to me.\nBut old folks, many feign as they were dead;\nUnwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.\n\n Enter Nurse and Peter.\n\n" - "O God, she comes. O honey Nurse, what news?\nHast thou met with him? Send thy man away.\n\nNURSE.\nPeter, stay at the gate.\n\n [_Exit Peter._]\n\nJULIET.\nNow, good sweet Nurse,—O Lord, why look’st thou sad?\nThough news be sad, yet tell them merrily;\nIf good, thou sham’st the music of sweet news\nBy playing it to me with so sour a face.\n\nNURSE.\nI am aweary, give me leave awhile;\nFie, how my bones ache! What a jaunt have I had!\n\nJULIET.\nI would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news:\nNay come, I pray thee speak; good, good Nurse, speak.\n\nNURSE.\nJesu, what haste? Can you not stay a while? Do you not see that I am\nout of breath?\n\nJULIET.\nHow art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath\nTo say to me that thou art out of breath?\nThe excuse that thou dost make in this delay\nIs longer than the tale thou dost excuse.\nIs thy news good or bad? Answer to that;\nSay either, and I’ll stay the circumstance.\nLet me be satisfied, is’t good or bad?\n\nNURSE.\nWell, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man.\nRomeo? No, not he. Though his face be better than any man’s, yet his\nleg excels all men’s, and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though\nthey be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the\nflower of courtesy, but I’ll warrant him as gentle as a lamb. Go thy\nways, wench, serve God. What, have you dined at home?\n\nJULIET.\nNo, no. But all this did I know before.\nWhat says he of our marriage? What of that?\n\nNURSE.\nLord, how my head aches! What a head have I!\nIt beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.\nMy back o’ t’other side,—O my back, my back!\nBeshrew your heart for sending me about\nTo catch my death with jauncing up and down.\n\nJULIET.\nI’faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.\nSweet, sweet, sweet Nurse, tell me, what says my love?\n\nNURSE.\nYour love says like an honest gentleman,\nAnd a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome,\nAnd I warrant a virtuous,—Where is your mother?\n\nJULIET.\nWhere is my mother? Why, she is within.\nWhere should she be? How oddly thou repliest.\n‘Your love says, like an honest gentleman,\n‘Where is your mother?’\n\nNURSE.\nO God’s lady dear,\nAre you so hot? Marry, come up, I trow.\nIs this the poultice for my aching bones?\nHenceforward do your messages yourself.\n\nJULIET.\nHere’s such a coil. Come, what says Romeo?\n\nNURSE.\nHave you got leave to go to shrift today?\n\nJULIET.\nI have.\n\nNURSE.\nThen hie you hence to Friar Lawrence’ cell;\nThere stays a husband to make you a wife.\nNow comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks,\nThey’ll be in scarlet straight at any news.\nHie you to church. I must another way,\nTo fetch a ladder by the which your love\nMust climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark.\nI am the drudge, and toil in your delight;\nBut you shall bear the burden soon at night.\nGo. I’ll to dinner; hie you to the cell.\n\nJULIET.\nHie to high fortune! Honest Nurse, farewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSo smile the heavens upon this holy act\nThat after-hours with sorrow chide us not.\n\nROMEO.\nAmen, amen, but come what sorrow can,\nIt cannot countervail the exchange of joy\nThat one short minute gives me in her sight.\nDo thou but close our hands with holy words,\nThen love-devouring death do what he dare,\nIt is enough I may but call her mine.\n\n" -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThese violent delights have violent ends,\nAnd in their triumph die; like fire and powder,\nWhich as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey\nIs loathsome in his own deliciousness,\nAnd in the taste confounds the appetite.\nTherefore love moderately: long love doth so;\nToo swift arrives as tardy as too slow.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nHere comes the lady. O, so light a foot\nWill ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.\nA lover may bestride the gossamers\nThat idles in the wanton summer air\nAnd yet not fall; so light is vanity.\n\nJULIET.\nGood even to my ghostly confessor.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.\n\nJULIET.\nAs much to him, else is his thanks too much.\n\nROMEO.\nAh, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy\nBe heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue\nUnfold the imagin’d happiness that both\nReceive in either by this dear encounter.\n\nJULIET.\nConceit more rich in matter than in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of ornament.\nThey are but beggars that can count their worth;\nBut my true love is grown to such excess,\nI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would\nkill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a\nhair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel\nwith a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou\nhast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?\nThy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy\nhead hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast\nquarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath\nwakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall\nout with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with\nanother for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt\ntutor me from quarrelling!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee\nsimple of my life for an hour and a quarter.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThe fee simple! O simple!\n\n Enter Tybalt and others.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy my head, here comes the Capulets.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBy my heel, I care not.\n\nTYBALT.\nFollow me close, for I will speak to them.\nGentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a\nword and a blow.\n\nTYBALT.\nYou shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me\noccasion.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCould you not take some occasion without giving?\n\n" -- "TYBALT.\nMercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nConsort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of\nus, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick, here’s\nthat shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWe talk here in the public haunt of men.\nEither withdraw unto some private place,\nAnd reason coldly of your grievances,\nOr else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nMen’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.\nI will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nTYBALT.\nWell, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBut I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery.\nMarry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower;\nYour worship in that sense may call him man.\n\nTYBALT.\nRomeo, the love I bear thee can afford\nNo better term than this: Thou art a villain.\n\nROMEO.\nTybalt, the reason that I have to love thee\nDoth much excuse the appertaining rage\nTo such a greeting. Villain am I none;\nTherefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.\n\nTYBALT.\nBoy, this shall not excuse the injuries\nThat thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw.\n\nROMEO.\nI do protest I never injur’d thee,\nBut love thee better than thou canst devise\nTill thou shalt know the reason of my love.\nAnd so good Capulet, which name I tender\nAs dearly as mine own, be satisfied.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO calm, dishonourable, vile submission!\n[_Draws._] Alla stoccata carries it away.\nTybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat wouldst thou have with me?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nGood King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to\nmake bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest\nof the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears?\nMake haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.\n\nTYBALT.\n[_Drawing._] I am for you.\n\nROMEO.\nGentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, sir, your passado.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nROMEO.\nDraw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.\nGentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage,\nTybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath\nForbid this bandying in Verona streets.\nHold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!\n\n [_Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans._]\n\nMERCUTIO.\nI am hurt.\nA plague o’ both your houses. I am sped.\nIs he gone, and hath nothing?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhat, art thou hurt?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAy, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough.\nWhere is my page? Go villain, fetch a surgeon.\n\n [_Exit Page._]\n\nROMEO.\nCourage, man; the hurt cannot be much.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNo, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis\nenough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a\ngrave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both\nyour houses. Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to\ndeath. A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of\narithmetic!—Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your\narm.\n\nROMEO.\nI thought all for the best.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHelp me into some house, Benvolio,\nOr I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses.\nThey have made worms’ meat of me.\nI have it, and soundly too. Your houses!\n\n [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._]\n\n" -- "ROMEO.\nThis gentleman, the Prince’s near ally,\nMy very friend, hath got his mortal hurt\nIn my behalf; my reputation stain’d\nWith Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour\nHath been my cousin. O sweet Juliet,\nThy beauty hath made me effeminate\nAnd in my temper soften’d valour’s steel.\n\n Re-enter Benvolio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead,\nThat gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds,\nWhich too untimely here did scorn the earth.\n\nROMEO.\nThis day’s black fate on mo days doth depend;\nThis but begins the woe others must end.\n\n Re-enter Tybalt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere comes the furious Tybalt back again.\n\nROMEO.\nAgain in triumph, and Mercutio slain?\nAway to heaven respective lenity,\nAnd fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now!\nNow, Tybalt, take the ‘villain’ back again\nThat late thou gav’st me, for Mercutio’s soul\nIs but a little way above our heads,\nStaying for thine to keep him company.\nEither thou or I, or both, must go with him.\n\nTYBALT.\nThou wretched boy, that didst consort him here,\nShalt with him hence.\n\nROMEO.\nThis shall determine that.\n\n [_They fight; Tybalt falls._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo, away, be gone!\nThe citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.\nStand not amaz’d. The Prince will doom thee death\nIf thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away!\n\nROMEO.\nO, I am fortune’s fool!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy dost thou stay?\n\n [_Exit Romeo._]\n\n Enter Citizens.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nWhich way ran he that kill’d Mercutio?\nTybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThere lies that Tybalt.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nUp, sir, go with me.\nI charge thee in the Prince’s name obey.\n\n Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives and others.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhere are the vile beginners of this fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO noble Prince, I can discover all\nThe unlucky manage of this fatal brawl.\nThere lies the man, slain by young Romeo,\nThat slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child!\nO Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill’d\nOf my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true,\nFor blood of ours shed blood of Montague.\nO cousin, cousin.\n\nPRINCE.\nBenvolio, who began this bloody fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay;\nRomeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink\nHow nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal\nYour high displeasure. All this uttered\nWith gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d\nCould not take truce with the unruly spleen\nOf Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts\nWith piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast,\nWho, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,\nAnd, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats\nCold death aside, and with the other sends\nIt back to Tybalt, whose dexterity\nRetorts it. Romeo he cries aloud,\n‘Hold, friends! Friends, part!’ and swifter than his tongue,\nHis agile arm beats down their fatal points,\nAnd ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm\nAn envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life\nOf stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled.\nBut by and by comes back to Romeo,\nWho had but newly entertain’d revenge,\nAnd to’t they go like lightning; for, ere I\nCould draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain;\nAnd as he fell did Romeo turn and fly.\nThis is the truth, or let Benvolio die.\n\n" -- "LADY CAPULET.\nHe is a kinsman to the Montague.\nAffection makes him false, he speaks not true.\nSome twenty of them fought in this black strife,\nAnd all those twenty could but kill one life.\nI beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give;\nRomeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.\n\nPRINCE.\nRomeo slew him, he slew Mercutio.\nWho now the price of his dear blood doth owe?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nNot Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio’s friend;\nHis fault concludes but what the law should end,\nThe life of Tybalt.\n\nPRINCE.\nAnd for that offence\nImmediately we do exile him hence.\nI have an interest in your hate’s proceeding,\nMy blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding.\nBut I’ll amerce you with so strong a fine\nThat you shall all repent the loss of mine.\nI will be deaf to pleading and excuses;\nNor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses.\nTherefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste,\nElse, when he is found, that hour is his last.\nBear hence this body, and attend our will.\nMercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nGallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,\nTowards Phoebus’ lodging. Such a waggoner\nAs Phaeton would whip you to the west\nAnd bring in cloudy night immediately.\nSpread thy close curtain, love-performing night,\nThat runaway’s eyes may wink, and Romeo\nLeap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen.\nLovers can see to do their amorous rites\nBy their own beauties: or, if love be blind,\nIt best agrees with night. Come, civil night,\nThou sober-suited matron, all in black,\nAnd learn me how to lose a winning match,\nPlay’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.\nHood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,\nWith thy black mantle, till strange love, grow bold,\nThink true love acted simple modesty.\nCome, night, come Romeo; come, thou day in night;\nFor thou wilt lie upon the wings of night\nWhiter than new snow upon a raven’s back.\nCome gentle night, come loving black-brow’d night,\nGive me my Romeo, and when I shall die,\nTake him and cut him out in little stars,\nAnd he will make the face of heaven so fine\nThat all the world will be in love with night,\nAnd pay no worship to the garish sun.\nO, I have bought the mansion of a love,\nBut not possess’d it; and though I am sold,\nNot yet enjoy’d. So tedious is this day\nAs is the night before some festival\nTo an impatient child that hath new robes\nAnd may not wear them. O, here comes my Nurse,\nAnd she brings news, and every tongue that speaks\nBut Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence.\n\n Enter Nurse, with cords.\n\nNow, Nurse, what news? What hast thou there?\nThe cords that Romeo bid thee fetch?\n\nNURSE.\nAy, ay, the cords.\n\n [_Throws them down._]\n\nJULIET.\nAy me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands?\n\nNURSE.\nAh, well-a-day, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!\nWe are undone, lady, we are undone.\nAlack the day, he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead.\n\nJULIET.\nCan heaven be so envious?\n\nNURSE.\nRomeo can,\nThough heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo.\nWho ever would have thought it? Romeo!\n\nJULIET.\nWhat devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?\nThis torture should be roar’d in dismal hell.\nHath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but Ay,\nAnd that bare vowel I shall poison more\nThan the death-darting eye of cockatrice.\nI am not I if there be such an I;\nOr those eyes shut that make thee answer Ay.\nIf he be slain, say Ay; or if not, No.\nBrief sounds determine of my weal or woe.\n\n" -- "NURSE.\nI saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,\nGod save the mark!—here on his manly breast.\nA piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;\nPale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood,\nAll in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight.\n\nJULIET.\nO, break, my heart. Poor bankrout, break at once.\nTo prison, eyes; ne’er look on liberty.\nVile earth to earth resign; end motion here,\nAnd thou and Romeo press one heavy bier.\n\nNURSE.\nO Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had.\nO courteous Tybalt, honest gentleman!\nThat ever I should live to see thee dead.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat storm is this that blows so contrary?\nIs Romeo slaughter’d and is Tybalt dead?\nMy dearest cousin, and my dearer lord?\nThen dreadful trumpet sound the general doom,\nFor who is living, if those two are gone?\n\nNURSE.\nTybalt is gone, and Romeo banished,\nRomeo that kill’d him, he is banished.\n\nJULIET.\nO God! Did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?\n\nNURSE.\nIt did, it did; alas the day, it did.\n\nJULIET.\nO serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!\nDid ever dragon keep so fair a cave?\nBeautiful tyrant, fiend angelical,\nDove-feather’d raven, wolvish-ravening lamb!\nDespised substance of divinest show!\nJust opposite to what thou justly seem’st,\nA damned saint, an honourable villain!\nO nature, what hadst thou to do in hell\nWhen thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend\nIn mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?\nWas ever book containing such vile matter\nSo fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell\nIn such a gorgeous palace.\n\nNURSE.\nThere’s no trust,\nNo faith, no honesty in men. All perjur’d,\nAll forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.\nAh, where’s my man? Give me some aqua vitae.\nThese griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.\nShame come to Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nBlister’d be thy tongue\nFor such a wish! He was not born to shame.\nUpon his brow shame is asham’d to sit;\nFor ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d\nSole monarch of the universal earth.\nO, what a beast was I to chide at him!\n\nNURSE.\nWill you speak well of him that kill’d your cousin?\n\nJULIET.\nShall I speak ill of him that is my husband?\nAh, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,\nWhen I thy three-hours’ wife have mangled it?\nBut wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?\nThat villain cousin would have kill’d my husband.\nBack, foolish tears, back to your native spring,\nYour tributary drops belong to woe,\nWhich you mistaking offer up to joy.\nMy husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain,\nAnd Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband.\nAll this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?\nSome word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,\nThat murder’d me. I would forget it fain,\nBut O, it presses to my memory\nLike damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds.\nTybalt is dead, and Romeo banished.\nThat ‘banished,’ that one word ‘banished,’\nHath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death\nWas woe enough, if it had ended there.\nOr if sour woe delights in fellowship,\nAnd needly will be rank’d with other griefs,\nWhy follow’d not, when she said Tybalt’s dead,\nThy father or thy mother, nay or both,\nWhich modern lamentation might have mov’d?\nBut with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death,\n‘Romeo is banished’—to speak that word\nIs father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,\nAll slain, all dead. Romeo is banished,\nThere is no end, no limit, measure, bound,\nIn that word’s death, no words can that woe sound.\nWhere is my father and my mother, Nurse?\n\nNURSE.\nWeeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse.\nWill you go to them? I will bring you thither.\n\n" -- "JULIET.\nWash they his wounds with tears. Mine shall be spent,\nWhen theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment.\nTake up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil’d,\nBoth you and I; for Romeo is exil’d.\nHe made you for a highway to my bed,\nBut I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.\nCome cords, come Nurse, I’ll to my wedding bed,\nAnd death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead.\n\nNURSE.\nHie to your chamber. I’ll find Romeo\nTo comfort you. I wot well where he is.\nHark ye, your Romeo will be here at night.\nI’ll to him, he is hid at Lawrence’ cell.\n\nJULIET.\nO find him, give this ring to my true knight,\nAnd bid him come to take his last farewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man.\nAffliction is enanmour’d of thy parts\nAnd thou art wedded to calamity.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nFather, what news? What is the Prince’s doom?\nWhat sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,\nThat I yet know not?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nToo familiar\nIs my dear son with such sour company.\nI bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nA gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips,\nNot body’s death, but body’s banishment.\n\nROMEO.\nHa, banishment? Be merciful, say death;\nFor exile hath more terror in his look,\nMuch more than death. Do not say banishment.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHence from Verona art thou banished.\nBe patient, for the world is broad and wide.\n\nROMEO.\nThere is no world without Verona walls,\nBut purgatory, torture, hell itself.\nHence banished is banish’d from the world,\nAnd world’s exile is death. Then banished\nIs death misterm’d. Calling death banished,\nThou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe,\nAnd smilest upon the stroke that murders me.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness!\nThy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince,\nTaking thy part, hath brush’d aside the law,\nAnd turn’d that black word death to banishment.\nThis is dear mercy, and thou see’st it not.\n\nROMEO.\n’Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here\nWhere Juliet lives, and every cat and dog,\nAnd little mouse, every unworthy thing,\nLive here in heaven and may look on her,\nBut Romeo may not. More validity,\nMore honourable state, more courtship lives\nIn carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize\nOn the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand,\nAnd steal immortal blessing from her lips,\nWho, even in pure and vestal modesty\nStill blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.\nBut Romeo may not, he is banished.\nThis may flies do, when I from this must fly.\nThey are free men but I am banished.\nAnd say’st thou yet that exile is not death?\nHadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife,\nNo sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean,\nBut banished to kill me? Banished?\nO Friar, the damned use that word in hell.\nHowlings attends it. How hast thou the heart,\nBeing a divine, a ghostly confessor,\nA sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d,\nTo mangle me with that word banished?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThou fond mad man, hear me speak a little,\n\nROMEO.\nO, thou wilt speak again of banishment.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI’ll give thee armour to keep off that word,\nAdversity’s sweet milk, philosophy,\nTo comfort thee, though thou art banished.\n\nROMEO.\nYet banished? Hang up philosophy.\nUnless philosophy can make a Juliet,\nDisplant a town, reverse a Prince’s doom,\nIt helps not, it prevails not, talk no more.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO, then I see that mad men have no ears.\n\n" -- "ROMEO.\nHow should they, when that wise men have no eyes?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nLet me dispute with thee of thy estate.\n\nROMEO.\nThou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel.\nWert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,\nAn hour but married, Tybalt murdered,\nDoting like me, and like me banished,\nThen mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,\nAnd fall upon the ground as I do now,\nTaking the measure of an unmade grave.\n\n [_Knocking within._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nArise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.\n\nROMEO.\nNot I, unless the breath of heartsick groans\nMist-like infold me from the search of eyes.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHark, how they knock!—Who’s there?—Romeo, arise,\nThou wilt be taken.—Stay awhile.—Stand up.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nRun to my study.—By-and-by.—God’s will,\nWhat simpleness is this.—I come, I come.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nWho knocks so hard? Whence come you, what’s your will?\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand.\nI come from Lady Juliet.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWelcome then.\n\n Enter Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nO holy Friar, O, tell me, holy Friar,\nWhere is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThere on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.\n\nNURSE.\nO, he is even in my mistress’ case.\nJust in her case! O woeful sympathy!\nPiteous predicament. Even so lies she,\nBlubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.\nStand up, stand up; stand, and you be a man.\nFor Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand.\nWhy should you fall into so deep an O?\n\nROMEO.\nNurse.\n\nNURSE.\nAh sir, ah sir, death’s the end of all.\n\nROMEO.\nSpakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her?\nDoth not she think me an old murderer,\nNow I have stain’d the childhood of our joy\nWith blood remov’d but little from her own?\nWhere is she? And how doth she? And what says\nMy conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love?\n\nNURSE.\nO, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;\nAnd now falls on her bed, and then starts up,\nAnd Tybalt calls, and then on Romeo cries,\nAnd then down falls again.\n\nROMEO.\nAs if that name,\nShot from the deadly level of a gun,\nDid murder her, as that name’s cursed hand\nMurder’d her kinsman. O, tell me, Friar, tell me,\nIn what vile part of this anatomy\nDoth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack\nThe hateful mansion.\n\n [_Drawing his sword._]\n\n" +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThese violent delights have violent ends,\nAnd in their triumph die; like fire and powder,\nWhich as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey\nIs loathsome in his own deliciousness,\nAnd in the taste confounds the appetite.\nTherefore love moderately: long love doth so;\nToo swift arrives as tardy as too slow.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nHere comes the lady. O, so light a foot\nWill ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.\nA lover may bestride the gossamers\nThat idles in the wanton summer air\nAnd yet not fall; so light is vanity.\n\nJULIET.\nGood even to my ghostly confessor.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.\n\nJULIET.\nAs much to him, else is his thanks too much.\n\nROMEO.\nAh, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy\nBe heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue\nUnfold the imagin’d happiness that both\nReceive in either by this dear encounter.\n\nJULIET.\nConceit more rich in matter than in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of ornament.\nThey are but beggars that can count their worth;\nBut my true love is grown to such excess,\nI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would\nkill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a\nhair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel\nwith a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou\nhast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?\nThy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy\nhead hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast\nquarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath\nwakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall\nout with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with\nanother for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt\ntutor me from quarrelling!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee\nsimple of my life for an hour and a quarter.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThe fee simple! O simple!\n\n Enter Tybalt and others.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy my head, here comes the Capulets.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBy my heel, I care not.\n\nTYBALT.\nFollow me close, for I will speak to them.\nGentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a\nword and a blow.\n\nTYBALT.\nYou shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me\noccasion.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCould you not take some occasion without giving?\n\nTYBALT.\nMercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nConsort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of\nus, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick, here’s\nthat shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWe talk here in the public haunt of men.\nEither withdraw unto some private place,\nAnd reason coldly of your grievances,\nOr else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nMen’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.\nI will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nTYBALT.\nWell, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBut I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery.\nMarry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower;\nYour worship in that sense may call him man.\n\nTYBALT.\nRomeo, the love I bear thee can afford\nNo better term than this: Thou art a villain.\n\nROMEO.\nTybalt, the reason that I have to love thee\nDoth much excuse the appertaining rage\nTo such a greeting. Villain am I none;\nTherefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.\n\nTYBALT.\nBoy, this shall not excuse the injuries\nThat thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw.\n\nROMEO.\nI do protest I never injur’d thee,\nBut love thee better than thou canst devise\nTill thou shalt know the reason of my love.\nAnd so good Capulet, which name I tender\nAs dearly as mine own, be satisfied.\n\n" +- "MERCUTIO.\nO calm, dishonourable, vile submission!\n[_Draws._] Alla stoccata carries it away.\nTybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat wouldst thou have with me?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nGood King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to\nmake bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest\nof the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears?\nMake haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.\n\nTYBALT.\n[_Drawing._] I am for you.\n\nROMEO.\nGentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, sir, your passado.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nROMEO.\nDraw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.\nGentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage,\nTybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath\nForbid this bandying in Verona streets.\nHold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!\n\n [_Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans._]\n\nMERCUTIO.\nI am hurt.\nA plague o’ both your houses. I am sped.\nIs he gone, and hath nothing?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhat, art thou hurt?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAy, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough.\nWhere is my page? Go villain, fetch a surgeon.\n\n [_Exit Page._]\n\nROMEO.\nCourage, man; the hurt cannot be much.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNo, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis\nenough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a\ngrave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both\nyour houses. Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to\ndeath. A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of\narithmetic!—Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your\narm.\n\nROMEO.\nI thought all for the best.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHelp me into some house, Benvolio,\nOr I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses.\nThey have made worms’ meat of me.\nI have it, and soundly too. Your houses!\n\n [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._]\n\nROMEO.\nThis gentleman, the Prince’s near ally,\nMy very friend, hath got his mortal hurt\nIn my behalf; my reputation stain’d\nWith Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour\nHath been my cousin. O sweet Juliet,\nThy beauty hath made me effeminate\nAnd in my temper soften’d valour’s steel.\n\n Re-enter Benvolio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead,\nThat gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds,\nWhich too untimely here did scorn the earth.\n\nROMEO.\nThis day’s black fate on mo days doth depend;\nThis but begins the woe others must end.\n\n Re-enter Tybalt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere comes the furious Tybalt back again.\n\nROMEO.\nAgain in triumph, and Mercutio slain?\nAway to heaven respective lenity,\nAnd fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now!\nNow, Tybalt, take the ‘villain’ back again\nThat late thou gav’st me, for Mercutio’s soul\nIs but a little way above our heads,\nStaying for thine to keep him company.\nEither thou or I, or both, must go with him.\n\nTYBALT.\nThou wretched boy, that didst consort him here,\nShalt with him hence.\n\nROMEO.\nThis shall determine that.\n\n [_They fight; Tybalt falls._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo, away, be gone!\nThe citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.\nStand not amaz’d. The Prince will doom thee death\nIf thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away!\n\nROMEO.\nO, I am fortune’s fool!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy dost thou stay?\n\n [_Exit Romeo._]\n\n Enter Citizens.\n\n" +- "FIRST CITIZEN.\nWhich way ran he that kill’d Mercutio?\nTybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThere lies that Tybalt.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nUp, sir, go with me.\nI charge thee in the Prince’s name obey.\n\n Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives and others.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhere are the vile beginners of this fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO noble Prince, I can discover all\nThe unlucky manage of this fatal brawl.\nThere lies the man, slain by young Romeo,\nThat slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child!\nO Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill’d\nOf my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true,\nFor blood of ours shed blood of Montague.\nO cousin, cousin.\n\nPRINCE.\nBenvolio, who began this bloody fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay;\nRomeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink\nHow nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal\nYour high displeasure. All this uttered\nWith gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d\nCould not take truce with the unruly spleen\nOf Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts\nWith piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast,\nWho, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,\nAnd, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats\nCold death aside, and with the other sends\nIt back to Tybalt, whose dexterity\nRetorts it. Romeo he cries aloud,\n‘Hold, friends! Friends, part!’ and swifter than his tongue,\nHis agile arm beats down their fatal points,\nAnd ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm\nAn envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life\nOf stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled.\nBut by and by comes back to Romeo,\nWho had but newly entertain’d revenge,\nAnd to’t they go like lightning; for, ere I\nCould draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain;\nAnd as he fell did Romeo turn and fly.\nThis is the truth, or let Benvolio die.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nHe is a kinsman to the Montague.\nAffection makes him false, he speaks not true.\nSome twenty of them fought in this black strife,\nAnd all those twenty could but kill one life.\nI beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give;\nRomeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.\n\nPRINCE.\nRomeo slew him, he slew Mercutio.\nWho now the price of his dear blood doth owe?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nNot Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio’s friend;\nHis fault concludes but what the law should end,\nThe life of Tybalt.\n\nPRINCE.\nAnd for that offence\nImmediately we do exile him hence.\nI have an interest in your hate’s proceeding,\nMy blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding.\nBut I’ll amerce you with so strong a fine\nThat you shall all repent the loss of mine.\nI will be deaf to pleading and excuses;\nNor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses.\nTherefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste,\nElse, when he is found, that hour is his last.\nBear hence this body, and attend our will.\nMercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\n" +- "JULIET.\nGallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,\nTowards Phoebus’ lodging. Such a waggoner\nAs Phaeton would whip you to the west\nAnd bring in cloudy night immediately.\nSpread thy close curtain, love-performing night,\nThat runaway’s eyes may wink, and Romeo\nLeap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen.\nLovers can see to do their amorous rites\nBy their own beauties: or, if love be blind,\nIt best agrees with night. Come, civil night,\nThou sober-suited matron, all in black,\nAnd learn me how to lose a winning match,\nPlay’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.\nHood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,\nWith thy black mantle, till strange love, grow bold,\nThink true love acted simple modesty.\nCome, night, come Romeo; come, thou day in night;\nFor thou wilt lie upon the wings of night\nWhiter than new snow upon a raven’s back.\nCome gentle night, come loving black-brow’d night,\nGive me my Romeo, and when I shall die,\nTake him and cut him out in little stars,\nAnd he will make the face of heaven so fine\nThat all the world will be in love with night,\nAnd pay no worship to the garish sun.\nO, I have bought the mansion of a love,\nBut not possess’d it; and though I am sold,\nNot yet enjoy’d. So tedious is this day\nAs is the night before some festival\nTo an impatient child that hath new robes\nAnd may not wear them. O, here comes my Nurse,\nAnd she brings news, and every tongue that speaks\nBut Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence.\n\n Enter Nurse, with cords.\n\nNow, Nurse, what news? What hast thou there?\nThe cords that Romeo bid thee fetch?\n\nNURSE.\nAy, ay, the cords.\n\n [_Throws them down._]\n\nJULIET.\nAy me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands?\n\nNURSE.\nAh, well-a-day, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!\nWe are undone, lady, we are undone.\nAlack the day, he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead.\n\nJULIET.\nCan heaven be so envious?\n\nNURSE.\nRomeo can,\nThough heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo.\nWho ever would have thought it? Romeo!\n\nJULIET.\nWhat devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?\nThis torture should be roar’d in dismal hell.\nHath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but Ay,\nAnd that bare vowel I shall poison more\nThan the death-darting eye of cockatrice.\nI am not I if there be such an I;\nOr those eyes shut that make thee answer Ay.\nIf he be slain, say Ay; or if not, No.\nBrief sounds determine of my weal or woe.\n\nNURSE.\nI saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,\nGod save the mark!—here on his manly breast.\nA piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;\nPale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood,\nAll in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight.\n\nJULIET.\nO, break, my heart. Poor bankrout, break at once.\nTo prison, eyes; ne’er look on liberty.\nVile earth to earth resign; end motion here,\nAnd thou and Romeo press one heavy bier.\n\nNURSE.\nO Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had.\nO courteous Tybalt, honest gentleman!\nThat ever I should live to see thee dead.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat storm is this that blows so contrary?\nIs Romeo slaughter’d and is Tybalt dead?\nMy dearest cousin, and my dearer lord?\nThen dreadful trumpet sound the general doom,\nFor who is living, if those two are gone?\n\nNURSE.\nTybalt is gone, and Romeo banished,\nRomeo that kill’d him, he is banished.\n\nJULIET.\nO God! Did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?\n\nNURSE.\nIt did, it did; alas the day, it did.\n\n" +- "JULIET.\nO serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!\nDid ever dragon keep so fair a cave?\nBeautiful tyrant, fiend angelical,\nDove-feather’d raven, wolvish-ravening lamb!\nDespised substance of divinest show!\nJust opposite to what thou justly seem’st,\nA damned saint, an honourable villain!\nO nature, what hadst thou to do in hell\nWhen thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend\nIn mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?\nWas ever book containing such vile matter\nSo fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell\nIn such a gorgeous palace.\n\nNURSE.\nThere’s no trust,\nNo faith, no honesty in men. All perjur’d,\nAll forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.\nAh, where’s my man? Give me some aqua vitae.\nThese griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.\nShame come to Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nBlister’d be thy tongue\nFor such a wish! He was not born to shame.\nUpon his brow shame is asham’d to sit;\nFor ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d\nSole monarch of the universal earth.\nO, what a beast was I to chide at him!\n\nNURSE.\nWill you speak well of him that kill’d your cousin?\n\nJULIET.\nShall I speak ill of him that is my husband?\nAh, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,\nWhen I thy three-hours’ wife have mangled it?\nBut wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?\nThat villain cousin would have kill’d my husband.\nBack, foolish tears, back to your native spring,\nYour tributary drops belong to woe,\nWhich you mistaking offer up to joy.\nMy husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain,\nAnd Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband.\nAll this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?\nSome word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,\nThat murder’d me. I would forget it fain,\nBut O, it presses to my memory\nLike damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds.\nTybalt is dead, and Romeo banished.\nThat ‘banished,’ that one word ‘banished,’\nHath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death\nWas woe enough, if it had ended there.\nOr if sour woe delights in fellowship,\nAnd needly will be rank’d with other griefs,\nWhy follow’d not, when she said Tybalt’s dead,\nThy father or thy mother, nay or both,\nWhich modern lamentation might have mov’d?\nBut with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death,\n‘Romeo is banished’—to speak that word\nIs father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,\nAll slain, all dead. Romeo is banished,\nThere is no end, no limit, measure, bound,\nIn that word’s death, no words can that woe sound.\nWhere is my father and my mother, Nurse?\n\nNURSE.\nWeeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse.\nWill you go to them? I will bring you thither.\n\nJULIET.\nWash they his wounds with tears. Mine shall be spent,\nWhen theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment.\nTake up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil’d,\nBoth you and I; for Romeo is exil’d.\nHe made you for a highway to my bed,\nBut I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.\nCome cords, come Nurse, I’ll to my wedding bed,\nAnd death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead.\n\nNURSE.\nHie to your chamber. I’ll find Romeo\nTo comfort you. I wot well where he is.\nHark ye, your Romeo will be here at night.\nI’ll to him, he is hid at Lawrence’ cell.\n\nJULIET.\nO find him, give this ring to my true knight,\nAnd bid him come to take his last farewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man.\nAffliction is enanmour’d of thy parts\nAnd thou art wedded to calamity.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\n" +- "ROMEO.\nFather, what news? What is the Prince’s doom?\nWhat sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,\nThat I yet know not?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nToo familiar\nIs my dear son with such sour company.\nI bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nA gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips,\nNot body’s death, but body’s banishment.\n\nROMEO.\nHa, banishment? Be merciful, say death;\nFor exile hath more terror in his look,\nMuch more than death. Do not say banishment.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHence from Verona art thou banished.\nBe patient, for the world is broad and wide.\n\nROMEO.\nThere is no world without Verona walls,\nBut purgatory, torture, hell itself.\nHence banished is banish’d from the world,\nAnd world’s exile is death. Then banished\nIs death misterm’d. Calling death banished,\nThou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe,\nAnd smilest upon the stroke that murders me.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness!\nThy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince,\nTaking thy part, hath brush’d aside the law,\nAnd turn’d that black word death to banishment.\nThis is dear mercy, and thou see’st it not.\n\nROMEO.\n’Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here\nWhere Juliet lives, and every cat and dog,\nAnd little mouse, every unworthy thing,\nLive here in heaven and may look on her,\nBut Romeo may not. More validity,\nMore honourable state, more courtship lives\nIn carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize\nOn the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand,\nAnd steal immortal blessing from her lips,\nWho, even in pure and vestal modesty\nStill blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.\nBut Romeo may not, he is banished.\nThis may flies do, when I from this must fly.\nThey are free men but I am banished.\nAnd say’st thou yet that exile is not death?\nHadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife,\nNo sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean,\nBut banished to kill me? Banished?\nO Friar, the damned use that word in hell.\nHowlings attends it. How hast thou the heart,\nBeing a divine, a ghostly confessor,\nA sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d,\nTo mangle me with that word banished?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThou fond mad man, hear me speak a little,\n\nROMEO.\nO, thou wilt speak again of banishment.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI’ll give thee armour to keep off that word,\nAdversity’s sweet milk, philosophy,\nTo comfort thee, though thou art banished.\n\nROMEO.\nYet banished? Hang up philosophy.\nUnless philosophy can make a Juliet,\nDisplant a town, reverse a Prince’s doom,\nIt helps not, it prevails not, talk no more.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO, then I see that mad men have no ears.\n\nROMEO.\nHow should they, when that wise men have no eyes?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nLet me dispute with thee of thy estate.\n\nROMEO.\nThou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel.\nWert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,\nAn hour but married, Tybalt murdered,\nDoting like me, and like me banished,\nThen mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,\nAnd fall upon the ground as I do now,\nTaking the measure of an unmade grave.\n\n [_Knocking within._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nArise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.\n\nROMEO.\nNot I, unless the breath of heartsick groans\nMist-like infold me from the search of eyes.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHark, how they knock!—Who’s there?—Romeo, arise,\nThou wilt be taken.—Stay awhile.—Stand up.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nRun to my study.—By-and-by.—God’s will,\nWhat simpleness is this.—I come, I come.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\n" +- "Who knocks so hard? Whence come you, what’s your will?\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand.\nI come from Lady Juliet.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWelcome then.\n\n Enter Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nO holy Friar, O, tell me, holy Friar,\nWhere is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThere on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.\n\nNURSE.\nO, he is even in my mistress’ case.\nJust in her case! O woeful sympathy!\nPiteous predicament. Even so lies she,\nBlubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.\nStand up, stand up; stand, and you be a man.\nFor Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand.\nWhy should you fall into so deep an O?\n\nROMEO.\nNurse.\n\nNURSE.\nAh sir, ah sir, death’s the end of all.\n\nROMEO.\nSpakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her?\nDoth not she think me an old murderer,\nNow I have stain’d the childhood of our joy\nWith blood remov’d but little from her own?\nWhere is she? And how doth she? And what says\nMy conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love?\n\nNURSE.\nO, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;\nAnd now falls on her bed, and then starts up,\nAnd Tybalt calls, and then on Romeo cries,\nAnd then down falls again.\n\nROMEO.\nAs if that name,\nShot from the deadly level of a gun,\nDid murder her, as that name’s cursed hand\nMurder’d her kinsman. O, tell me, Friar, tell me,\nIn what vile part of this anatomy\nDoth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack\nThe hateful mansion.\n\n [_Drawing his sword._]\n\n" - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold thy desperate hand.\nArt thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art.\nThy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote\nThe unreasonable fury of a beast.\nUnseemly woman in a seeming man,\nAnd ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!\nThou hast amaz’d me. By my holy order,\nI thought thy disposition better temper’d.\nHast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself?\nAnd slay thy lady, that in thy life lives,\nBy doing damned hate upon thyself?\nWhy rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven and earth?\nSince birth, and heaven and earth, all three do meet\nIn thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose.\nFie, fie, thou sham’st thy shape, thy love, thy wit,\nWhich, like a usurer, abound’st in all,\nAnd usest none in that true use indeed\nWhich should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit.\nThy noble shape is but a form of wax,\nDigressing from the valour of a man;\nThy dear love sworn but hollow perjury,\nKilling that love which thou hast vow’d to cherish;\nThy wit, that ornament to shape and love,\nMisshapen in the conduct of them both,\nLike powder in a skilless soldier’s flask,\nIs set afire by thine own ignorance,\nAnd thou dismember’d with thine own defence.\nWhat, rouse thee, man. Thy Juliet is alive,\nFor whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead.\nThere art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,\nBut thou slew’st Tybalt; there art thou happy.\nThe law that threaten’d death becomes thy friend,\nAnd turns it to exile; there art thou happy.\nA pack of blessings light upon thy back;\nHappiness courts thee in her best array;\nBut like a misshaped and sullen wench,\nThou putt’st up thy Fortune and thy love.\nTake heed, take heed, for such die miserable.\nGo, get thee to thy love as was decreed,\nAscend her chamber, hence and comfort her.\nBut look thou stay not till the watch be set,\nFor then thou canst not pass to Mantua;\nWhere thou shalt live till we can find a time\nTo blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,\nBeg pardon of the Prince, and call thee back\nWith twenty hundred thousand times more joy\nThan thou went’st forth in lamentation.\nGo before, Nurse. Commend me to thy lady,\nAnd bid her hasten all the house to bed,\nWhich heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.\nRomeo is coming.\n\nNURSE.\nO Lord, I could have stay’d here all the night\nTo hear good counsel. O, what learning is!\nMy lord, I’ll tell my lady you will come.\n\nROMEO.\nDo so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.\n\nNURSE.\nHere sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir.\nHie you, make haste, for it grows very late.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nHow well my comfort is reviv’d by this.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nGo hence, good night, and here stands all your state:\nEither be gone before the watch be set,\nOr by the break of day disguis’d from hence.\nSojourn in Mantua. I’ll find out your man,\nAnd he shall signify from time to time\nEvery good hap to you that chances here.\nGive me thy hand; ’tis late; farewell; good night.\n\nROMEO.\nBut that a joy past joy calls out on me,\nIt were a grief so brief to part with thee.\nFarewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and Paris.\n\nCAPULET.\nThings have fallen out, sir, so unluckily\nThat we have had no time to move our daughter.\nLook you, she lov’d her kinsman Tybalt dearly,\nAnd so did I. Well, we were born to die.\n’Tis very late; she’ll not come down tonight.\nI promise you, but for your company,\nI would have been abed an hour ago.\n\nPARIS.\nThese times of woe afford no tune to woo.\nMadam, good night. Commend me to your daughter.\n\n" - "LADY CAPULET.\nI will, and know her mind early tomorrow;\nTonight she’s mew’d up to her heaviness.\n\nCAPULET.\nSir Paris, I will make a desperate tender\nOf my child’s love. I think she will be rul’d\nIn all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.\nWife, go you to her ere you go to bed,\nAcquaint her here of my son Paris’ love,\nAnd bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next,\nBut, soft, what day is this?\n\nPARIS.\nMonday, my lord.\n\nCAPULET.\nMonday! Ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,\nA Thursday let it be; a Thursday, tell her,\nShe shall be married to this noble earl.\nWill you be ready? Do you like this haste?\nWe’ll keep no great ado,—a friend or two,\nFor, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,\nIt may be thought we held him carelessly,\nBeing our kinsman, if we revel much.\nTherefore we’ll have some half a dozen friends,\nAnd there an end. But what say you to Thursday?\n\nPARIS.\nMy lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow.\n\nCAPULET.\nWell, get you gone. A Thursday be it then.\nGo you to Juliet ere you go to bed,\nPrepare her, wife, against this wedding day.\nFarewell, my lord.—Light to my chamber, ho!\nAfore me, it is so very very late that we\nMay call it early by and by. Good night.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo and Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nWilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.\nIt was the nightingale, and not the lark,\nThat pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear;\nNightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree.\nBelieve me, love, it was the nightingale.\n\nROMEO.\nIt was the lark, the herald of the morn,\nNo nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks\nDo lace the severing clouds in yonder east.\nNight’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day\nStands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.\nI must be gone and live, or stay and die.\n\nJULIET.\nYond light is not daylight, I know it, I.\nIt is some meteor that the sun exhales\nTo be to thee this night a torchbearer\nAnd light thee on thy way to Mantua.\nTherefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone.\n\nROMEO.\nLet me be ta’en, let me be put to death,\nI am content, so thou wilt have it so.\nI’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye,\n’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow.\nNor that is not the lark whose notes do beat\nThe vaulty heaven so high above our heads.\nI have more care to stay than will to go.\nCome, death, and welcome. Juliet wills it so.\nHow is’t, my soul? Let’s talk. It is not day.\n\nJULIET.\nIt is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away.\nIt is the lark that sings so out of tune,\nStraining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.\nSome say the lark makes sweet division;\nThis doth not so, for she divideth us.\nSome say the lark and loathed toad change eyes.\nO, now I would they had chang’d voices too,\nSince arm from arm that voice doth us affray,\nHunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day.\nO now be gone, more light and light it grows.\n\nROMEO.\nMore light and light, more dark and dark our woes.\n\n Enter Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nMadam.\n\nJULIET.\nNurse?\n\nNURSE.\nYour lady mother is coming to your chamber.\nThe day is broke, be wary, look about.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nThen, window, let day in, and let life out.\n\nROMEO.\nFarewell, farewell, one kiss, and I’ll descend.\n\n [_Descends._]\n\n" - "JULIET.\nArt thou gone so? Love, lord, ay husband, friend,\nI must hear from thee every day in the hour,\nFor in a minute there are many days.\nO, by this count I shall be much in years\nEre I again behold my Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nFarewell!\nI will omit no opportunity\nThat may convey my greetings, love, to thee.\n\nJULIET.\nO thinkest thou we shall ever meet again?\n\nROMEO.\nI doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve\nFor sweet discourses in our time to come.\n\nJULIET.\nO God! I have an ill-divining soul!\nMethinks I see thee, now thou art so low,\nAs one dead in the bottom of a tomb.\nEither my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd trust me, love, in my eye so do you.\nDry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu.\n\n [_Exit below._]\n\nJULIET.\nO Fortune, Fortune! All men call thee fickle,\nIf thou art fickle, what dost thou with him\nThat is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, Fortune;\nFor then, I hope thou wilt not keep him long\nBut send him back.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\n[_Within._] Ho, daughter, are you up?\n\nJULIET.\nWho is’t that calls? Is it my lady mother?\nIs she not down so late, or up so early?\nWhat unaccustom’d cause procures her hither?\n\n Enter Lady Capulet.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhy, how now, Juliet?\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, I am not well.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nEvermore weeping for your cousin’s death?\nWhat, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?\nAnd if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live.\nTherefore have done: some grief shows much of love,\nBut much of grief shows still some want of wit.\n\nJULIET.\nYet let me weep for such a feeling loss.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nSo shall you feel the loss, but not the friend\nWhich you weep for.\n\nJULIET.\nFeeling so the loss,\nI cannot choose but ever weep the friend.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death\nAs that the villain lives which slaughter’d him.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat villain, madam?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThat same villain Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nVillain and he be many miles asunder.\nGod pardon him. I do, with all my heart.\nAnd yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThat is because the traitor murderer lives.\n\nJULIET.\nAy madam, from the reach of these my hands.\nWould none but I might venge my cousin’s death.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe will have vengeance for it, fear thou not.\nThen weep no more. I’ll send to one in Mantua,\nWhere that same banish’d runagate doth live,\nShall give him such an unaccustom’d dram\nThat he shall soon keep Tybalt company:\nAnd then I hope thou wilt be satisfied.\n\nJULIET.\nIndeed I never shall be satisfied\nWith Romeo till I behold him—dead—\nIs my poor heart so for a kinsman vex’d.\nMadam, if you could find out but a man\nTo bear a poison, I would temper it,\nThat Romeo should upon receipt thereof,\nSoon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors\nTo hear him nam’d, and cannot come to him,\nTo wreak the love I bore my cousin\nUpon his body that hath slaughter’d him.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nFind thou the means, and I’ll find such a man.\nBut now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.\n\nJULIET.\nAnd joy comes well in such a needy time.\nWhat are they, I beseech your ladyship?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, well, thou hast a careful father, child;\nOne who to put thee from thy heaviness,\nHath sorted out a sudden day of joy,\nThat thou expects not, nor I look’d not for.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nMadam, in happy time, what day is that?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nMarry, my child, early next Thursday morn\nThe gallant, young, and noble gentleman,\nThe County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church,\nShall happily make thee there a joyful bride.\n\nJULIET.\nNow by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too,\nHe shall not make me there a joyful bride.\nI wonder at this haste, that I must wed\nEre he that should be husband comes to woo.\nI pray you tell my lord and father, madam,\nI will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear\nIt shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,\nRather than Paris. These are news indeed.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nHere comes your father, tell him so yourself,\nAnd see how he will take it at your hands.\n\n Enter Capulet and Nurse.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhen the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;\nBut for the sunset of my brother’s son\nIt rains downright.\nHow now? A conduit, girl? What, still in tears?\nEvermore showering? In one little body\nThou counterfeits a bark, a sea, a wind.\nFor still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,\nDo ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,\nSailing in this salt flood, the winds, thy sighs,\nWho raging with thy tears and they with them,\nWithout a sudden calm will overset\nThy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife?\nHave you deliver’d to her our decree?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAy, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.\nI would the fool were married to her grave.\n\nCAPULET.\nSoft. Take me with you, take me with you, wife.\nHow, will she none? Doth she not give us thanks?\nIs she not proud? Doth she not count her blest,\nUnworthy as she is, that we have wrought\nSo worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?\n\nJULIET.\nNot proud you have, but thankful that you have.\nProud can I never be of what I hate;\nBut thankful even for hate that is meant love.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow now, how now, chopp’d logic? What is this?\nProud, and, I thank you, and I thank you not;\nAnd yet not proud. Mistress minion you,\nThank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,\nBut fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next\nTo go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church,\nOr I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.\nOut, you green-sickness carrion! Out, you baggage!\nYou tallow-face!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nFie, fie! What, are you mad?\n\nJULIET.\nGood father, I beseech you on my knees,\nHear me with patience but to speak a word.\n\nCAPULET.\nHang thee young baggage, disobedient wretch!\nI tell thee what,—get thee to church a Thursday,\nOr never after look me in the face.\nSpeak not, reply not, do not answer me.\nMy fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest\nThat God had lent us but this only child;\nBut now I see this one is one too much,\nAnd that we have a curse in having her.\nOut on her, hilding.\n\nNURSE.\nGod in heaven bless her.\nYou are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.\n\nCAPULET.\nAnd why, my lady wisdom? Hold your tongue,\nGood prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.\n\nNURSE.\nI speak no treason.\n\nCAPULET.\nO God ye good-en!\n\nNURSE.\nMay not one speak?\n\nCAPULET.\nPeace, you mumbling fool!\nUtter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl,\nFor here we need it not.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nYou are too hot.\n\n" -- "CAPULET.\nGod’s bread, it makes me mad!\nDay, night, hour, ride, time, work, play,\nAlone, in company, still my care hath been\nTo have her match’d, and having now provided\nA gentleman of noble parentage,\nOf fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly allied,\nStuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,\nProportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man,\nAnd then to have a wretched puling fool,\nA whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,\nTo answer, ‘I’ll not wed, I cannot love,\nI am too young, I pray you pardon me.’\nBut, and you will not wed, I’ll pardon you.\nGraze where you will, you shall not house with me.\nLook to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.\nThursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise.\nAnd you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;\nAnd you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,\nFor by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,\nNor what is mine shall never do thee good.\nTrust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nIs there no pity sitting in the clouds,\nThat sees into the bottom of my grief?\nO sweet my mother, cast me not away,\nDelay this marriage for a month, a week,\nOr, if you do not, make the bridal bed\nIn that dim monument where Tybalt lies.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTalk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word.\nDo as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented?\nMy husband is on earth, my faith in heaven.\nHow shall that faith return again to earth,\nUnless that husband send it me from heaven\nBy leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me.\nAlack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems\nUpon so soft a subject as myself.\nWhat say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?\nSome comfort, Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, here it is.\nRomeo is banished; and all the world to nothing\nThat he dares ne’er come back to challenge you.\nOr if he do, it needs must be by stealth.\nThen, since the case so stands as now it doth,\nI think it best you married with the County.\nO, he’s a lovely gentleman.\nRomeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,\nHath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye\nAs Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,\nI think you are happy in this second match,\nFor it excels your first: or if it did not,\nYour first is dead, or ’twere as good he were,\nAs living here and you no use of him.\n\nJULIET.\nSpeakest thou from thy heart?\n\nNURSE.\nAnd from my soul too,\nOr else beshrew them both.\n\nJULIET.\nAmen.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat?\n\nJULIET.\nWell, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\nGo in, and tell my lady I am gone,\nHaving displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,\nTo make confession and to be absolv’d.\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, I will; and this is wisely done.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\nIf all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\n" -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\nPARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society.\nNow do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife.\n\nPARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nI will confess to you that I love him.\n\nPARIS.\nSo will ye, I am sure, that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf I do so, it will be of more price,\nBeing spoke behind your back than to your face.\n\nPARIS.\nPoor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.\n\nJULIET.\nThe tears have got small victory by that;\nFor it was bad enough before their spite.\n\nPARIS.\nThou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.\n\nJULIET.\nThat is no slander, sir, which is a truth,\nAnd what I spake, I spake it to my face.\n\nPARIS.\nThy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.\n\nJULIET.\nIt may be so, for it is not mine own.\nAre you at leisure, holy father, now,\nOr shall I come to you at evening mass?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nMy leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.—\nMy lord, we must entreat the time alone.\n\nPARIS.\nGod shield I should disturb devotion!—\nJuliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye,\nTill then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO shut the door, and when thou hast done so,\nCome weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO Juliet, I already know thy grief;\nIt strains me past the compass of my wits.\nI hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,\nOn Thursday next be married to this County.\n\nJULIET.\nTell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this,\nUnless thou tell me how I may prevent it.\nIf in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,\nDo thou but call my resolution wise,\nAnd with this knife I’ll help it presently.\nGod join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;\nAnd ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d,\nShall be the label to another deed,\nOr my true heart with treacherous revolt\nTurn to another, this shall slay them both.\nTherefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,\nGive me some present counsel, or behold\n’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife\nShall play the empire, arbitrating that\nWhich the commission of thy years and art\nCould to no issue of true honour bring.\nBe not so long to speak. I long to die,\nIf what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope,\nWhich craves as desperate an execution\nAs that is desperate which we would prevent.\nIf, rather than to marry County Paris\nThou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,\nThen is it likely thou wilt undertake\nA thing like death to chide away this shame,\nThat cop’st with death himself to scape from it.\nAnd if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy.\n\n" -- "JULIET.\nO, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,\nFrom off the battlements of yonder tower,\nOr walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk\nWhere serpents are. Chain me with roaring bears;\nOr hide me nightly in a charnel-house,\nO’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones,\nWith reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls.\nOr bid me go into a new-made grave,\nAnd hide me with a dead man in his shroud;\nThings that, to hear them told, have made me tremble,\nAnd I will do it without fear or doubt,\nTo live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold then. Go home, be merry, give consent\nTo marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow;\nTomorrow night look that thou lie alone,\nLet not thy Nurse lie with thee in thy chamber.\nTake thou this vial, being then in bed,\nAnd this distilled liquor drink thou off,\nWhen presently through all thy veins shall run\nA cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse\nShall keep his native progress, but surcease.\nNo warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest,\nThe roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade\nTo paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall,\nLike death when he shuts up the day of life.\nEach part depriv’d of supple government,\nShall stiff and stark and cold appear like death.\nAnd in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death\nThou shalt continue two and forty hours,\nAnd then awake as from a pleasant sleep.\nNow when the bridegroom in the morning comes\nTo rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.\nThen as the manner of our country is,\nIn thy best robes, uncover’d, on the bier,\nThou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault\nWhere all the kindred of the Capulets lie.\nIn the meantime, against thou shalt awake,\nShall Romeo by my letters know our drift,\nAnd hither shall he come, and he and I\nWill watch thy waking, and that very night\nShall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.\nAnd this shall free thee from this present shame,\nIf no inconstant toy nor womanish fear\nAbate thy valour in the acting it.\n\nJULIET.\nGive me, give me! O tell not me of fear!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous\nIn this resolve. I’ll send a friar with speed\nTo Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.\n\nJULIET.\nLove give me strength, and strength shall help afford.\nFarewell, dear father.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse and Servants.\n\nCAPULET.\nSo many guests invite as here are writ.\n\n [_Exit first Servant._]\n\nSirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nYou shall have none ill, sir; for I’ll try if they can lick their\nfingers.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow canst thou try them so?\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nMarry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers;\ntherefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo, begone.\n\n [_Exit second Servant._]\n\nWe shall be much unfurnish’d for this time.\nWhat, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence?\n\nNURSE.\nAy, forsooth.\n\nCAPULET.\nWell, he may chance to do some good on her.\nA peevish self-will’d harlotry it is.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nNURSE.\nSee where she comes from shrift with merry look.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow now, my headstrong. Where have you been gadding?\n\nJULIET.\nWhere I have learnt me to repent the sin\nOf disobedient opposition\nTo you and your behests; and am enjoin’d\nBy holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here,\nTo beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you.\nHenceforward I am ever rul’d by you.\n\nCAPULET.\nSend for the County, go tell him of this.\nI’ll have this knot knit up tomorrow morning.\n\n" -- "JULIET.\nI met the youthful lord at Lawrence’ cell,\nAnd gave him what becomed love I might,\nNot stepping o’er the bounds of modesty.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhy, I am glad on’t. This is well. Stand up.\nThis is as’t should be. Let me see the County.\nAy, marry. Go, I say, and fetch him hither.\nNow afore God, this reverend holy Friar,\nAll our whole city is much bound to him.\n\nJULIET.\nNurse, will you go with me into my closet,\nTo help me sort such needful ornaments\nAs you think fit to furnish me tomorrow?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNo, not till Thursday. There is time enough.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo, Nurse, go with her. We’ll to church tomorrow.\n\n [_Exeunt Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe shall be short in our provision,\n’Tis now near night.\n\nCAPULET.\nTush, I will stir about,\nAnd all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife.\nGo thou to Juliet, help to deck up her.\nI’ll not to bed tonight, let me alone.\nI’ll play the housewife for this once.—What, ho!—\nThey are all forth: well, I will walk myself\nTo County Paris, to prepare him up\nAgainst tomorrow. My heart is wondrous light\nSince this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Juliet’s Chamber.\n\n Enter Juliet and Nurse.\n\nJULIET.\nAy, those attires are best. But, gentle Nurse,\nI pray thee leave me to myself tonight;\nFor I have need of many orisons\nTo move the heavens to smile upon my state,\nWhich, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat, are you busy, ho? Need you my help?\n\nJULIET.\nNo, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries\nAs are behoveful for our state tomorrow.\nSo please you, let me now be left alone,\nAnd let the nurse this night sit up with you,\nFor I am sure you have your hands full all\nIn this so sudden business.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nGood night.\nGet thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need.\n\n [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nFarewell. God knows when we shall meet again.\nI have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins\nThat almost freezes up the heat of life.\nI’ll call them back again to comfort me.\nNurse!—What should she do here?\nMy dismal scene I needs must act alone.\nCome, vial.\nWhat if this mixture do not work at all?\nShall I be married then tomorrow morning?\nNo, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there.\n\n [_Laying down her dagger._]\n\n" +- "CAPULET.\nGod’s bread, it makes me mad!\nDay, night, hour, ride, time, work, play,\nAlone, in company, still my care hath been\nTo have her match’d, and having now provided\nA gentleman of noble parentage,\nOf fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly allied,\nStuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,\nProportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man,\nAnd then to have a wretched puling fool,\nA whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,\nTo answer, ‘I’ll not wed, I cannot love,\nI am too young, I pray you pardon me.’\nBut, and you will not wed, I’ll pardon you.\nGraze where you will, you shall not house with me.\nLook to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.\nThursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise.\nAnd you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;\nAnd you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,\nFor by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,\nNor what is mine shall never do thee good.\nTrust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nIs there no pity sitting in the clouds,\nThat sees into the bottom of my grief?\nO sweet my mother, cast me not away,\nDelay this marriage for a month, a week,\nOr, if you do not, make the bridal bed\nIn that dim monument where Tybalt lies.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTalk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word.\nDo as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented?\nMy husband is on earth, my faith in heaven.\nHow shall that faith return again to earth,\nUnless that husband send it me from heaven\nBy leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me.\nAlack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems\nUpon so soft a subject as myself.\nWhat say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?\nSome comfort, Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, here it is.\nRomeo is banished; and all the world to nothing\nThat he dares ne’er come back to challenge you.\nOr if he do, it needs must be by stealth.\nThen, since the case so stands as now it doth,\nI think it best you married with the County.\nO, he’s a lovely gentleman.\nRomeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,\nHath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye\nAs Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,\nI think you are happy in this second match,\nFor it excels your first: or if it did not,\nYour first is dead, or ’twere as good he were,\nAs living here and you no use of him.\n\nJULIET.\nSpeakest thou from thy heart?\n\nNURSE.\nAnd from my soul too,\nOr else beshrew them both.\n\nJULIET.\nAmen.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat?\n\nJULIET.\nWell, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\nGo in, and tell my lady I am gone,\nHaving displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,\nTo make confession and to be absolv’d.\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, I will; and this is wisely done.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\nIf all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\nPARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society.\nNow do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife.\n\nPARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nI will confess to you that I love him.\n\nPARIS.\nSo will ye, I am sure, that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf I do so, it will be of more price,\nBeing spoke behind your back than to your face.\n\nPARIS.\nPoor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.\n\nJULIET.\nThe tears have got small victory by that;\nFor it was bad enough before their spite.\n\nPARIS.\nThou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.\n\nJULIET.\nThat is no slander, sir, which is a truth,\nAnd what I spake, I spake it to my face.\n\nPARIS.\nThy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.\n\nJULIET.\nIt may be so, for it is not mine own.\nAre you at leisure, holy father, now,\nOr shall I come to you at evening mass?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nMy leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.—\nMy lord, we must entreat the time alone.\n\nPARIS.\nGod shield I should disturb devotion!—\nJuliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye,\nTill then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO shut the door, and when thou hast done so,\nCome weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO Juliet, I already know thy grief;\nIt strains me past the compass of my wits.\nI hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,\nOn Thursday next be married to this County.\n\nJULIET.\nTell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this,\nUnless thou tell me how I may prevent it.\nIf in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,\nDo thou but call my resolution wise,\nAnd with this knife I’ll help it presently.\nGod join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;\nAnd ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d,\nShall be the label to another deed,\nOr my true heart with treacherous revolt\nTurn to another, this shall slay them both.\nTherefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,\nGive me some present counsel, or behold\n’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife\nShall play the empire, arbitrating that\nWhich the commission of thy years and art\nCould to no issue of true honour bring.\nBe not so long to speak. I long to die,\nIf what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.\n\n" +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope,\nWhich craves as desperate an execution\nAs that is desperate which we would prevent.\nIf, rather than to marry County Paris\nThou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,\nThen is it likely thou wilt undertake\nA thing like death to chide away this shame,\nThat cop’st with death himself to scape from it.\nAnd if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy.\n\nJULIET.\nO, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,\nFrom off the battlements of yonder tower,\nOr walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk\nWhere serpents are. Chain me with roaring bears;\nOr hide me nightly in a charnel-house,\nO’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones,\nWith reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls.\nOr bid me go into a new-made grave,\nAnd hide me with a dead man in his shroud;\nThings that, to hear them told, have made me tremble,\nAnd I will do it without fear or doubt,\nTo live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold then. Go home, be merry, give consent\nTo marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow;\nTomorrow night look that thou lie alone,\nLet not thy Nurse lie with thee in thy chamber.\nTake thou this vial, being then in bed,\nAnd this distilled liquor drink thou off,\nWhen presently through all thy veins shall run\nA cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse\nShall keep his native progress, but surcease.\nNo warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest,\nThe roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade\nTo paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall,\nLike death when he shuts up the day of life.\nEach part depriv’d of supple government,\nShall stiff and stark and cold appear like death.\nAnd in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death\nThou shalt continue two and forty hours,\nAnd then awake as from a pleasant sleep.\nNow when the bridegroom in the morning comes\nTo rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.\nThen as the manner of our country is,\nIn thy best robes, uncover’d, on the bier,\nThou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault\nWhere all the kindred of the Capulets lie.\nIn the meantime, against thou shalt awake,\nShall Romeo by my letters know our drift,\nAnd hither shall he come, and he and I\nWill watch thy waking, and that very night\nShall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.\nAnd this shall free thee from this present shame,\nIf no inconstant toy nor womanish fear\nAbate thy valour in the acting it.\n\nJULIET.\nGive me, give me! O tell not me of fear!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous\nIn this resolve. I’ll send a friar with speed\nTo Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.\n\nJULIET.\nLove give me strength, and strength shall help afford.\nFarewell, dear father.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse and Servants.\n\nCAPULET.\nSo many guests invite as here are writ.\n\n [_Exit first Servant._]\n\nSirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nYou shall have none ill, sir; for I’ll try if they can lick their\nfingers.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow canst thou try them so?\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nMarry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers;\ntherefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo, begone.\n\n [_Exit second Servant._]\n\nWe shall be much unfurnish’d for this time.\nWhat, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence?\n\nNURSE.\nAy, forsooth.\n\nCAPULET.\nWell, he may chance to do some good on her.\nA peevish self-will’d harlotry it is.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nNURSE.\nSee where she comes from shrift with merry look.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow now, my headstrong. Where have you been gadding?\n\n" +- "JULIET.\nWhere I have learnt me to repent the sin\nOf disobedient opposition\nTo you and your behests; and am enjoin’d\nBy holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here,\nTo beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you.\nHenceforward I am ever rul’d by you.\n\nCAPULET.\nSend for the County, go tell him of this.\nI’ll have this knot knit up tomorrow morning.\n\nJULIET.\nI met the youthful lord at Lawrence’ cell,\nAnd gave him what becomed love I might,\nNot stepping o’er the bounds of modesty.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhy, I am glad on’t. This is well. Stand up.\nThis is as’t should be. Let me see the County.\nAy, marry. Go, I say, and fetch him hither.\nNow afore God, this reverend holy Friar,\nAll our whole city is much bound to him.\n\nJULIET.\nNurse, will you go with me into my closet,\nTo help me sort such needful ornaments\nAs you think fit to furnish me tomorrow?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNo, not till Thursday. There is time enough.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo, Nurse, go with her. We’ll to church tomorrow.\n\n [_Exeunt Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe shall be short in our provision,\n’Tis now near night.\n\nCAPULET.\nTush, I will stir about,\nAnd all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife.\nGo thou to Juliet, help to deck up her.\nI’ll not to bed tonight, let me alone.\nI’ll play the housewife for this once.—What, ho!—\nThey are all forth: well, I will walk myself\nTo County Paris, to prepare him up\nAgainst tomorrow. My heart is wondrous light\nSince this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Juliet’s Chamber.\n\n Enter Juliet and Nurse.\n\nJULIET.\nAy, those attires are best. But, gentle Nurse,\nI pray thee leave me to myself tonight;\nFor I have need of many orisons\nTo move the heavens to smile upon my state,\nWhich, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat, are you busy, ho? Need you my help?\n\nJULIET.\nNo, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries\nAs are behoveful for our state tomorrow.\nSo please you, let me now be left alone,\nAnd let the nurse this night sit up with you,\nFor I am sure you have your hands full all\nIn this so sudden business.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nGood night.\nGet thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need.\n\n [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nFarewell. God knows when we shall meet again.\nI have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins\nThat almost freezes up the heat of life.\nI’ll call them back again to comfort me.\nNurse!—What should she do here?\nMy dismal scene I needs must act alone.\nCome, vial.\nWhat if this mixture do not work at all?\nShall I be married then tomorrow morning?\nNo, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there.\n\n [_Laying down her dagger._]\n\n" - "What if it be a poison, which the Friar\nSubtly hath minister’d to have me dead,\nLest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d,\nBecause he married me before to Romeo?\nI fear it is. And yet methinks it should not,\nFor he hath still been tried a holy man.\nHow if, when I am laid into the tomb,\nI wake before the time that Romeo\nCome to redeem me? There’s a fearful point!\nShall I not then be stifled in the vault,\nTo whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,\nAnd there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?\nOr, if I live, is it not very like,\nThe horrible conceit of death and night,\nTogether with the terror of the place,\nAs in a vault, an ancient receptacle,\nWhere for this many hundred years the bones\nOf all my buried ancestors are pack’d,\nWhere bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,\nLies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,\nAt some hours in the night spirits resort—\nAlack, alack, is it not like that I,\nSo early waking, what with loathsome smells,\nAnd shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,\nThat living mortals, hearing them, run mad.\nO, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,\nEnvironed with all these hideous fears,\nAnd madly play with my forefathers’ joints?\nAnd pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?\nAnd, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone,\nAs with a club, dash out my desperate brains?\nO look, methinks I see my cousin’s ghost\nSeeking out Romeo that did spit his body\nUpon a rapier’s point. Stay, Tybalt, stay!\nRomeo, Romeo, Romeo, here’s drink! I drink to thee.\n\n [_Throws herself on the bed._]\n\nSCENE IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nHold, take these keys and fetch more spices, Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nThey call for dates and quinces in the pastry.\n\n Enter Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nCome, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow’d,\nThe curfew bell hath rung, ’tis three o’clock.\nLook to the bak’d meats, good Angelica;\nSpare not for cost.\n\nNURSE.\nGo, you cot-quean, go,\nGet you to bed; faith, you’ll be sick tomorrow\nFor this night’s watching.\n\nCAPULET.\nNo, not a whit. What! I have watch’d ere now\nAll night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAy, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time;\nBut I will watch you from such watching now.\n\n [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._]\n\nCAPULET.\nA jealous-hood, a jealous-hood!\n\n Enter Servants, with spits, logs and baskets.\n\nNow, fellow, what’s there?\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nThings for the cook, sir; but I know not what.\n\nCAPULET.\nMake haste, make haste.\n\n [_Exit First Servant._]\n\n—Sirrah, fetch drier logs.\nCall Peter, he will show thee where they are.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nI have a head, sir, that will find out logs\nAnd never trouble Peter for the matter.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nCAPULET.\nMass and well said; a merry whoreson, ha.\nThou shalt be loggerhead.—Good faith, ’tis day.\nThe County will be here with music straight,\nFor so he said he would. I hear him near.\n\n [_Play music._]\n\nNurse! Wife! What, ho! What, Nurse, I say!\n\n Re-enter Nurse.\n\nGo waken Juliet, go and trim her up.\nI’ll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste,\nMake haste; the bridegroom he is come already.\nMake haste I say.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n Enter Nurse.\n\n" - "NURSE.\nMistress! What, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she.\nWhy, lamb, why, lady, fie, you slug-abed!\nWhy, love, I say! Madam! Sweetheart! Why, bride!\nWhat, not a word? You take your pennyworths now.\nSleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,\nThe County Paris hath set up his rest\nThat you shall rest but little. God forgive me!\nMarry and amen. How sound is she asleep!\nI needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam!\nAy, let the County take you in your bed,\nHe’ll fright you up, i’faith. Will it not be?\nWhat, dress’d, and in your clothes, and down again?\nI must needs wake you. Lady! Lady! Lady!\nAlas, alas! Help, help! My lady’s dead!\nO, well-a-day that ever I was born.\nSome aqua vitae, ho! My lord! My lady!\n\n Enter Lady Capulet.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat noise is here?\n\nNURSE.\nO lamentable day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat is the matter?\n\nNURSE.\nLook, look! O heavy day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO me, O me! My child, my only life.\nRevive, look up, or I will die with thee.\nHelp, help! Call help.\n\n Enter Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nFor shame, bring Juliet forth, her lord is come.\n\nNURSE.\nShe’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead; alack the day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAlack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead!\n\nCAPULET.\nHa! Let me see her. Out alas! She’s cold,\nHer blood is settled and her joints are stiff.\nLife and these lips have long been separated.\nDeath lies on her like an untimely frost\nUpon the sweetest flower of all the field.\n\nNURSE.\nO lamentable day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO woful time!\n\nCAPULET.\nDeath, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail,\nTies up my tongue and will not let me speak.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris with Musicians.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, is the bride ready to go to church?\n\nCAPULET.\nReady to go, but never to return.\nO son, the night before thy wedding day\nHath death lain with thy bride. There she lies,\nFlower as she was, deflowered by him.\nDeath is my son-in-law, death is my heir;\nMy daughter he hath wedded. I will die.\nAnd leave him all; life, living, all is death’s.\n\nPARIS.\nHave I thought long to see this morning’s face,\nAnd doth it give me such a sight as this?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAccurs’d, unhappy, wretched, hateful day.\nMost miserable hour that e’er time saw\nIn lasting labour of his pilgrimage.\nBut one, poor one, one poor and loving child,\nBut one thing to rejoice and solace in,\nAnd cruel death hath catch’d it from my sight.\n\nNURSE.\nO woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day.\nMost lamentable day, most woeful day\nThat ever, ever, I did yet behold!\nO day, O day, O day, O hateful day.\nNever was seen so black a day as this.\nO woeful day, O woeful day.\n\nPARIS.\nBeguil’d, divorced, wronged, spited, slain.\nMost detestable death, by thee beguil’d,\nBy cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown.\nO love! O life! Not life, but love in death!\n\nCAPULET.\nDespis’d, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d.\nUncomfortable time, why cam’st thou now\nTo murder, murder our solemnity?\nO child! O child! My soul, and not my child,\nDead art thou. Alack, my child is dead,\nAnd with my child my joys are buried.\n\n" - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nPeace, ho, for shame. Confusion’s cure lives not\nIn these confusions. Heaven and yourself\nHad part in this fair maid, now heaven hath all,\nAnd all the better is it for the maid.\nYour part in her you could not keep from death,\nBut heaven keeps his part in eternal life.\nThe most you sought was her promotion,\nFor ’twas your heaven she should be advanc’d,\nAnd weep ye now, seeing she is advanc’d\nAbove the clouds, as high as heaven itself?\nO, in this love, you love your child so ill\nThat you run mad, seeing that she is well.\nShe’s not well married that lives married long,\nBut she’s best married that dies married young.\nDry up your tears, and stick your rosemary\nOn this fair corse, and, as the custom is,\nAnd in her best array bear her to church;\nFor though fond nature bids us all lament,\nYet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment.\n\nCAPULET.\nAll things that we ordained festival\nTurn from their office to black funeral:\nOur instruments to melancholy bells,\nOur wedding cheer to a sad burial feast;\nOur solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;\nOur bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,\nAnd all things change them to the contrary.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSir, go you in, and, madam, go with him,\nAnd go, Sir Paris, everyone prepare\nTo follow this fair corse unto her grave.\nThe heavens do lower upon you for some ill;\nMove them no more by crossing their high will.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris and Friar._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nFaith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.\n\nNURSE.\nHonest good fellows, ah, put up, put up,\nFor well you know this is a pitiful case.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nAy, by my troth, the case may be amended.\n\n [_Exit Nurse._]\n\n Enter Peter.\n\nPETER.\nMusicians, O, musicians, ‘Heart’s ease,’ ‘Heart’s ease’, O, and you\nwill have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhy ‘Heart’s ease’?\n\nPETER.\nO musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full’. O play\nme some merry dump to comfort me.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nNot a dump we, ’tis no time to play now.\n\nPETER.\nYou will not then?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nNo.\n\nPETER.\nI will then give it you soundly.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat will you give us?\n\nPETER.\nNo money, on my faith, but the gleek! I will give you the minstrel.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nThen will I give you the serving-creature.\n\nPETER.\nThen will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate. I will\ncarry no crotchets. I’ll re you, I’ll fa you. Do you note me?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nAnd you re us and fa us, you note us.\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nPray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.\n\nPETER.\nThen have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and\nput up my iron dagger. Answer me like men.\n ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound,\n And doleful dumps the mind oppress,\n Then music with her silver sound’—\nWhy ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you,\nSimon Catling?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nMarry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.\n\nPETER.\nPrates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck?\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nI say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.\n\nPETER.\nPrates too! What say you, James Soundpost?\n\nTHIRD MUSICIAN.\nFaith, I know not what to say.\n\nPETER.\nO, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is\n‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for\nsounding.\n ‘Then music with her silver sound\n With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n" -- "FIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,\nThat I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nThen she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleeps in Capel’s monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you.\nO pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nIs it even so? Then I defy you, stars!\nThou know’st my lodging. Get me ink and paper,\nAnd hire post-horses. I will hence tonight.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI do beseech you sir, have patience.\nYour looks are pale and wild, and do import\nSome misadventure.\n\nROMEO.\nTush, thou art deceiv’d.\nLeave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.\nHast thou no letters to me from the Friar?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nNo, my good lord.\n\nROMEO.\nNo matter. Get thee gone,\nAnd hire those horses. I’ll be with thee straight.\n\n [_Exit Balthasar._]\n\nWell, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight.\nLet’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift\nTo enter in the thoughts of desperate men.\nI do remember an apothecary,—\nAnd hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted\nIn tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,\nCulling of simples, meagre were his looks,\nSharp misery had worn him to the bones;\nAnd in his needy shop a tortoise hung,\nAn alligator stuff’d, and other skins\nOf ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves\nA beggarly account of empty boxes,\nGreen earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,\nRemnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses\nWere thinly scatter’d, to make up a show.\nNoting this penury, to myself I said,\nAnd if a man did need a poison now,\nWhose sale is present death in Mantua,\nHere lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.\nO, this same thought did but forerun my need,\nAnd this same needy man must sell it me.\nAs I remember, this should be the house.\nBeing holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.\nWhat, ho! Apothecary!\n\n Enter Apothecary.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nWho calls so loud?\n\nROMEO.\nCome hither, man. I see that thou art poor.\nHold, there is forty ducats. Let me have\nA dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear\nAs will disperse itself through all the veins,\nThat the life-weary taker may fall dead,\nAnd that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath\nAs violently as hasty powder fir’d\nDoth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nSuch mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law\nIs death to any he that utters them.\n\n" -- "ROMEO.\nArt thou so bare and full of wretchedness,\nAnd fear’st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks,\nNeed and oppression starveth in thine eyes,\nContempt and beggary hangs upon thy back.\nThe world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law;\nThe world affords no law to make thee rich;\nThen be not poor, but break it and take this.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nMy poverty, but not my will consents.\n\nROMEO.\nI pay thy poverty, and not thy will.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nPut this in any liquid thing you will\nAnd drink it off; and, if you had the strength\nOf twenty men, it would despatch you straight.\n\nROMEO.\nThere is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls,\nDoing more murder in this loathsome world\nThan these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.\nI sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.\nFarewell, buy food, and get thyself in flesh.\nCome, cordial and not poison, go with me\nTo Juliet’s grave, for there must I use thee.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar John.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nHoly Franciscan Friar! Brother, ho!\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThis same should be the voice of Friar John.\nWelcome from Mantua. What says Romeo?\nOr, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nGoing to find a barefoot brother out,\nOne of our order, to associate me,\nHere in this city visiting the sick,\nAnd finding him, the searchers of the town,\nSuspecting that we both were in a house\nWhere the infectious pestilence did reign,\nSeal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth,\nSo that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWho bare my letter then to Romeo?\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nI could not send it,—here it is again,—\nNor get a messenger to bring it thee,\nSo fearful were they of infection.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nUnhappy fortune! By my brotherhood,\nThe letter was not nice, but full of charge,\nOf dear import, and the neglecting it\nMay do much danger. Friar John, go hence,\nGet me an iron crow and bring it straight\nUnto my cell.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nBrother, I’ll go and bring it thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNow must I to the monument alone.\nWithin this three hours will fair Juliet wake.\nShe will beshrew me much that Romeo\nHath had no notice of these accidents;\nBut I will write again to Mantua,\nAnd keep her at my cell till Romeo come.\nPoor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch.\n\nPARIS.\nGive me thy torch, boy. Hence and stand aloof.\nYet put it out, for I would not be seen.\nUnder yond yew tree lay thee all along,\nHolding thy ear close to the hollow ground;\nSo shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,\nBeing loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,\nBut thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me,\nAs signal that thou hear’st something approach.\nGive me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.\n\nPAGE.\n[_Aside._] I am almost afraid to stand alone\nHere in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\nPARIS.\nSweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew.\nO woe, thy canopy is dust and stones,\nWhich with sweet water nightly I will dew,\nOr wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans.\nThe obsequies that I for thee will keep,\nNightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.\n\n [_The Page whistles._]\n\nThe boy gives warning something doth approach.\nWhat cursed foot wanders this way tonight,\nTo cross my obsequies and true love’s rite?\nWhat, with a torch! Muffle me, night, awhile.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\n Enter Romeo and Balthasar with a torch, mattock, &c.\n\n" +- "FIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,\nThat I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nThen she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleeps in Capel’s monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you.\nO pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nIs it even so? Then I defy you, stars!\nThou know’st my lodging. Get me ink and paper,\nAnd hire post-horses. I will hence tonight.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI do beseech you sir, have patience.\nYour looks are pale and wild, and do import\nSome misadventure.\n\nROMEO.\nTush, thou art deceiv’d.\nLeave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.\nHast thou no letters to me from the Friar?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nNo, my good lord.\n\nROMEO.\nNo matter. Get thee gone,\nAnd hire those horses. I’ll be with thee straight.\n\n [_Exit Balthasar._]\n\nWell, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight.\nLet’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift\nTo enter in the thoughts of desperate men.\nI do remember an apothecary,—\nAnd hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted\nIn tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,\nCulling of simples, meagre were his looks,\nSharp misery had worn him to the bones;\nAnd in his needy shop a tortoise hung,\nAn alligator stuff’d, and other skins\nOf ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves\nA beggarly account of empty boxes,\nGreen earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,\nRemnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses\nWere thinly scatter’d, to make up a show.\nNoting this penury, to myself I said,\nAnd if a man did need a poison now,\nWhose sale is present death in Mantua,\nHere lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.\nO, this same thought did but forerun my need,\nAnd this same needy man must sell it me.\nAs I remember, this should be the house.\nBeing holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.\nWhat, ho! Apothecary!\n\n Enter Apothecary.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nWho calls so loud?\n\nROMEO.\nCome hither, man. I see that thou art poor.\nHold, there is forty ducats. Let me have\nA dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear\nAs will disperse itself through all the veins,\nThat the life-weary taker may fall dead,\nAnd that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath\nAs violently as hasty powder fir’d\nDoth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nSuch mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law\nIs death to any he that utters them.\n\nROMEO.\nArt thou so bare and full of wretchedness,\nAnd fear’st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks,\nNeed and oppression starveth in thine eyes,\nContempt and beggary hangs upon thy back.\nThe world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law;\nThe world affords no law to make thee rich;\nThen be not poor, but break it and take this.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nMy poverty, but not my will consents.\n\nROMEO.\nI pay thy poverty, and not thy will.\n\n" +- "APOTHECARY.\nPut this in any liquid thing you will\nAnd drink it off; and, if you had the strength\nOf twenty men, it would despatch you straight.\n\nROMEO.\nThere is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls,\nDoing more murder in this loathsome world\nThan these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.\nI sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.\nFarewell, buy food, and get thyself in flesh.\nCome, cordial and not poison, go with me\nTo Juliet’s grave, for there must I use thee.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar John.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nHoly Franciscan Friar! Brother, ho!\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThis same should be the voice of Friar John.\nWelcome from Mantua. What says Romeo?\nOr, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nGoing to find a barefoot brother out,\nOne of our order, to associate me,\nHere in this city visiting the sick,\nAnd finding him, the searchers of the town,\nSuspecting that we both were in a house\nWhere the infectious pestilence did reign,\nSeal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth,\nSo that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWho bare my letter then to Romeo?\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nI could not send it,—here it is again,—\nNor get a messenger to bring it thee,\nSo fearful were they of infection.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nUnhappy fortune! By my brotherhood,\nThe letter was not nice, but full of charge,\nOf dear import, and the neglecting it\nMay do much danger. Friar John, go hence,\nGet me an iron crow and bring it straight\nUnto my cell.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nBrother, I’ll go and bring it thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNow must I to the monument alone.\nWithin this three hours will fair Juliet wake.\nShe will beshrew me much that Romeo\nHath had no notice of these accidents;\nBut I will write again to Mantua,\nAnd keep her at my cell till Romeo come.\nPoor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch.\n\nPARIS.\nGive me thy torch, boy. Hence and stand aloof.\nYet put it out, for I would not be seen.\nUnder yond yew tree lay thee all along,\nHolding thy ear close to the hollow ground;\nSo shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,\nBeing loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,\nBut thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me,\nAs signal that thou hear’st something approach.\nGive me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.\n\nPAGE.\n[_Aside._] I am almost afraid to stand alone\nHere in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\nPARIS.\nSweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew.\nO woe, thy canopy is dust and stones,\nWhich with sweet water nightly I will dew,\nOr wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans.\nThe obsequies that I for thee will keep,\nNightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.\n\n [_The Page whistles._]\n\nThe boy gives warning something doth approach.\nWhat cursed foot wanders this way tonight,\nTo cross my obsequies and true love’s rite?\nWhat, with a torch! Muffle me, night, awhile.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\n Enter Romeo and Balthasar with a torch, mattock, &c.\n\n" - "ROMEO.\nGive me that mattock and the wrenching iron.\nHold, take this letter; early in the morning\nSee thou deliver it to my lord and father.\nGive me the light; upon thy life I charge thee,\nWhate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof\nAnd do not interrupt me in my course.\nWhy I descend into this bed of death\nIs partly to behold my lady’s face,\nBut chiefly to take thence from her dead finger\nA precious ring, a ring that I must use\nIn dear employment. Therefore hence, be gone.\nBut if thou jealous dost return to pry\nIn what I further shall intend to do,\nBy heaven I will tear thee joint by joint,\nAnd strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs.\nThe time and my intents are savage-wild;\nMore fierce and more inexorable far\nThan empty tigers or the roaring sea.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.\n\nROMEO.\nSo shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that.\nLive, and be prosperous, and farewell, good fellow.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nFor all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout.\nHis looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.\n\n [_Retires_]\n\nROMEO.\nThou detestable maw, thou womb of death,\nGorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth,\nThus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,\n\n [_Breaking open the door of the monument._]\n\nAnd in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food.\n\nPARIS.\nThis is that banish’d haughty Montague\nThat murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief,\nIt is supposed, the fair creature died,—\nAnd here is come to do some villanous shame\nTo the dead bodies. I will apprehend him.\n\n [_Advances._]\n\nStop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague.\nCan vengeance be pursu’d further than death?\nCondemned villain, I do apprehend thee.\nObey, and go with me, for thou must die.\n\nROMEO.\nI must indeed; and therefore came I hither.\nGood gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man.\nFly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone;\nLet them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,\nPut not another sin upon my head\nBy urging me to fury. O be gone.\nBy heaven I love thee better than myself;\nFor I come hither arm’d against myself.\nStay not, be gone, live, and hereafter say,\nA madman’s mercy bid thee run away.\n\nPARIS.\nI do defy thy conjuration,\nAnd apprehend thee for a felon here.\n\nROMEO.\nWilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy!\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nPAGE.\nO lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nPARIS.\nO, I am slain! [_Falls._] If thou be merciful,\nOpen the tomb, lay me with Juliet.\n\n [_Dies._]\n\nROMEO.\nIn faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.\nMercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris!\nWhat said my man, when my betossed soul\nDid not attend him as we rode? I think\nHe told me Paris should have married Juliet.\nSaid he not so? Or did I dream it so?\nOr am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,\nTo think it was so? O, give me thy hand,\nOne writ with me in sour misfortune’s book.\nI’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave.\nA grave? O no, a lantern, slaught’red youth,\nFor here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes\nThis vault a feasting presence full of light.\nDeath, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d.\n\n [_Laying Paris in the monument._]\n\n" - "How oft when men are at the point of death\nHave they been merry! Which their keepers call\nA lightning before death. O, how may I\nCall this a lightning? O my love, my wife,\nDeath that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath,\nHath had no power yet upon thy beauty.\nThou art not conquer’d. Beauty’s ensign yet\nIs crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,\nAnd death’s pale flag is not advanced there.\nTybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?\nO, what more favour can I do to thee\nThan with that hand that cut thy youth in twain\nTo sunder his that was thine enemy?\nForgive me, cousin. Ah, dear Juliet,\nWhy art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe\nThat unsubstantial death is amorous;\nAnd that the lean abhorred monster keeps\nThee here in dark to be his paramour?\nFor fear of that I still will stay with thee,\nAnd never from this palace of dim night\nDepart again. Here, here will I remain\nWith worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here\nWill I set up my everlasting rest;\nAnd shake the yoke of inauspicious stars\nFrom this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last.\nArms, take your last embrace! And, lips, O you\nThe doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss\nA dateless bargain to engrossing death.\nCome, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide.\nThou desperate pilot, now at once run on\nThe dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark.\nHere’s to my love! [_Drinks._] O true apothecary!\nThy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.\n\n [_Dies._]\n\n Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, Friar Lawrence, with a\n lantern, crow, and spade.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSaint Francis be my speed. How oft tonight\nHave my old feet stumbled at graves? Who’s there?\nWho is it that consorts, so late, the dead?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nHere’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nBliss be upon you. Tell me, good my friend,\nWhat torch is yond that vainly lends his light\nTo grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern,\nIt burneth in the Capels’ monument.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nIt doth so, holy sir, and there’s my master,\nOne that you love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWho is it?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nRomeo.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHow long hath he been there?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nFull half an hour.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nGo with me to the vault.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI dare not, sir;\nMy master knows not but I am gone hence,\nAnd fearfully did menace me with death\nIf I did stay to look on his intents.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nStay then, I’ll go alone. Fear comes upon me.\nO, much I fear some ill unlucky thing.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nAs I did sleep under this yew tree here,\nI dreamt my master and another fought,\nAnd that my master slew him.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo! [_Advances._]\nAlack, alack, what blood is this which stains\nThe stony entrance of this sepulchre?\nWhat mean these masterless and gory swords\nTo lie discolour’d by this place of peace?\n\n [_Enters the monument._]\n\nRomeo! O, pale! Who else? What, Paris too?\nAnd steep’d in blood? Ah what an unkind hour\nIs guilty of this lamentable chance?\nThe lady stirs.\n\n [_Juliet wakes and stirs._]\n\nJULIET.\nO comfortable Friar, where is my lord?\nI do remember well where I should be,\nAnd there I am. Where is my Romeo?\n\n [_Noise within._]\n\n" - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest\nOf death, contagion, and unnatural sleep.\nA greater power than we can contradict\nHath thwarted our intents. Come, come away.\nThy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;\nAnd Paris too. Come, I’ll dispose of thee\nAmong a sisterhood of holy nuns.\nStay not to question, for the watch is coming.\nCome, go, good Juliet. I dare no longer stay.\n\nJULIET.\nGo, get thee hence, for I will not away.\n\n [_Exit Friar Lawrence._]\n\nWhat’s here? A cup clos’d in my true love’s hand?\nPoison, I see, hath been his timeless end.\nO churl. Drink all, and left no friendly drop\nTo help me after? I will kiss thy lips.\nHaply some poison yet doth hang on them,\nTo make me die with a restorative.\n\n [_Kisses him._]\n\nThy lips are warm!\n\nFIRST WATCH.\n[_Within._] Lead, boy. Which way?\n\nJULIET.\nYea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger.\n\n [_Snatching Romeo’s dagger._]\n\nThis is thy sheath. [_stabs herself_] There rest, and let me die.\n\n [_Falls on Romeo’s body and dies._]\n\n Enter Watch with the Page of Paris.\n\nPAGE.\nThis is the place. There, where the torch doth burn.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nThe ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard.\nGo, some of you, whoe’er you find attach.\n\n [_Exeunt some of the Watch._]\n\nPitiful sight! Here lies the County slain,\nAnd Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,\nWho here hath lain this two days buried.\nGo tell the Prince; run to the Capulets.\nRaise up the Montagues, some others search.\n\n [_Exeunt others of the Watch._]\n\nWe see the ground whereon these woes do lie,\nBut the true ground of all these piteous woes\nWe cannot without circumstance descry.\n\n Re-enter some of the Watch with Balthasar.\n\nSECOND WATCH.\nHere’s Romeo’s man. We found him in the churchyard.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nHold him in safety till the Prince come hither.\n\n Re-enter others of the Watch with Friar Lawrence.\n\nTHIRD WATCH. Here is a Friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps.\nWe took this mattock and this spade from him\nAs he was coming from this churchyard side.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nA great suspicion. Stay the Friar too.\n\n Enter the Prince and Attendants.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhat misadventure is so early up,\nThat calls our person from our morning’s rest?\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and others.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat should it be that they so shriek abroad?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO the people in the street cry Romeo,\nSome Juliet, and some Paris, and all run\nWith open outcry toward our monument.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhat fear is this which startles in our ears?\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nSovereign, here lies the County Paris slain,\nAnd Romeo dead, and Juliet, dead before,\nWarm and new kill’d.\n\nPRINCE.\nSearch, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nHere is a Friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man,\nWith instruments upon them fit to open\nThese dead men’s tombs.\n\nCAPULET.\nO heaven! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!\nThis dagger hath mista’en, for lo, his house\nIs empty on the back of Montague,\nAnd it mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO me! This sight of death is as a bell\nThat warns my old age to a sepulchre.\n\n Enter Montague and others.\n\nPRINCE.\nCome, Montague, for thou art early up,\nTo see thy son and heir more early down.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nAlas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight.\nGrief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath.\nWhat further woe conspires against mine age?\n\nPRINCE.\nLook, and thou shalt see.\n\n" - "MONTAGUE.\nO thou untaught! What manners is in this,\nTo press before thy father to a grave?\n\nPRINCE.\nSeal up the mouth of outrage for a while,\nTill we can clear these ambiguities,\nAnd know their spring, their head, their true descent,\nAnd then will I be general of your woes,\nAnd lead you even to death. Meantime forbear,\nAnd let mischance be slave to patience.\nBring forth the parties of suspicion.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI am the greatest, able to do least,\nYet most suspected, as the time and place\nDoth make against me, of this direful murder.\nAnd here I stand, both to impeach and purge\nMyself condemned and myself excus’d.\n\nPRINCE.\nThen say at once what thou dost know in this.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI will be brief, for my short date of breath\nIs not so long as is a tedious tale.\nRomeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet,\nAnd she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife.\nI married them; and their stol’n marriage day\nWas Tybalt’s doomsday, whose untimely death\nBanish’d the new-made bridegroom from this city;\nFor whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin’d.\nYou, to remove that siege of grief from her,\nBetroth’d, and would have married her perforce\nTo County Paris. Then comes she to me,\nAnd with wild looks, bid me devise some means\nTo rid her from this second marriage,\nOr in my cell there would she kill herself.\nThen gave I her, so tutored by my art,\nA sleeping potion, which so took effect\nAs I intended, for it wrought on her\nThe form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo\nThat he should hither come as this dire night\nTo help to take her from her borrow’d grave,\nBeing the time the potion’s force should cease.\nBut he which bore my letter, Friar John,\nWas stay’d by accident; and yesternight\nReturn’d my letter back. Then all alone\nAt the prefixed hour of her waking\nCame I to take her from her kindred’s vault,\nMeaning to keep her closely at my cell\nTill I conveniently could send to Romeo.\nBut when I came, some minute ere the time\nOf her awaking, here untimely lay\nThe noble Paris and true Romeo dead.\nShe wakes; and I entreated her come forth\nAnd bear this work of heaven with patience.\nBut then a noise did scare me from the tomb;\nAnd she, too desperate, would not go with me,\nBut, as it seems, did violence on herself.\nAll this I know; and to the marriage\nHer Nurse is privy. And if ought in this\nMiscarried by my fault, let my old life\nBe sacrific’d, some hour before his time,\nUnto the rigour of severest law.\n\nPRINCE.\nWe still have known thee for a holy man.\nWhere’s Romeo’s man? What can he say to this?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI brought my master news of Juliet’s death,\nAnd then in post he came from Mantua\nTo this same place, to this same monument.\nThis letter he early bid me give his father,\nAnd threaten’d me with death, going in the vault,\nIf I departed not, and left him there.\n\nPRINCE.\nGive me the letter, I will look on it.\nWhere is the County’s Page that rais’d the watch?\nSirrah, what made your master in this place?\n\nPAGE.\nHe came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave,\nAnd bid me stand aloof, and so I did.\nAnon comes one with light to ope the tomb,\nAnd by and by my master drew on him,\nAnd then I ran away to call the watch.\n\nPRINCE.\nThis letter doth make good the Friar’s words,\nTheir course of love, the tidings of her death.\nAnd here he writes that he did buy a poison\nOf a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal\nCame to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.\nWhere be these enemies? Capulet, Montague,\nSee what a scourge is laid upon your hate,\nThat heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!\nAnd I, for winking at your discords too,\nHave lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d.\n\nCAPULET.\nO brother Montague, give me thy hand.\nThis is my daughter’s jointure, for no more\nCan I demand.\n\n" -- "MONTAGUE.\nBut I can give thee more,\nFor I will raise her statue in pure gold,\nThat whiles Verona by that name is known,\nThere shall no figure at such rate be set\nAs that of true and faithful Juliet.\n\nCAPULET.\nAs rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie,\nPoor sacrifices of our enmity.\n\nPRINCE.\nA glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun for sorrow will not show his head.\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things.\nSome shall be pardon’d, and some punished,\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the\nUnited States without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. 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Hart was the originator of the Project\nGutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be\nfreely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and\ndistributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of\nvolunteer support.\n\nProject Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed\neditions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in\nthe U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not\nnecessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper\nedition.\n\nMost people start at our website which has the main PG search\nfacility: www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap index c6fd048d..32dd62e0 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap @@ -32,7 +32,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - ROMEO AND JULIET * - "**\n\n\n\n\n" - "THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO " -- "AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\n" +- "AND JULIET\n\n\n\n" +- "by William Shakespeare\n\n\n" - "Contents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\n" - "ACT I\nScene I. A public place.\n" - "Scene II. A Street.\n" @@ -72,7 +73,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Scene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n" - "Scene III. " - "A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the " -- "Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ\n\n" +- "Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n" +- " Dramatis Personæ\n\n" - "ESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\n" - "MERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince" - ", and friend to Romeo.\n" @@ -143,7 +145,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "The which, if you with patient ears attend,\n" - "What here shall miss, our toil shall " - "strive to mend.\n\n" -- " [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I\n\n" +- " [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT I\n\n" - "SCENE I. A public place.\n\n" - " Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and " - "bucklers.\n\n" @@ -2804,7 +2807,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "short work,\n" - "For, by your leaves, you shall not stay " - "alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n" -- " [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT III\n\n" +- " [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT III\n\n" - "SCENE I. A public Place.\n\n" - " Enter Mercutio, Benvolio" - ", Page and Servants.\n\n" @@ -4374,7 +4378,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "I’ll to the Friar to know his " - "remedy.\n" - "If all else fail, myself have power to die" -- ".\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\n" +- ".\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT IV\n\n" - "SCENE I. " - "Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n" - " Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\n" @@ -5170,7 +5175,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Hang him, Jack. " - "Come, we’ll in here, tarry " - "for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n" -- " [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V\n\n" +- " [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT V\n\n" - "SCENE I. Mantua. " - "A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\n" - "ROMEO.\n" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap index b8f9bd93..8de69dbe 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap @@ -6,11 +6,13 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster\n\n" - "This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. " - "If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n" -- "*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n" +- "*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\n" +- "CONTENTS\n\n" - " Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n" - " Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return\n\n" - " Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n" -- " Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\nChapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n" +- " Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n" - "“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”\n\n" - "“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” " - "She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\n" @@ -83,7 +85,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,\nand the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.\n\n" - "Miss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more.\n\n" - "“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,\n" -- "since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n\n\n" +- "since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n\n\n" - "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,\n" - "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.\n\n" - "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. " @@ -177,7 +180,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n" - "“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.\n\n" - "“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_.\nThere’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,\n" -- "yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n\n\n" +- "yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n\n\n" - "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.\n" - "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.\n" - "Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never.\n\n" @@ -238,7 +242,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "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 façade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun.\n\n" - "“Too late to go out,” said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. “All the galleries are shut.”\n\n“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.”\n\nHer two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:\n\n" - "“I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won’t you be better on your feet?”\n\n“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan.\n\n“Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!”\n\nBut 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.\n\n" -- "“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.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\n" +- "“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.”\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\n" - "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?\n" - "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.\nIndirectly, 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.\n\n" - "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.\n" @@ -277,7 +282,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "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;\n" - "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.\n\n“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”\n\n" -- "“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n\n\n" +- "“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n\n\n" - "It was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. " - "They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one.\n\n" - "For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure,\n" @@ -351,7 +357,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. " - "Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something,\nand though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god.\n\n" - "“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n" -- "“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them.\n\n\n" +- "“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them.\n\n\n" - "It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab. " - "And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guard against imposition. " - "But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god.\n\n" @@ -418,7 +425,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Eccolo!” he exclaimed.\n\nAt the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end.\n\n“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above.\n“Courage and love.”\n\n" - "She did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view,\nand violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth.\n\n" - "Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.\nBut he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.\n\nGeorge had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.\n\n" -- "Before she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII They Return\n\n\n" +- "Before she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VII They Return\n\n\n" - "Some complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye.\n" - "Charlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. " - "Pan had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. " @@ -483,7 +491,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,\nthough she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her.\n\n" - "To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.\n\nWhether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:\n\n“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”\n\n" - "Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\n" -- "In the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval\n\n\n" +- "In the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VIII Medieval\n\n\n" - "The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,”\n" - "or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;\nwithin, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man.\n\n" - "Two pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. " @@ -574,7 +583,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present.\n\n" - "So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne,\n" - "putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped.\n" -- "Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art\n\n\n" +- "Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art\n\n\n" - "A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\nfor naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man.\n\n" - "Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers.\n\n" - "At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been.\n\n" @@ -601,7 +611,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything. " - "The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.\nHoneychurch?”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil,\nwho was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again.\n\n" - "Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n" -- "“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\nLet us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\n" +- "“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\n" +- "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\n" - "The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.\n" - "Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. " - "The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil.\n\n" @@ -651,7 +662,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "At that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.\nAs he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them.\n\n" - "Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. " - "Lucy was standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.\n\nThey left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.\n\n" -- "“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X Cecil as a Humourist\n\n\n" +- "“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter X Cecil as a Humourist\n\n\n" - "The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,\nand, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter.\n" - "Other houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility. " - "“I cannot think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. " @@ -706,7 +718,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "He bore her down.\n\n“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time.\nNo, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—”\n\n" - "“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”\n\nHe stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”\n\nHer face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago.\n\n" - "“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”\n\nShe left him.\n\n“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows.\n\n" -- "No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n\n\n" +- "No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n\n\n" - "The Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,\n" - "met Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr. " - "Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die.\n\n" @@ -739,7 +752,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to London. " - "I don’t believe in these London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”\n\n“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.\n\n" - "As she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek.\n\n“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”\n\n" -- "The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII Twelfth Chapter\n\n\n" +- "The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XII Twelfth Chapter\n\n\n" - "It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.\n" - "All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n" - "“M’m.”\n\n“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in.\n\n" @@ -794,7 +808,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”\n\n" - "“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”\n\n“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”\n\n“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.\n\n" - "He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed.\n\n" -- "That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n\n\n" +- "That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n\n\n" - "How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. " - "Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these.\nBut she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star.\n\n" - "Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. “I will bow,” she had thought. " @@ -841,7 +856,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”\n\n“From your own account, you told her as much.”\n\n" - "“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—”\n\nThe ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.\n\n" - "“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”\n\n" -- "Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n\n\n" +- "Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n\n\n" - "Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week.\n\n" - "Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. " - "When she talked to George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.” " @@ -878,7 +894,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him,\n" - "and has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden.” " - "She took hold of her guest by the arm. “Suppose we don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.”\n\n" -- "Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\n" +- "Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\n" - "The Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. " - "Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells.\n\n" - "The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her,\n" @@ -923,8 +940,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. " - "The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning,\n" - "would never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. " -- "Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n" -- "Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.\n\n" +- "Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n" +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.\n\n" - "Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\n" - "so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,\n" - "and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. " diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap index 3b480a6e..7bd6ab5f 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap @@ -3,77 +3,99 @@ source: tests/text_splitter_snapshots.rs expression: chunks input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt --- -- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return\n\n Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\nChapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”\n\n“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\nthat was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”\n\n“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.\n\n“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!”\n\n“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a view.”\n\nLucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me:\nof course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—” “You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.\n\n“No, no. You must have it.”\n\n“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”\n\n“She would never forgive _me_.”\n\n" -- "The ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:\n\n“I have a view, I have a view.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would “do” till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility.\nWhat exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”\n\n“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view too.”\n\n“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.\n\n“What I mean,” he continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll have yours. We’ll change.”\n\nThe better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said “Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question.”\n\n“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the table.\n\n“Because it is quite out of the question, thank you.”\n\n“You see, we don’t like to take—” began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.\n\n“But why?” he persisted. “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son,\nsaying, “George, persuade them!”\n\n“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” said the son. “There’s nothing else to say.”\n\nHe did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as “quite a scene,” and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with—well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour.\n\nMiss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, “Are you all like this?” And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating “We are not; we are genteel.”\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear,” she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured.\n\nLucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite.\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will make a change.”\n\nHardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table,\ncheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: “Oh, oh! Why, it’s Mr.\nBeebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now,\nhowever bad the rooms are. Oh!”\n\nMiss Bartlett said, with more restraint:\n\n“How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter’s that very cold Easter.”\n\n" -- "The clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by Lucy.\n\n“I _am_ so glad to see you,” said the girl, who was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her cousin had permitted it. “Just fancy how small the world is. Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny.”\n\n“Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street,” said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, “and she happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the living—”\n\n“Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn’t know that I knew you at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: ‘Mr. Beebe is—’”\n\n“Quite right,” said the clergyman. “I move into the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood.”\n\n“Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner.” Mr. Beebe bowed.\n\n“There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it’s not often we get him to ch—— The church is rather far off, I mean.”\n\n“Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.”\n\n“I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it.”\n\nHe preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and he was first in the field. “Don’t neglect the country round,” his advice concluded. “The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort.”\n\n“No!” cried a voice from the top of the table. “Mr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato.”\n\n“That lady looks so clever,” whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. “We are in luck.”\n\nAnd, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams,\nhow to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter,\nhow much the place would grow upon them. The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusiastically, that they would do. Whichever way they looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of the clever lady, crying: “Prato! They must go to Prato.\nThat place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know.”\n\nThe young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do.\nLucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.\n\nThe father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow,\nbut by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across something.\n\nShe hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains—curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and supported by ’Enery, her little boy,\nand Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South.\nAnd even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really Italy?\n\nMiss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr.\nBeebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. “We are most grateful to you,” she was saying. “The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly _mauvais quart d’heure_.”\n\nHe expressed his regret.\n\n" -- "“Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?”\n\n“Emerson.”\n\n“Is he a friend of yours?”\n\n“We are friendly—as one is in pensions.”\n\n“Then I will say no more.”\n\nHe pressed her very slightly, and she said more.\n\n“I am, as it were,” she concluded, “the chaperon of my young cousin,\nLucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate.\nI hope I acted for the best.”\n\n“You acted very naturally,” said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: “All the same, I don’t think much harm would have come of accepting.”\n\n“No _harm_, of course. But we could not be under an obligation.”\n\n“He is rather a peculiar man.” Again he hesitated, and then said gently: “I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit—if it is one—of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult—at least, I find it difficult—to understand people who speak the truth.”\n\nLucy was pleased, and said: “I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice.”\n\n“I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect—I may say I hope—you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people’s backs up. He has no tact and no manners—I don’t mean by that that he has bad manners—and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it.”\n\n“Am I to conclude,” said Miss Bartlett, “that he is a Socialist?”\n\nMr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips.\n\n“And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?”\n\n“I hardly know George, for he hasn’t learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father’s mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist.”\n\n“Oh, you relieve me,” said Miss Bartlett. “So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?”\n\n“Not at all,” he answered; “I never suggested that.”\n\n“But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?”\n\nHe replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary,\nand got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room.\n\n“Was I a bore?” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. “Why didn’t you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I’m sure. I do hope I haven’t monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time.”\n\n“He is nice,” exclaimed Lucy. “Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman.”\n\n“My dear Lucia—”\n\n“Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man.”\n\n“Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe.”\n\n“I’m sure she will; and so will Freddy.”\n\n“I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times.”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy despondently.\n\nThere was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added “I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion.”\n\n" -- "And the girl again thought: “I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor.”\n\nFortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister’s health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea,\nthough one better than something else.\n\n“But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English.”\n\n“Yet our rooms smell,” said poor Lucy. “We dread going to bed.”\n\n“Ah, then you look into the court.” She sighed. “If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner.”\n\n“I think he was meaning to be kind.”\n\n“Undoubtedly he was,” said Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin’s account.”\n\n“Of course,” said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl.\n\nLucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it.\n\n“About old Mr. Emerson—I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time—beautiful?”\n\n“Beautiful?” said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. “Are not beauty and delicacy the same?”\n\n“So one would have thought,” said the other helplessly. “But things are so difficult, I sometimes think.”\n\nShe proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant.\n\n“Miss Bartlett,” he cried, “it’s all right about the rooms. I’m so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased.”\n\n“Oh, Charlotte,” cried Lucy to her cousin, “we must have the rooms now.\nThe old man is just as nice and kind as he can be.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent.\n\n“I fear,” said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, “that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference.”\n\nGravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: “My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then,\nMr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?”\n\nShe raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message.\n\n“Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events.”\n\nMr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously:\n\n“Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead.”\n\nThe young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs.\n\n“My father,” he said, “is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out.”\n\n" -- "Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy.\n\n“Poor young man!” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.\n\n“How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite.”\n\n“In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready,” said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary.\n\n“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. “Gentlemen sometimes do not realize—” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy,\nshe committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History.\nFor she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said:\n\n“I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move.”\n\n“How you do do everything,” said Lucy.\n\n“Naturally, dear. It is my affair.”\n\n“But I would like to help you.”\n\n“No, dear.”\n\nCharlotte’s energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet—there was a rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.\n\n“I want to explain,” said Miss Bartlett, “why it is that I have taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you;\nbut I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it.”\n\nLucy was bewildered.\n\n“If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this.”\n\n“Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure,” said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues.\n\nMiss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,\nand the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.\n\nMiss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more.\n\n“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,\nsince it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n\n\n" +- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return\n\n Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n" +- "“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”\n\n“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\nthat was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”\n\n“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.\n\n“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!”\n\n“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a view.”\n\nLucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me:\nof course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—” “You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.\n\n“No, no. You must have it.”\n\n“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”\n\n“She would never forgive _me_.”\n\nThe ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:\n\n“I have a view, I have a view.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would “do” till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility.\nWhat exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”\n\n“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view too.”\n\n“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.\n\n“What I mean,” he continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll have yours. We’ll change.”\n\nThe better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said “Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question.”\n\n“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the table.\n\n“Because it is quite out of the question, thank you.”\n\n“You see, we don’t like to take—” began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.\n\n“But why?” he persisted. “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son,\nsaying, “George, persuade them!”\n\n“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” said the son. “There’s nothing else to say.”\n\n" +- "He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as “quite a scene,” and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with—well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour.\n\nMiss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, “Are you all like this?” And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating “We are not; we are genteel.”\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear,” she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured.\n\nLucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite.\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will make a change.”\n\nHardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table,\ncheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: “Oh, oh! Why, it’s Mr.\nBeebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now,\nhowever bad the rooms are. Oh!”\n\nMiss Bartlett said, with more restraint:\n\n“How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter’s that very cold Easter.”\n\nThe clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by Lucy.\n\n“I _am_ so glad to see you,” said the girl, who was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her cousin had permitted it. “Just fancy how small the world is. Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny.”\n\n“Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street,” said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, “and she happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the living—”\n\n“Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn’t know that I knew you at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: ‘Mr. Beebe is—’”\n\n“Quite right,” said the clergyman. “I move into the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood.”\n\n“Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner.” Mr. Beebe bowed.\n\n“There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it’s not often we get him to ch—— The church is rather far off, I mean.”\n\n“Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.”\n\n“I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it.”\n\nHe preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and he was first in the field. “Don’t neglect the country round,” his advice concluded. “The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort.”\n\n“No!” cried a voice from the top of the table. “Mr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato.”\n\n“That lady looks so clever,” whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. “We are in luck.”\n\n" +- "And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams,\nhow to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter,\nhow much the place would grow upon them. The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusiastically, that they would do. Whichever way they looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of the clever lady, crying: “Prato! They must go to Prato.\nThat place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know.”\n\nThe young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do.\nLucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.\n\nThe father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow,\nbut by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across something.\n\nShe hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains—curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and supported by ’Enery, her little boy,\nand Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South.\nAnd even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really Italy?\n\nMiss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr.\nBeebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. “We are most grateful to you,” she was saying. “The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly _mauvais quart d’heure_.”\n\nHe expressed his regret.\n\n“Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?”\n\n“Emerson.”\n\n“Is he a friend of yours?”\n\n“We are friendly—as one is in pensions.”\n\n“Then I will say no more.”\n\nHe pressed her very slightly, and she said more.\n\n“I am, as it were,” she concluded, “the chaperon of my young cousin,\nLucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate.\nI hope I acted for the best.”\n\n“You acted very naturally,” said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: “All the same, I don’t think much harm would have come of accepting.”\n\n“No _harm_, of course. But we could not be under an obligation.”\n\n“He is rather a peculiar man.” Again he hesitated, and then said gently: “I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit—if it is one—of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult—at least, I find it difficult—to understand people who speak the truth.”\n\nLucy was pleased, and said: “I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice.”\n\n“I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect—I may say I hope—you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people’s backs up. He has no tact and no manners—I don’t mean by that that he has bad manners—and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it.”\n\n“Am I to conclude,” said Miss Bartlett, “that he is a Socialist?”\n\nMr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips.\n\n" +- "“And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?”\n\n“I hardly know George, for he hasn’t learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father’s mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist.”\n\n“Oh, you relieve me,” said Miss Bartlett. “So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?”\n\n“Not at all,” he answered; “I never suggested that.”\n\n“But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?”\n\nHe replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary,\nand got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room.\n\n“Was I a bore?” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. “Why didn’t you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I’m sure. I do hope I haven’t monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time.”\n\n“He is nice,” exclaimed Lucy. “Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman.”\n\n“My dear Lucia—”\n\n“Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man.”\n\n“Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe.”\n\n“I’m sure she will; and so will Freddy.”\n\n“I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times.”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy despondently.\n\nThere was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added “I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion.”\n\nAnd the girl again thought: “I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor.”\n\nFortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister’s health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea,\nthough one better than something else.\n\n“But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English.”\n\n“Yet our rooms smell,” said poor Lucy. “We dread going to bed.”\n\n“Ah, then you look into the court.” She sighed. “If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner.”\n\n“I think he was meaning to be kind.”\n\n“Undoubtedly he was,” said Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin’s account.”\n\n“Of course,” said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl.\n\nLucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it.\n\n“About old Mr. Emerson—I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time—beautiful?”\n\n“Beautiful?” said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. “Are not beauty and delicacy the same?”\n\n" +- "“So one would have thought,” said the other helplessly. “But things are so difficult, I sometimes think.”\n\nShe proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant.\n\n“Miss Bartlett,” he cried, “it’s all right about the rooms. I’m so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased.”\n\n“Oh, Charlotte,” cried Lucy to her cousin, “we must have the rooms now.\nThe old man is just as nice and kind as he can be.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent.\n\n“I fear,” said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, “that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference.”\n\nGravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: “My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then,\nMr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?”\n\nShe raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message.\n\n“Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events.”\n\nMr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously:\n\n“Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead.”\n\nThe young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs.\n\n“My father,” he said, “is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy.\n\n“Poor young man!” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.\n\n“How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite.”\n\n“In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready,” said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary.\n\n“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. “Gentlemen sometimes do not realize—” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy,\nshe committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History.\nFor she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said:\n\n“I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move.”\n\n“How you do do everything,” said Lucy.\n\n“Naturally, dear. It is my affair.”\n\n“But I would like to help you.”\n\n“No, dear.”\n\nCharlotte’s energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet—there was a rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.\n\n“I want to explain,” said Miss Bartlett, “why it is that I have taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you;\nbut I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it.”\n\nLucy was bewildered.\n\n" +- "“If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this.”\n\n“Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure,” said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues.\n\nMiss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,\nand the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.\n\nMiss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more.\n\n“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,\nsince it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n\n\n" - "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,\nto 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.\n\nOver 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,\nundersized 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.\n\nOver 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.\n\nA conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar lines. Miss Bartlett was,\nafter 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,\nof 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!\n\nAt this point the clever lady broke in.\n\n“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.”\n\nMiss 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.\n\n“I will take you by a dear dirty back way, Miss Honeychurch, and if you bring me luck, we shall have an adventure.”\n\nLucy said that this was most kind, and at once opened the Baedeker, to see where Santa Croce was.\n\n“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.”\n\nThis sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried over her breakfast, and started with her new friend in high spirits. Italy was coming at last.\nThe Cockney Signora and her works had vanished like a bad dream.\n\n" - "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:\n\n“A smell! a true Florentine smell! Every city, let me teach you, has its own smell.”\n\n“Is it a very nice smell?” said Lucy, who had inherited from her mother a distaste to dirt.\n\n“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!”\n\nSo Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of the city of Florence,\nshort, 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,\nonly increased the sense of festivity.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Indeed, I’m not!” exclaimed Lucy. “We are Radicals, too, out and out.\nMy father always voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he was so dreadful about Ireland.”\n\n“I see, I see. And now you have gone over to the enemy.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“Shameful! A manufacturing district, I suppose?”\n\n“No—in the Surrey hills. About five miles from Dorking, looking over the Weald.”\n\nMiss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened her trot.\n\n“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?”\n\n“Very well indeed.”\n\n“And old Mrs. Butterworth the philanthropist?”\n\n“Why, she rents a field of us! How funny!”\n\nMiss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky, and murmured: “Oh, you have property in Surrey?”\n\n“Hardly any,” said Lucy, fearful of being thought a snob. “Only thirty acres—just the garden, all downhill, and some fields.”\n\nMiss 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:\n\n“Bless us! Bless us and save us! We’ve lost the way.”\n\nCertainly 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.\n\n“Lost! lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we have taken a wrong turning. How those horrid Conservatives would jeer at us!\nWhat are we to do? Two lone females in an unknown town. Now, this is what _I_ call an adventure.”\n\nLucy, who wanted to see Santa Croce, suggested, as a possible solution,\nthat they should ask the way there.\n\n" - "“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.”\n\nAccordingly they drifted through a series of those grey-brown streets,\nneither commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of the city abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent of Lady Louisa,\nand 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.\n\nThe 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,\nlarge and dusty, on the farther side of which rose a black-and-white façade of surpassing ugliness. Miss Lavish spoke to it dramatically. It was Santa Croce. The adventure was over.\n\n“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!”\n\n“We sat opposite them at dinner last night. They have given us their rooms. They were so very kind.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“What would you ask us?”\n\nMiss 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:\n\n“There goes my local-colour box! I must have a word with him!”\n\nAnd 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.\n\nLucy 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,\ntalking 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.\n\n" - "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,\nnot 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.\nRuskin, and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop.\nProtestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the prelate’s upturned toes.\n\n“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!”\n\nThe 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.\n\n“Look at him!” said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. “Here’s a mess: a baby hurt,\ncold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?”\n\nThe child’s legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr.\nEmerson 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.\n\n“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—”\n\nHe paused for a phrase.\n\n“Niente,” said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers.\n\n“I’m not sure she understands English,” suggested Lucy.\n\nIn her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and,\nif possible, to erase Miss Bartlett’s civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms.\n\n“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?”\n\n“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.”\n\n“Why shouldn’t you?” said Mr. Emerson.\n\n“Yes, why shouldn’t you come by yourself?” said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time.\n\n“But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker.”\n\n“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.”\n\nLucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her.\n\n“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.\n\n" - "“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.\nI hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience.”\n\n“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;\nbut 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.”\n\nNow, 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.\nEmerson 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.\n\n“I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which they are.”\n\nThe 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.\n\nThe 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.\n\n“Remember,” he was saying, “the facts about this church of Santa Croce;\nhow 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,\nmore pathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!”\n\n“No!” exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church.\n“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.”\n\nHe was referring to the fresco of the “Ascension of St. John.” Inside,\nthe 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.\n\n“Now, did this happen, or didn’t it? Yes or no?”\n\nGeorge replied:\n\n“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.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint,\nwhoever he is, going up. It did happen like that, if it happened at all.”\n\n“Pardon me,” said a frigid voice. “The chapel is somewhat small for two parties. We will incommode you no longer.”\n\nThe lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock,\nfor 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.\n\n“Stop!” cried Mr. Emerson. “There’s plenty of room for us all. Stop!”\n\nThe procession disappeared without a word.\n\nSoon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis.\n\n“George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate.”\n\n" - "George went into the next chapel and returned, saying “Perhaps he is. I don’t remember.”\n\n“Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It’s that Mr.\nEager. 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.”\n\n“He will not come back,” said George.\n\nBut 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.\n\n“My father has that effect on nearly everyone,” he informed her. “He will try to be kind.”\n\n“I hope we all try,” said she, smiling nervously.\n\n“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.”\n\n“How silly of them!” said Lucy, though in her heart she sympathized; “I think that a kind action done tactfully—”\n\n“Tact!”\n\nHe threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wrong answer. She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel.\nFor 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,\nof 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,\nand she could re-enter the world of rapid talk, which was alone familiar to her.\n\n“Were you snubbed?” asked his son tranquilly.\n\n“But we have spoilt the pleasure of I don’t know how many people. They won’t come back.”\n\n“...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.\n\n“Don’t let us spoil yours,” he continued to Lucy. “Have you looked at those saints?”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy. “They are lovely. Do you know which is the tombstone that is praised in Ruskin?”\n\nHe did not know, and suggested that they should try to guess it.\nGeorge, 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.\n\n“Why will he look at that fresco?” he said uneasily. “I saw nothing in it.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“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.”\n\nLucy again felt that this did not do.\n\n“In Hell,” he repeated. “He’s unhappy.”\n\n“Oh, dear!” said Lucy.\n\n“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.”\n\nShe 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.\n\n" -- "“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?”\n\nLucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said:\n\n“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.\nYou might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time.\nYou 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,\nand 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.”\n\nTo this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer.\n\n“I only know what it is that’s wrong with him; not why it is.”\n\n“And what is it?” asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.\n\n“The old trouble; things won’t fit.”\n\n“What things?”\n\n“The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?”\n\nIn his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:\n\n“‘From far, from eve and morning,\n And yon twelve-winded sky,\nThe stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I’\n\n\nGeorge 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.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch assented.\n\n“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.”\n\nSuddenly 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,\nor a Yes, or something!\n\n“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.”\n\nThe old man’s face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand.\nThis 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,\nbefore she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.\n\n“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_.\nThere’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,\nyes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n\n\n" +- "“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?”\n\nLucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said:\n\n“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.\nYou might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time.\nYou 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,\nand 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.”\n\nTo this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer.\n\n“I only know what it is that’s wrong with him; not why it is.”\n\n“And what is it?” asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.\n\n“The old trouble; things won’t fit.”\n\n“What things?”\n\n“The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?”\n\nIn his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:\n\n“‘From far, from eve and morning,\n And yon twelve-winded sky,\nThe stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I’\n\n\nGeorge 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.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch assented.\n\n“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.”\n\nSuddenly 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,\nor a Yes, or something!\n\n“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.”\n\nThe old man’s face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand.\nThis 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,\nbefore she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.\n\n“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_.\nThere’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,\nyes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n\n\n" - "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.\nThe 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.\nPerhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never.\n\nShe was no dazzling _exécutante;_ 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.\nPassion 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.\nBut 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.\n\nA 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.\n\nMr. 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,\nunder 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.\nBeebe who started the stamping; it was all that one could do.\n\n“Who is she?” he asked the vicar afterwards.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Introduce me.”\n\n“She will be delighted. She and Miss Bartlett are full of the praises of your sermon.”\n\n“My sermon?” cried Mr. Beebe. “Why ever did she listen to it?”\n\nWhen he was introduced he understood why, for Miss Honeychurch,\ndisjoined 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:\n\n" - "“If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very exciting both for us and for her.”\n\nLucy at once re-entered daily life.\n\n“Oh, what a funny thing! Some one said just the same to mother, and she said she trusted I should never live a duet.”\n\n“Doesn’t Mrs. Honeychurch like music?”\n\n“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.\nOnce, 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—”\n\n“Of course,” said he, wondering why she bothered to explain.\n\n“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.\n\nThe street and the river were dirty yellow, the bridge was dirty grey,\nand 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.\n\n“What about music?” said Mr. Beebe.\n\n“Poor Charlotte will be sopped,” was Lucy’s reply.\n\nThe expedition was typical of Miss Bartlett, who would return cold,\ntired, 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.\n\n“Miss Lavish has led your cousin astray. She hopes to find the true Italy in the wet I believe.”\n\n“Miss Lavish is so original,” murmured Lucy. This was a stock remark,\nthe 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.\n\n“Is it true,” continued Lucy in awe-struck tone, “that Miss Lavish is writing a book?”\n\n“They do say so.”\n\n“What is it about?”\n\n“It will be a novel,” replied Mr. Beebe, “dealing with modern Italy.\nLet me refer you for an account to Miss Catharine Alan, who uses words herself more admirably than any one I know.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“The two ladies, at all events, have made it up.”\n\nHe 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,\nbut Mr. Beebe was, from rather profound reasons, somewhat chilly in his attitude towards the other sex, and preferred to be interested rather than enthralled.\n\nLucy, 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.\n\n“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.”\n\n" - "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.\n\n“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.”\n\nLucy 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,\nand 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.\nYet in their heart of hearts they are—how superficial! They have no conception of the intellectual life. How right is Signora Bertolini,\nwho 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!’”\n\nMiss Alan did not follow, but gathered that she was being mocked in an agreeable way. Her sister was a little disappointed in Mr. Beebe,\nhaving 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?\n\nIn 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.”\n\n“That belongs to Lavish.” said the clergyman. “A good fellow, Lavish,\nbut I wish she’d start a pipe.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Beebe,” said Miss Alan, divided between awe and mirth.\n“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.”\n\n“What was that?” asked Lucy.\n\nMr. 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,\nthen 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.”\n\nMiss 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.\n\n“All the same, she is a little too—I hardly like to say unwomanly, but she behaved most strangely when the Emersons arrived.”\n\nMr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an anecdote which he knew she would be unable to finish in the presence of a gentleman.\n\n" - "“I don’t know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss Pole,\nthe lady who has so much yellow hair, takes lemonade. That old Mr.\nEmerson, who puts things very strangely—”\n\nHer 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:\n\n“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;\nit 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!\nI 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.\nCome, too.’ Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation,\nand she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas,\nand 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.”\n\n“Let me finish the story,” said Mr. Beebe, who had returned.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Whatever happened?” cried Lucy.\n\n“No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe—old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know.”\n\nMr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself.\n\n“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?”\n\nThe little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr.\nBeebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:\n\n“I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets.”\n\n“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.”\n\n" -- "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,\nwho stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett,\nsmarting 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,\nhe knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner.\n\nLucy, 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.\n\n“But aren’t they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?” said the little lady inquisitively.\n\n“Only once. Charlotte didn’t like it, and said something—quite politely, of course.”\n\n“Most right of her. They don’t understand our ways. They must find their level.”\n\nMr. 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.\n\nEvening 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 façade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun.\n\n“Too late to go out,” said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. “All the galleries are shut.”\n\n“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.”\n\nHer two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:\n\n“I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won’t you be better on your feet?”\n\n“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan.\n\n“Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!”\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\nMr. 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?\nCharlotte 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.\nIndirectly, 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.\n\n" -- "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.\nBut 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.\n\nLucy 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.\n\nThere she bought a photograph of Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.” Venus,\nbeing 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.\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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,\nhalf 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.\n\nShe 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,\nstill dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home.\n\nThen something did happen.\n\nTwo 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.\n\n" -- "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,\nfell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.\n\nShe thought: “Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“Oh, what have I done?” she murmured, and opened her eyes.\n\nGeorge 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.\n\nThey 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:\n\n“Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“You fainted.”\n\n“I—I am very sorry.”\n\n“How are you now?”\n\n“Perfectly well—absolutely well.” And she began to nod and smile.\n\n“Then let us come home. There’s no point in our stopping.”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you.”\n\nHis hand was still extended.\n\n“Oh, my photographs!” she exclaimed suddenly.\n\n“What photographs?”\n\n“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?”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“Miss Honeychurch!”\n\nShe stopped with her hand on her heart.\n\n“You sit still; you aren’t fit to go home alone.”\n\n“Yes, I am, thank you so very much.”\n\n“No, you aren’t. You’d go openly if you were.”\n\n“But I had rather—”\n\n“Then I don’t fetch your photographs.”\n\n“I had rather be alone.”\n\nHe 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.”\n\nIn the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day,\nand joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,\n“Oh, what have I done?”—the thought that she, as well as the dying man,\nhad crossed some spiritual boundary.\n\nHe 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,\nshe walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.\n\n“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?”\n\nHe had thrown something into the stream.\n\n“What did you throw in?”\n\n“Things I didn’t want,” he said crossly.\n\n“Mr. Emerson!”\n\n“Well?”\n\n“Where are the photographs?”\n\nHe was silent.\n\n“I believe it was my photographs that you threw away.”\n\n" -- "“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.\n“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.”\n\nSomething warned Lucy that she must stop him.\n\n“It has happened,” he repeated, “and I mean to find out what it is.”\n\n“Mr. Emerson—”\n\nHe turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.\n\n“I want to ask you something before we go in.”\n\nThey 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:\n\n“I have behaved ridiculously.”\n\nHe was following his own thoughts.\n\n“I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me.”\n\n“I nearly fainted myself,” he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.\n\n“Well, I owe you a thousand apologies.”\n\n“Oh, all right.”\n\n“And—this is the real point—you know how silly people are gossiping—ladies especially, I am afraid—you understand what I mean?”\n\n“I’m afraid I don’t.”\n\n“I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?”\n\n“Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right—all right.”\n\n“Thank you so much. And would you—”\n\nShe 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;\nhis 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.\n\n“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”\n\n“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n\n\nIt was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one.\n\n" -- "For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure,\nnot that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events,\ncontradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.\n\nAt breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties—all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.\n\n“No, Charlotte!” cried the girl, with real warmth. “It’s very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather.”\n\n“Very well, dear,” said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her.\n\nShe slipped her arm into her cousin’s, and they started off along the Lung’ Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was “How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!”\n\nLucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.\n\n“Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice.”\n\nSerious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle—queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper—but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett’s insinuations.\n\nBut though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones,\na Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts.\n\nThe exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.\n\n“Oh, let me congratulate you!” said Miss Bartlett. “After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!”\n\n“Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning.” Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.\n\n“But perhaps you would rather not?”\n\n“I’m sorry—if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not.”\n\nThe elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.\n\n“It is I who am sorry,” said Miss Lavish “literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there’s no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn’t pry.”\n\nShe marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o’clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.\n\n“What is the heroine’s name?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n" -- "“Leonora,” said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.\n\n“I do hope she’s nice.”\n\nThat desideratum would not be omitted.\n\n“And what is the plot?”\n\nLove, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.\n\n“I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,” Miss Lavish concluded. “It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist.”\n\n“Oh, you wicked woman,” cried Miss Bartlett. “I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons.”\n\nMiss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile.\n\n“I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen.\nIt is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday’s is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life.”\n\nThere was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square.\n\n“She is my idea of a really clever woman,” said Miss Bartlett. “That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel.”\n\nLucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an _ingenué_.\n\n“She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word,”\ncontinued Miss Bartlett slowly. “None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman—Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!”\n\n“Ah, not for me,” said the chaplain blandly, “for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time.”\n\n“We were chatting to Miss Lavish.”\n\nHis brow contracted.\n\n“So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!” The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. “I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week—a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano.\nThere is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour’s ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful—far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures.\nThat man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us.”\n\nMiss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of,\nand saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them.\nLiving in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole’s slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook.\n\nTherefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of.\nBetween the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that—how Lucy would enjoy it!\n\n" -- "A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett—even if culminating in a residential tea-party—was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere.\n\n“So we shall be a _partie carrée_,” said the chaplain. “In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town! Beautiful as it is, it is the town.”\n\nThey assented.\n\n“This very square—so I am told—witnessed yesterday the most sordid of tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola there is something portentous in such desecration—portentous and humiliating.”\n\n“Humiliating indeed,” said Miss Bartlett. “Miss Honeychurch happened to be passing through as it happened. She can hardly bear to speak of it.”\nShe glanced at Lucy proudly.\n\n“And how came we to have you here?” asked the chaplain paternally.\n\nMiss Bartlett’s recent liberalism oozed away at the question. “Do not blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The fault is mine: I left her unchaperoned.”\n\n“So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?” His voice suggested sympathetic reproof but at the same time indicated that a few harrowing details would not be unacceptable. His dark, handsome face drooped mournfully towards her to catch her reply.\n\n“Practically.”\n\n“One of our pension acquaintances kindly brought her home,” said Miss Bartlett, adroitly concealing the sex of the preserver.\n\n“For her also it must have been a terrible experience. I trust that neither of you was at all—that it was not in your immediate proximity?”\n\nOf the many things Lucy was noticing to-day, not the least remarkable was this: the ghoulish fashion in which respectable people will nibble after blood. George Emerson had kept the subject strangely pure.\n\n“He died by the fountain, I believe,” was her reply.\n\n“And you and your friend—”\n\n“Were over at the Loggia.”\n\n“That must have saved you much. You have not, of course, seen the disgraceful illustrations which the gutter Press—This man is a public nuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly well, and yet he goes on worrying me to buy his vulgar views.”\n\nSurely the vendor of photographs was in league with Lucy—in the eternal league of Italy with youth. He had suddenly extended his book before Miss Bartlett and Mr. Eager, binding their hands together by a long glossy ribbon of churches, pictures, and views.\n\n“This is too much!” cried the chaplain, striking petulantly at one of Fra Angelico’s angels. She tore. A shrill cry rose from the vendor. The book it seemed, was more valuable than one would have supposed.\n\n“Willingly would I purchase—” began Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Ignore him,” said Mr. Eager sharply, and they all walked rapidly away from the square.\n\nBut an Italian can never be ignored, least of all when he has a grievance. His mysterious persecution of Mr. Eager became relentless;\nthe air rang with his threats and lamentations. He appealed to Lucy;\nwould not she intercede? He was poor—he sheltered a family—the tax on bread. He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed, he was dissatisfied,\nhe did not leave them until he had swept their minds clean of all thoughts whether pleasant or unpleasant.\n\nShopping was the topic that now ensued. Under the chaplain’s guidance they selected many hideous presents and mementoes—florid little picture-frames that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other little frames, more severe, that stood on little easels, and were carven out of oak; a blotting book of vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheap mosaic brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, would never tell from real; pins, pots, heraldic saucers, brown art-photographs; Eros and Psyche in alabaster; St. Peter to match—all of which would have cost less in London.\n\n" -- "This successful morning left no pleasant impressions on Lucy. She had been a little frightened, both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she knew not why. And as they frightened her, she had, strangely enough,\nceased to respect them. She doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist. She doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality and culture as she had been led to suppose. They were tried by some new test, and they were found wanting. As for Charlotte—as for Charlotte she was exactly the same. It might be possible to be nice to her; it was impossible to love her.\n\n“The son of a labourer; I happen to know it for a fact. A mechanic of some sort himself when he was young; then he took to writing for the Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton.”\n\nThey were talking about the Emersons.\n\n“How wonderfully people rise in these days!” sighed Miss Bartlett,\nfingering a model of the leaning Tower of Pisa.\n\n“Generally,” replied Mr. Eager, “one has only sympathy for their success. The desire for education and for social advance—in these things there is something not wholly vile. There are some working men whom one would be very willing to see out here in Florence—little as they would make of it.”\n\n“Is he a journalist now?” Miss Bartlett asked.\n\n“He is not; he made an advantageous marriage.”\n\nHe uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning, and ended with a sigh.\n\n“Oh, so he has a wife.”\n\n“Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder—yes I wonder how he has the effrontery to look me in the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with me. He was in my London parish long ago. The other day in Santa Croce,\nwhen he was with Miss Honeychurch, I snubbed him. Let him beware that he does not get more than a snub.”\n\n“What?” cried Lucy, flushing.\n\n“Exposure!” hissed Mr. Eager.\n\nHe tried to change the subject; but in scoring a dramatic point he had interested his audience more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett was full of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she wished never to see the Emersons again, was not disposed to condemn them on a single word.\n\n“Do you mean,” she asked, “that he is an irreligious man? We know that already.”\n\n“Lucy, dear—” said Miss Bartlett, gently reproving her cousin’s penetration.\n\n“I should be astonished if you knew all. The boy—an innocent child at the time—I will exclude. God knows what his education and his inherited qualities may have made him.”\n\n“Perhaps,” said Miss Bartlett, “it is something that we had better not hear.”\n\n“To speak plainly,” said Mr. Eager, “it is. I will say no more.” For the first time Lucy’s rebellious thoughts swept out in words—for the first time in her life.\n\n“You have said very little.”\n\n“It was my intention to say very little,” was his frigid reply.\n\nHe gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal indignation.\nShe turned towards him from the shop counter; her breast heaved quickly. He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of her lips. It was intolerable that she should disbelieve him.\n\n“Murder, if you want to know,” he cried angrily. “That man murdered his wife!”\n\n“How?” she retorted.\n\n“To all intents and purposes he murdered her. That day in Santa Croce—did they say anything against me?”\n\n“Not a word, Mr. Eager—not a single word.”\n\n“Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to you. But I suppose it is only their personal charms that makes you defend them.”\n\n“I’m not defending them,” said Lucy, losing her courage, and relapsing into the old chaotic methods. “They’re nothing to me.”\n\n“How could you think she was defending them?” said Miss Bartlett, much discomfited by the unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly listening.\n\n“She will find it difficult. For that man has murdered his wife in the sight of God.”\n\nThe addition of God was striking. But the chaplain was really trying to qualify a rash remark. A silence followed which might have been impressive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bartlett hastily purchased the Leaning Tower, and led the way into the street.\n\n“I must be going,” said he, shutting his eyes and taking out his watch.\n\n" -- "Miss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, and spoke with enthusiasm of the approaching drive.\n\n“Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off?”\n\nLucy was recalled to her manners, and after a little exertion the complacency of Mr. Eager was restored.\n\n“Bother the drive!” exclaimed the girl, as soon as he had departed. “It is just the drive we had arranged with Mr. Beebe without any fuss at all. Why should he invite us in that absurd manner? We might as well invite him. We are each paying for ourselves.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, was launched by this remark into unexpected thoughts.\n\n“If that is so, dear—if the drive we and Mr. Beebe are going with Mr.\nEager is really the same as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then I foresee a sad kettle of fish.”\n\n“How?”\n\n“Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish to come, too.”\n\n“That will mean another carriage.”\n\n“Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it herself. The truth must be told; she is too unconventional for him.”\n\nThey were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank. Lucy stood by the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to answer,\nor at all events to formulate the questions rioting in her brain. The well-known world had broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic city where people thought and did the most extraordinary things.\nMurder, accusations of murder, a lady clinging to one man and being rude to another—were these the daily incidents of her streets? Was there more in her frank beauty than met the eye—the power, perhaps, to evoke passions, good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment?\n\nHappy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture with admirable delicacy “where things might lead to,” but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: “Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr.\nEager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor out altogether—which they could scarcely do—but in any case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!”\n\n“It is indeed,” replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic.\n\n“What do you think about it?” asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress.\n\n“I don’t know what I think, nor what I want.”\n\n“Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn’t boring you. Speak the word,\nand, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow.”\n\n“Thank you, Charlotte,” said Lucy, and pondered over the offer.\n\nThere were letters for her at the bureau—one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother’s letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald—all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveller returns.\n\n“And the news?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome,” said Lucy, giving the news that interested her least. “Do you know the Vyses?”\n\n" -- "“Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Piazza Signoria.”\n\n“They’re nice people, the Vyses. So clever—my idea of what’s really clever. Don’t you long to be in Rome?”\n\n“I die for it!”\n\nThe Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something,\nand though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god.\n\n“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them.\n\n\nIt was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guard against imposition. But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god.\n\nPhaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus enabling himself to drive with his arm round her waist. She did not mind. Mr.\nEager, who sat with his back to the horses, saw nothing of the indecorous proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy. The other two occupants of the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and Miss Lavish. For a dreadful thing had happened: Mr. Beebe, without consulting Mr. Eager, had doubled the size of the party. And though Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how the people were to sit, at the critical moment when the carriages came round they lost their heads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while Miss Bartlett, with George Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind.\n\nIt was hard on the poor chaplain to have his _partie carrée_ thus transformed. Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated it,\nwas now impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain style about them, and Mr. Beebe, though unreliable, was a man of parts. But a shoddy lady writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife in the sight of God—they should enter no villa at his introduction.\n\nLucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and nervous amid these explosive ingredients, attentive to Mr. Eager, repressive towards Miss Lavish, watchful of old Mr. Emerson, hitherto fortunately asleep,\nthanks to a heavy lunch and the drowsy atmosphere of Spring. She looked on the expedition as the work of Fate. But for it she would have avoided George Emerson successfully. In an open manner he had shown that he wished to continue their intimacy. She had refused, not because she disliked him, but because she did not know what had happened, and suspected that he did know. And this frightened her.\n\n" -- "For the real event—whatever it was—had taken place, not in the Loggia,\nbut by the river. To behave wildly at the sight of death is pardonable.\nBut to discuss it afterwards, to pass from discussion into silence, and through silence into sympathy, that is an error, not of a startled emotion, but of the whole fabric. There was really something blameworthy (she thought) in their joint contemplation of the shadowy stream, in the common impulse which had turned them to the house without the passing of a look or word. This sense of wickedness had been slight at first. She had nearly joined the party to the Torre del Gallo. But each time that she avoided George it became more imperative that she should avoid him again. And now celestial irony, working through her cousin and two clergymen, did not suffer her to leave Florence till she had made this expedition with him through the hills.\n\nMeanwhile Mr. Eager held her in civil converse; their little tiff was over.\n\n“So, Miss Honeychurch, you are travelling? As a student of art?”\n\n“Oh, dear me, no—oh, no!”\n\n“Perhaps as a student of human nature,” interposed Miss Lavish, “like myself?”\n\n“Oh, no. I am here as a tourist.”\n\n“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Eager. “Are you indeed? If you will not think me rude, we residents sometimes pity you poor tourists not a little—handed about like a parcel of goods from Venice to Florence, from Florence to Rome, living herded together in pensions or hotels, quite unconscious of anything that is outside Baedeker, their one anxiety to get ‘done’\nor ‘through’ and go on somewhere else. The result is, they mix up towns, rivers, palaces in one inextricable whirl. You know the American girl in Punch who says: ‘Say, poppa, what did we see at Rome?’ And the father replies: ‘Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the yaller dog.’ There’s travelling for you. Ha! ha! ha!”\n\n“I quite agree,” said Miss Lavish, who had several times tried to interrupt his mordant wit. “The narrowness and superficiality of the Anglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace.”\n\n“Quite so. Now, the English colony at Florence, Miss Honeychurch—and it is of considerable size, though, of course, not all equally—a few are here for trade, for example. But the greater part are students. Lady Helen Laverstock is at present busy over Fra Angelico. I mention her name because we are passing her villa on the left. No, you can only see it if you stand—no, do not stand; you will fall. She is very proud of that thick hedge. Inside, perfect seclusion. One might have gone back six hundred years. Some critics believe that her garden was the scene of The Decameron, which lends it an additional interest, does it not?”\n\n“It does indeed!” cried Miss Lavish. “Tell me, where do they place the scene of that wonderful seventh day?”\n\nBut Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honeychurch that on the right lived Mr. Someone Something, an American of the best type—so rare!—and that the Somebody Elses were farther down the hill. “Doubtless you know her monographs in the series of ‘Mediæval Byways’? He is working at Gemistus Pletho. Sometimes as I take tea in their beautiful grounds I hear, over the wall, the electric tram squealing up the new road with its loads of hot, dusty, unintelligent tourists who are going to ‘do’\nFiesole in an hour in order that they may say they have been there, and I think—think—I think how little they think what lies so near them.”\n\nDuring this speech the two figures on the box were sporting with each other disgracefully. Lucy had a spasm of envy. Granted that they wished to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to do so. They were probably the only people enjoying the expedition. The carriage swept with agonizing jolts up through the Piazza of Fiesole and into the Settignano road.\n\n“Piano! piano!” said Mr. Eager, elegantly waving his hand over his head.\n\n“Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene,” crooned the driver, and whipped his horses up again.\n\n" -- "Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on the subject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or was he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind.\nAs the pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr.\nEmerson was thrown against the chaplain with the regularity of a machine.\n\n“Piano! piano!” said he, with a martyred look at Lucy.\n\nAn extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. Phaethon, who for some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded.\n\nA little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was most unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered to disentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his _pourboire_, the girl was immediately to get down.\n\n“She is my sister,” said he, turning round on them with piteous eyes.\n\nMr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar.\n\nPhaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation, but at its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated,\nand patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish,\nthough unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism.\n\n“Most certainly I would let them be,” she cried. “But I dare say I shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the conventions all my life. This is what _I_ call an adventure.”\n\n“We must not submit,” said Mr. Eager. “I knew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook’s tourists.”\n\n“Surely no!” said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing.\n\nThe other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly.\n\n“Leave them alone,” Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. “Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers—A king might envy us, and if we part them it’s more like sacrilege than anything I know.”\n\nHere the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect.\n\nMr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream,\nwith unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager’s mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker,\nand more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.\n\n“Signorina!” said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy?\n\n“Signorina!” echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why?\n\nFor a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box.\n\n“Victory at last!” said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again.\n\n“It is not victory,” said Mr. Emerson. “It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy.”\n\nMr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son.\n\n“We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul.”\n\nMiss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character.\n\n“He was not driving us well,” she said. “He jolted us.”\n\n“That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now.\nCan you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I’d be frightened of the girl,\ntoo. It doesn’t do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?”\n\n" -- "Miss Lavish bristled.\n\n“Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?”\n\n“The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line—so I heard yesterday—which runs like this: ‘Don’t go fighting against the Spring.’”\n\nMr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition.\n\n“Non fate guerra al Maggio,” he murmured. “‘War not with the May’ would render a correct meaning.”\n\n“The point is, we have warred with it. Look.” He pointed to the Val d’Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.\n“Fifty miles of Spring, and we’ve come up to admire them. Do you suppose there’s any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both.”\n\nNo one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated,\nwet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d’Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become equally enthusiastic.\n\nBut it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting.\nAnd the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest.\n\nThe party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in common, were left to each other.\n\nThe two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered “the railway.” She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not very much hurt at her asking him.\n\n“The railway!” gasped Miss Lavish. “Oh, but I shall die! Of course it was the railway!” She could not control her mirth. “He is the image of a porter—on, on the South-Eastern.”\n\n“Eleanor, be quiet,” plucking at her vivacious companion. “Hush!\nThey’ll hear—the Emersons—”\n\n“I can’t stop. Let me go my wicked way. A porter—”\n\n“Eleanor!”\n\n“I’m sure it’s all right,” put in Lucy. “The Emersons won’t hear, and they wouldn’t mind if they did.”\n\nMiss Lavish did not seem pleased at this.\n\n“Miss Honeychurch listening!” she said rather crossly. “Pouf! Wouf! You naughty girl! Go away!”\n\n“Oh, Lucy, you ought to be with Mr. Eager, I’m sure.”\n\n“I can’t find them now, and I don’t want to either.”\n\n“Mr. Eager will be offended. It is your party.”\n\n“Please, I’d rather stop here with you.”\n\n" -- "“No, I agree,” said Miss Lavish. “It’s like a school feast; the boys have got separated from the girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish to converse on high topics unsuited for your ear.”\n\nThe girl was stubborn. As her time at Florence drew to its close she was only at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent. Such a one was Miss Lavish, and such for the moment was Charlotte. She wished she had not called attention to herself; they were both annoyed at her remark and seemed determined to get rid of her.\n\n“How tired one gets,” said Miss Bartlett. “Oh, I do wish Freddy and your mother could be here.”\n\nUnselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely usurped the functions of enthusiasm. Lucy did not look at the view either. She would not enjoy anything till she was safe at Rome.\n\n“Then sit you down,” said Miss Lavish. “Observe my foresight.”\n\nWith many a smile she produced two of those mackintosh squares that protect the frame of the tourist from damp grass or cold marble steps.\nShe sat on one; who was to sit on the other?\n\n“Lucy; without a moment’s doubt, Lucy. The ground will do for me.\nReally I have not had rheumatism for years. If I do feel it coming on I shall stand. Imagine your mother’s feelings if I let you sit in the wet in your white linen.” She sat down heavily where the ground looked particularly moist. “Here we are, all settled delightfully. Even if my dress is thinner it will not show so much, being brown. Sit down, dear;\nyou are too unselfish; you don’t assert yourself enough.” She cleared her throat. “Now don’t be alarmed; this isn’t a cold. It’s the tiniest cough, and I have had it three days. It’s nothing to do with sitting here at all.”\n\nThere was only one way of treating the situation. At the end of five minutes Lucy departed in search of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager, vanquished by the mackintosh square.\n\nShe addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in the carriages, perfuming the cushions with cigars. The miscreant, a bony young man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with the courtesy of a host and the assurance of a relative.\n\n“Dove?” said Lucy, after much anxious thought.\n\nHis face lit up. Of course he knew where. Not so far either. His arm swept three-fourths of the horizon. He should just think he did know where. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead and then pushed them towards her, as if oozing with visible extract of knowledge.\n\nMore seemed necessary. What was the Italian for “clergyman”?\n\n“Dove buoni uomini?” said she at last.\n\nGood? Scarcely the adjective for those noble beings! He showed her his cigar.\n\n“Uno—piu—piccolo,” was her next remark, implying “Has the cigar been given to you by Mr. Beebe, the smaller of the two good men?”\n\nShe was correct as usual. He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it to make it stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded his hat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than a quarter of a minute was ready to conduct her. Italians are born knowing the way.\nIt would seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but as a chess-board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces as well as the squares. Any one can find places, but the finding of people is a gift from God.\n\nHe only stopped once, to pick her some great blue violets. She thanked him with real pleasure. In the company of this common man the world was beautiful and direct. For the first time she felt the influence of Spring. His arm swept the horizon gracefully; violets, like other things, existed in great profusion there; “would she like to see them?”\n\n“Ma buoni uomini.”\n\n" -- "He bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceeded briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. They were nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing round them, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into countless pieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the pliant boughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not a twig, was unimportant to her.\n\n“What is that?”\n\nThere was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The voice of Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian’s ignorance is sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She could not make him understand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view was forming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, other hills.\n\n“Eccolo!” he exclaimed.\n\nAt the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end.\n\n“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above.\n“Courage and love.”\n\nShe did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view,\nand violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth.\n\nStanding at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.\nBut he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.\n\nGeorge had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.\n\nBefore she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII They Return\n\n\nSome complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye.\nCharlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon had lost the game.\n\nThat last fact was undeniable. He climbed on to the box shivering, with his collar up, prophesying the swift approach of bad weather. “Let us go immediately,” he told them. “The signorino will walk.”\n\n“All the way? He will be hours,” said Mr. Beebe.\n\n“Apparently. I told him it was unwise.” He would look no one in the face; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him. He alone had played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the others had used scraps of their intelligence. He alone had divined what things were, and what he wished them to be. He alone had interpreted the message that Lucy had received five days before from the lips of a dying man. Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave—she could interpret it also. Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly,\nand perhaps too late.\n\n" -- "The thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, seldom affect the lives of his employers. He was the most competent of Miss Bartlett’s opponents,\nbut infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the town, he and his insight and his knowledge would trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in the bushes; he might make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what have we to do with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed downwards towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious. They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.\n\nRain and darkness came on together. The two ladies huddled together under an inadequate parasol. There was a lightning flash, and Miss Lavish who was nervous, screamed from the carriage in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally:\n\n“Courage, Miss Honeychurch, courage and faith. If I might say so, there is something almost blasphemous in this horror of the elements. Are we seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all this immense electrical display, is simply called into existence to extinguish you or me?”\n\n“No—of course—”\n\n“Even from the scientific standpoint the chances against our being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage—courage and faith.”\n\nUnder the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin’s hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles,\ngained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination.\n\nShe renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence.\n\n“Mr. Eager!” called Mr. Beebe. “We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?”\n\n“George!” cried Mr. Emerson. “Ask your driver which way George went.\nThe boy may lose his way. He may be killed.”\n\n“Go, Mr. Eager,” said Miss Bartlett, “don’t ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe—, he is nearly demented.”\n\n“He may be killed!” cried the old man. “He may be killed!”\n\n“Typical behaviour,” said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. “In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down.”\n\n“What does he know?” whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone.\n“Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?”\n\n“Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But—” she pointed at the driver—“_he_ knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?” She took out her purse. “It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all.” Tapping Phaethon’s back with her guide-book,\nshe said, “Silenzio!” and offered him a franc.\n\n“Va bene,” he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him.\n\nThere was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity,\nwhich fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good.\n\nThe older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that,\neven if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers,\nthrough miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin.\n\n“Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I—I thought I was developing.”\n\n" -- "“Do not cry, dearest. Take your time.”\n\n“I have been obstinate and silly—worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river—Oh, but he isn’t killed—he wouldn’t be killed, would he?”\n\nThe thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone.\n\n“I trust not. One would always pray against that.”\n\n“He is really—I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before.\nBut this time I’m not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book.”\n\n“In a book?”\n\n“Heroes—gods—the nonsense of schoolgirls.”\n\n“And then?”\n\n“But, Charlotte, you know what happened then.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy’s body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.\n\n“I want to be truthful,” she whispered. “It is so hard to be absolutely truthful.”\n\n“Don’t be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room.”\n\nSo they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased,\nand Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of—Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love.\n\nThe luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.\n\n“At last,” thought she, “I shall understand myself. I shan’t again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don’t know what.”\n\nMiss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage.\nWhen it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:\n\n“Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair.”\n\nWith some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said “So what is to be done?”\n\nShe was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.\n\n“What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle.”\n\nThe rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett’s toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.\n\n“It has been raining for nearly four hours,” she said at last.\n\nMiss Bartlett ignored the remark.\n\n“How do you propose to silence him?”\n\n“The driver?”\n\n“My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson.”\n\nLucy began to pace up and down the room.\n\n“I don’t understand,” she said at last.\n\nShe understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.\n\n“How are you going to stop him talking about it?”\n\n" -- "“I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do.”\n\n“I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves.”\n\n“Exploits?” cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.\n\n“My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.\n\n“Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man,\nbut obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?”\n\nAn idea rushed across Lucy’s brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.\n\n“I propose to speak to him,” said she.\n\nMiss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.\n\n“You see, Charlotte, your kindness—I shall never forget it. But—as you said—it is my affair. Mine and his.”\n\n“And you are going to _implore_ him, to _beg_ him to keep silence?”\n\n“Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit.”\n\n“But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be—how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy gravely.\n\nSomething in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.\n\n“What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy again.\n\n“When he insulted you, how would you have replied?”\n\n“I hadn’t time to think. You came.”\n\n“Yes, but won’t you tell me now what you would have done?”\n\n“I should have—” She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness.\nShe could not think what she would have done.\n\n“Come away from the window, dear,” said Miss Bartlett. “You will be seen from the road.”\n\nLucy obeyed. She was in her cousin’s power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him.\n\nMiss Bartlett became plaintive.\n\n“Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister’s insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman.”\n\nAs she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:\n\n“It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try.”\n\n“What train?”\n\n“The train to Rome.” She looked at her gloves critically.\n\nThe girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.\n\n“When does the train to Rome go?”\n\n“At eight.”\n\n“Signora Bertolini would be upset.”\n\n“We must face that,” said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.\n\n“She will make us pay for a whole week’s pension.”\n\n“I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses’ hotel. Isn’t afternoon tea given there for nothing?”\n\n“Yes, but they pay extra for wine.” After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream.\n\n" -- "They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished,\nbegan to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte,\nwho was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk,\nvainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old.\nThe girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause.\nShe only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier,\nthe world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love.\nThe impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin’s side and took her in her arms.\n\nMiss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:\n\n“Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?”\n\nLucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:\n\n“Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!”\n\n“You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself,\ntoo. I know well how much I vex you at every turn.”\n\n“But no—”\n\nMiss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.\n\n“Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned—only fit to pack and unpack your things.”\n\n“Please—”\n\n“My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events.”\n\n“You mustn’t say these things,” said Lucy softly.\n\nShe still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other,\nheart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.\n\n“I have been a failure,” said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy’s trunk instead of strapping her own. “Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster.”\n\n“But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn’t a disaster either.”\n\n“It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?”\n\n“Every right.”\n\n“When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her.”\n\nLucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:\n\n“Why need mother hear of it?”\n\n“But you tell her everything?”\n\n“I suppose I do generally.”\n\n“I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it.\nUnless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her.”\n\nThe girl would not be degraded to this.\n\n“Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one.”\n\nHer promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room.\n\n" -- "For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin’s voice had intervened, and, ever since,\nit was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now,\ncould be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time—indeed,\nfor years—she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better—a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most.\n\nLucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity,\nof her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul.\n\nThe door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,\nthough she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her.\n\nTo reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.\n\nWhether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:\n\n“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”\n\nSoon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\nIn the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval\n\n\nThe drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,”\nor might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;\nwithin, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man.\n\nTwo pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.\n\n“Where aren’t they?” said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy’s brother. “I tell you I’m getting fairly sick.”\n\n“For goodness’ sake go out of my drawing-room, then?” cried Mrs.\nHoneychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally.\n\nFreddy did not move or reply.\n\n“I think things are coming to a head,” she observed, rather wanting her son’s opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.\n\n“Time they did.”\n\n“I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more.”\n\n“It’s his third go, isn’t it?”\n\n“Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind.”\n\n" -- "“I didn’t mean to be unkind.” Then he added: “But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don’t know how girls manage things, but she can’t have said ‘No’ properly before, or she wouldn’t have to say it again now. Over the whole thing—I can’t explain—I do feel so uncomfortable.”\n\n“Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!”\n\n“I feel—never mind.”\n\nHe returned to his work.\n\n“Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: ‘Dear Mrs.\nVyse.’”\n\n“Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter.”\n\n“I said: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it,\nand I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But—’” She stopped reading, “I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can’t get on without me.”\n\n“Nor me.”\n\n“You?”\n\nFreddy nodded.\n\n“What do you mean?”\n\n“He asked me for my permission also.”\n\nShe exclaimed: “How very odd of him!”\n\n“Why so?” asked the son and heir. “Why shouldn’t my permission be asked?”\n\n“What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?”\n\n“I said to Cecil, ‘Take her or leave her; it’s no business of mine!’”\n\n“What a helpful answer!” But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.\n\n“The bother is this,” began Freddy.\n\nThen he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was.\nMrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.\n\n“Freddy, you must come. There they still are!”\n\n“I don’t see you ought to go peeping like that.”\n\n“Peeping like that! Can’t I look out of my own window?”\n\nBut she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, “Still page 322?” Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased.\n\n“The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully.”\nHe gave a nervous gulp. “Not content with ‘permission’, which I did give—that is to say, I said, ‘I don’t mind’—well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn’t off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn’t it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer—he said it would strengthen his hand.”\n\n“I hope you gave a careful answer, dear.”\n\n“I answered ‘No’” said the boy, grinding his teeth. “There! Fly into a stew! I can’t help it—had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me.”\n\n“Ridiculous child!” cried his mother. “You think you’re so holy and truthful, but really it’s only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?”\n\n“Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn’t say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn’t mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot’s in it.\nOh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work.”\n\n“No,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, “I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house.”\n\n“Not a bit!” he pleaded. “I only let out I didn’t like him. I don’t hate him, but I don’t like him. What I mind is that he’ll tell Lucy.”\n\nHe glanced at the curtains dismally.\n\n" -- "“Well, _I_ like him,” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “I know his mother; he’s good, he’s clever, he’s rich, he’s well connected—Oh, you needn’t kick the piano! He’s well connected—I’ll say it again if you like: he’s well connected.” She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: “And he has beautiful manners.”\n\n“I liked him till just now. I suppose it’s having him spoiling Lucy’s first week at home; and it’s also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe?” said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. “I don’t see how Mr. Beebe comes in.”\n\n“You know Mr. Beebe’s funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said: ‘Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.’ I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said ‘Oh, he’s like me—better detached.’ I couldn’t make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn’t been so pleasant, at least—I can’t explain.”\n\n“You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties.”\n\nThe explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one’s own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow’s cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.\n\n“Will this do?” called his mother. “‘Dear Mrs. Vyse,—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.’ Then I put in at the top, ‘and I have told Lucy so.’ I must write the letter out again—‘and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.’\nI said that because I didn’t want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned.\nShe goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid’s dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably—”\n\n“Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?”\n\n“Don’t interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes—‘Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.’ No, I’ll cross that last bit out—it looks patronizing. I’ll stop at ‘because she tells me everything.’ Or shall I cross that out,\ntoo?”\n\n“Cross it out, too,” said Freddy.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left it in.\n\n“Then the whole thing runs: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse.—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know—’”\n\n“Look out!” cried Freddy.\n\nThe curtains parted.\n\nCecil’s first movement was one of irritation. He couldn’t bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture.\nInstinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world.\n\nCecil entered.\n\n" -- "Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral.\nWell educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision,\nworshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow’s cap.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!” she exclaimed—“oh, Cecil, do tell me!”\n\n“I promessi sposi,” said he.\n\nThey stared at him anxiously.\n\n“She has accepted me,” he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human.\n\n“I am so glad,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences.\n\n“Welcome as one of the family!” said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. “This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy.”\n\n“I hope so,” replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling.\n\n“We mothers—” simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic—all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room;\nlooking very cross and almost handsome?\n\n“I say, Lucy!” called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag.\n\nLucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother’s face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, “Steady on!”\n\n“Not a kiss for me?” asked her mother.\n\nLucy kissed her also.\n\n“Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?” Cecil suggested. “And I’d stop here and tell my mother.”\n\n“We go with Lucy?” said Freddy, as if taking orders.\n\n“Yes, you go with Lucy.”\n\nThey passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace,\nand descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend—he knew their ways—past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed,\nuntil they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed.\n\nSmiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that had led to such a happy conclusion.\n\nHe had known Lucy for several years, but only as a commonplace girl who happened to be musical. He could still remember his depression that afternoon at Rome, when she and her terrible cousin fell on him out of the blue, and demanded to be taken to St. Peter’s. That day she had seemed a typical tourist—shrill, crude, and gaunt with travel. But Italy worked some marvel in her. It gave her light, and—which he held more precious—it gave her shadow. Soon he detected in her a wonderful reticence. She was like a woman of Leonardo da Vinci’s, whom we love not so much for herself as for the things that she will not tell us.\nThe things are assuredly not of this life; no woman of Leonardo’s could have anything so vulgar as a “story.” She did develop most wonderfully day by day.\n\n" -- "So it happened that from patronizing civility he had slowly passed if not to passion, at least to a profound uneasiness. Already at Rome he had hinted to her that they might be suitable for each other. It had touched him greatly that she had not broken away at the suggestion. Her refusal had been clear and gentle; after it—as the horrid phrase went—she had been exactly the same to him as before. Three months later, on the margin of Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked her again in bald, traditional language. She reminded him of a Leonardo more than ever; her sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic rock;\nat his words she had turned and stood between him and the light with immeasurable plains behind her. He walked home with her unashamed,\nfeeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things that really mattered were unshaken.\n\nSo now he had asked her once more, and, clear and gentle as ever, she had accepted him, giving no coy reasons for her delay, but simply saying that she loved him and would do her best to make him happy. His mother, too, would be pleased; she had counselled the step; he must write her a long account.\n\nGlancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy’s chemicals had come off on it, he moved to the writing table. There he saw “Dear Mrs. Vyse,”\nfollowed by many erasures. He recoiled without reading any more, and after a little hesitation sat down elsewhere, and pencilled a note on his knee.\n\nThen he lit another cigarette, which did not seem quite as divine as the first, and considered what might be done to make Windy Corner drawing-room more distinctive. With that outlook it should have been a successful room, but the trail of Tottenham Court Road was upon it; he could almost visualize the motor-vans of Messrs. Shoolbred and Messrs.\nMaple arriving at the door and depositing this chair, those varnished book-cases, that writing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch’s letter. He did not want to read that letter—his temptations never lay in that direction; but he worried about it none the less. It was his own fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and so he had asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for Freddy—“He is only a boy,” he reflected. “I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?”\n\nThe Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps—he did not put it very definitely—he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible.\n\n“Mr. Beebe!” said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy’s praise of him in her letters from Florence.\n\nCecil greeted him rather critically.\n\n“I’ve come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?”\n\n“I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here—Don’t sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it.”\n\n“Pfui!”\n\n“I know,” said Cecil. “I know. I can’t think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it.”\n\nFor Cecil considered the bone and the Maples’ furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired.\n\n“I’ve come for tea and for gossip. Isn’t this news?”\n\n“News? I don’t understand you,” said Cecil. “News?”\n\nMr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward.\n\n“I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!”\n\n“Has he indeed?” said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder.\n\n" -- "“Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I’ll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you.”\n\n“I’m shockingly stupid over local affairs,” said the young man languidly. “I can’t even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference,\nor perhaps those aren’t the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don’t feel to exist on sufferance.”\n\nMr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert,\ndetermined to shift the subject.\n\n“Let me see, Mr. Vyse—I forget—what is your profession?”\n\n“I have no profession,” said Cecil. “It is another example of my decadence. My attitude—quite an indefensible one—is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don’t care a straw about, but somehow, I’ve not been able to begin.”\n\n“You are very fortunate,” said Mr. Beebe. “It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure.”\n\nHis voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also.\n\n“I am glad that you approve. I daren’t face the healthy person—for example, Freddy Honeychurch.”\n\n“Oh, Freddy’s a good sort, isn’t he?”\n\n“Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is.”\n\nCecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe’s mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science.\n\n“Where are the others?” said Mr. Beebe at last, “I insist on extracting tea before evening service.”\n\n“I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary—I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?”\n\n“I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs.”\n\n“The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small.”\n\nThey both laughed, and things began to go better.\n\n“The faults of Freddy—” Cecil continued.\n\n“Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable.”\n\n“She has none,” said the young man, with grave sincerity.\n\n“I quite agree. At present she has none.”\n\n“At present?”\n\n“I’m not cynical. I’m only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down,\nand music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good,\nheroically bad—too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad.”\n\nCecil found his companion interesting.\n\n“And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?”\n\n“Well, I must say I’ve only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn’t you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn’t wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be.”\n\n“In what way?”\n\nConversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace.\n\n" -- "“I could as easily tell you what tune she’ll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks.”\n\nThe sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself.\n\n“But the string never broke?”\n\n“No. I mightn’t have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall.”\n\n“It has broken now,” said the young man in low, vibrating tones.\n\nImmediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous,\ncontemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him?\n\n“Broken? What do you mean?”\n\n“I meant,” said Cecil stiffly, “that she is going to marry me.”\n\nThe clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice.\n\n“I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way.\nMr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me.” And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed.\n\nCecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered.\n\nOccasionally he could be quite crude.\n\n“I am sorry I have given you a shock,” he said dryly. “I fear that Lucy’s choice does not meet with your approval.”\n\n“Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. I know Miss Honeychurch only a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have discussed her so freely with any one; certainly not with you.”\n\n“You are conscious of having said something indiscreet?”\n\nMr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really, Mr. Vyse had the art of placing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to use the prerogatives of his profession.\n\n“No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it.\nShe has learnt—you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely—she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides.” It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. “She has learnt through you,” and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; “let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her.”\n\n“Grazie tante!” said Cecil, who did not like parsons.\n\n“Have you heard?” shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden. “Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?”\n\nFreddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact.\n\n“Indeed I have!” he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer—at all events not without apology. “Mrs.\nHoneychurch, I’m going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I’m too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them,\ngrave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my tea.”\n\n“You only asked for it just in time,” the lady retorted. “How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?”\n\nHe took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be serious any more.\n\n" -- "An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present.\n\nSo it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne,\nputting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped.\nFreddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art\n\n\nA few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\nfor naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man.\n\nCecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers.\n\nAt tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been.\n\n“Do you go to much of this sort of thing?” he asked when they were driving home.\n\n“Oh, now and then,” said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself.\n\n“Is it typical of country society?”\n\n“I suppose so. Mother, would it be?”\n\n“Plenty of society,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses.\n\nSeeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said:\n\n“To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous.”\n\n“I am so sorry that you were stranded.”\n\n“Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property—a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!”\n\n“One has to go through it, I suppose. They won’t notice us so much next time.”\n\n“But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement—horrid word in the first place—is a private matter, and should be treated as such.”\n\nYet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them,\nrejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different—personal love. Hence Cecil’s irritation and Lucy’s belief that his irritation was just.\n\n“How tiresome!” she said. “Couldn’t you have escaped to tennis?”\n\n“I don’t play tennis—at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato.”\n\n“Inglese Italianato?”\n\n“E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?”\n\n" -- "She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement,\nhad taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing.\n\n“Well,” said he, “I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them.”\n\n“We all have our limitations, I suppose,” said wise Lucy.\n\n“Sometimes they are forced on us, though,” said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.\n\n“How?”\n\n“It makes a difference doesn’t it, whether we fully fence ourselves in,\nor whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?”\n\nShe thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference.\n\n“Difference?” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. “I don’t see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place.”\n\n“We were speaking of motives,” said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred.\n\n“My dear Cecil, look here.” She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. “This is me. That’s Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here.”\n\n“We weren’t talking of real fences,” said Lucy, laughing.\n\n“Oh, I see, dear—poetry.”\n\nShe leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused.\n\n“I tell you who has no ‘fences,’ as you call them,” she said, “and that’s Mr. Beebe.”\n\n“A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless.”\n\nLucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil’s epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it.\n\n“Don’t you like Mr. Beebe?” she asked thoughtfully.\n\n“I never said so!” he cried. “I consider him far above the average. I only denied—” And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant.\n\n“Now, a clergyman that I do hate,” said she wanting to say something sympathetic, “a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere—not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things.”\n\n“What sort of things?”\n\n“There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife.”\n\n“Perhaps he had.”\n\n“No!”\n\n“Why ‘no’?”\n\n“He was such a nice old man, I’m sure.”\n\nCecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence.\n\n“Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague—said the old man had ‘practically’ murdered his wife—had murdered her in the sight of God.”\n\n“Hush, dear!” said Mrs. Honeychurch absently.\n\n“But isn’t it intolerable that a person whom we’re told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn’t that.”\n\n“Poor old man! What was his name?”\n\n“Harris,” said Lucy glibly.\n\n“Let’s hope that Mrs. Harris there warn’t no sich person,” said her mother.\n\nCecil nodded intelligently.\n\n“Isn’t Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?” he asked.\n\n“I don’t know. I hate him. I’ve heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I _hate_ him.”\n\n“My goodness gracious me, child!” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “You’ll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen.”\n\n" -- "He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy’s moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman’s power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, he thought—lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch’s mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.\n\n“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.\nHoneychurch?”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil,\nwho was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again.\n\nLucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\nLet us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\nThe woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.\nPretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil.\n\n“Cissie” was the name of one of these villas, “Albert” of the other.\nThese titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. “Albert”\nwas inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. “Cissie” was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions.\n\n“The place is ruined!” said the ladies mechanically. “Summer Street will never be the same again.”\n\nAs the carriage passed, “Cissie’s” door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.\n\n“Stop!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.\n“Here’s Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!”\n\n" -- "Sir Harry Otway—who need not be described—came to the carriage and said “Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can’t, I really can’t turn out Miss Flack.”\n\n“Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew’s time?”\n\n“But what can I do?” He lowered his voice. “An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden.”\n\n“Turn her out,” said Cecil bravely.\n\nSir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack’s intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm.\nHe called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,—a most reasonable and respectful man—who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ,\nhowever, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the façade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative.\n\nMr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, “and all the capitals different—one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack’s initials—every one different.” For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy.\n\nThis futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch’s carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well.\nHe had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever.\nAll he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for “Cissie”—someone really desirable.\n\n“The rent is absurdly low,” he told them, “and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves.”\n\nCecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.\n\n“You ought to find a tenant at once,” he said maliciously. “It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk.”\n\n“Exactly!” said Sir Harry excitedly. “That is exactly what I fear, Mr.\nVyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved—a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?”\n\n“Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,” said Lucy.\n\nCecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.\n\n“Sir Harry!” she exclaimed, “I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?”\n\n“My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?”\n\n“Yes; I met them abroad.”\n\n“Gentlewomen?” he asked tentatively.\n\n“Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week—Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I’m really not joking.\nThey are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?”\n\n" -- "“Indeed you may!” he cried. “Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities—please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents’ fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote—a tactful letter, you know—asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory—people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!”\n\nShe nodded.\n\n“My advice,” put in Mrs. Honeychurch, “is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It’s a sad thing, but I’d far rather let to some one who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down.”\n\n“I think I follow you,” said Sir Harry; “but it is, as you say, a very sad thing.”\n\n“The Misses Alan aren’t that!” cried Lucy.\n\n“Yes, they are,” said Cecil. “I haven’t met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood.”\n\n“Don’t listen to him, Sir Harry—he’s tiresome.”\n\n“It’s I who am tiresome,” he replied. “I oughtn’t to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help.”\n\n“Then may I write to my Misses Alan?”\n\n“Please!”\n\nBut his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:\n\n“Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man.”\n\n“Really—” he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.\n\n“Men don’t gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there’s an end of them—they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they’re vulgar,\nthey somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn’t spread so. Give me a man—of course, provided he’s clean.”\n\nSir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time,\nshould descend from the carriage and inspect “Cissie” for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale.\n\nCecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.\n\n“Mrs. Honeychurch,” he said, “what if we two walk home and leave you?”\n\n“Certainly!” was her cordial reply.\n\nSir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, “Aha! young people, young people!” and then hastened to unlock the house.\n\n“Hopeless vulgarian!” exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!”\n\n“I can’t help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man.”\n\n“He isn’t clever, but really he is nice.”\n\n“No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and every one—even your mother—is taken in.”\n\n“All that you say is quite true,” said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. “I wonder whether—whether it matters so very much.”\n\n" -- "“It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party.\nOh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he’ll get some vulgar tenant in that villa—some woman so really vulgar that he’ll notice it.\n_Gentlefolks!_ Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let’s forget him.”\n\nThis Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever,\nnor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, “It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy”? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps,\nduring the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.\n\n“Which way shall we go?” she asked him.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, she thought—was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad.\n\n“Are there two ways?”\n\n“Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we’re got up smart.”\n\n“I’d rather go through the wood,” said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. “Why is it,\nLucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?”\n\n“Haven’t I? The wood, then,” said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning.\n\nShe led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards.\n\n“I had got an idea—I dare say wrongly—that you feel more at home with me in a room.”\n\n“A room?” she echoed, hopelessly bewildered.\n\n“Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this.”\n\n“Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person.”\n\n“I don’t know that you aren’t. I connect you with a view—a certain type of view. Why shouldn’t you connect me with a room?”\n\nShe reflected a moment, and then said, laughing:\n\n“Do you know that you’re right? I do. I must be a poetess after all.\nWhen I think of you it’s always as in a room. How funny!”\n\nTo her surprise, he seemed annoyed.\n\n“A drawing-room, pray? With no view?”\n\n“Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?”\n\n“I’d rather,” he said reproachfully, “that you connected me with the open air.”\n\nShe said again, “Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?”\n\nAs no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm.\n\nPresently they came to a little clearing among the pines—another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool.\n\nShe exclaimed, “The Sacred Lake!”\n\n“Why do you call it that?”\n\n“I can’t remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It’s only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can’t get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it.”\n\n“And you?”\n\nHe meant, “Are you fond of it?” But she answered dreamily, “I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row.”\n\n" -- "At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool’s edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it,\nand she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green.\n\n“Who found you out?”\n\n“Charlotte,” she murmured. “She was stopping with us.\nCharlotte—Charlotte.”\n\n“Poor girl!”\n\nShe smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk, now appeared practical.\n\n“Lucy!”\n\n“Yes, I suppose we ought to be going,” was her reply.\n\n“Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before.”\n\nAt the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards him.\n\n“What, Cecil?”\n\n“Hitherto never—not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry me—”\n\nHe became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were observed. His courage had gone.\n\n“Yes?”\n\n“Up to now I have never kissed you.”\n\nShe was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately.\n\n“No—more you have,” she stammered.\n\n“Then I ask you—may I now?”\n\n“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can’t run at you, you know.”\n\nAt that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.\nAs he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them.\n\nSuch was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. Lucy was standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.\n\nThey left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.\n\n“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X Cecil as a Humourist\n\n\nThe society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,\nand, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter.\nOther houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility. “I cannot think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction—which few honest solicitors despise—of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable.\n\n" -- "The best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were rather dull,\nand Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy.\nHitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning—their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags,\norange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to speak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and identical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the London fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished.\nHer senses expanded; she felt that there was no one whom she might not get to like, that social barriers were irremovable, doubtless, but not particularly high. You jump over them just as you jump into a peasant’s olive-yard in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returned with new eyes.\n\nSo did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not to tolerance, but to irritation. He saw that the local society was narrow, but, instead of saying, “Does that very much matter?” he rebelled, and tried to substitute for it the society he called broad. He did not realize that Lucy had consecrated her environment by the thousand little civilities that create a tenderness in time, and that though her eyes saw its defects, her heart refused to despise it entirely. Nor did he realize a more important point—that if she was too great for this society, she was too great for all society, and had reached the stage where personal intercourse would alone satisfy her. A rebel she was, but not of the kind he understood—a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling-room, but equality beside the man she loved. For Italy was offering her the most priceless of all possessions—her own soul.\n\nPlaying bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece to the rector, and aged thirteen—an ancient and most honourable game, which consists in striking tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over the net and immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs. Honeychurch; others are lost.\nThe sentence is confused, but the better illustrates Lucy’s state of mind, for she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the same time.\n\n“Oh, it has been such a nuisance—first he, then they—no one knowing what they wanted, and everyone so tiresome.”\n\n“But they really are coming now,” said Mr. Beebe. “I wrote to Miss Teresa a few days ago—she was wondering how often the butcher called,\nand my reply of once a month must have impressed her favourably. They are coming. I heard from them this morning.\n\n“I shall hate those Miss Alans!” Mrs. Honeychurch cried. “Just because they’re old and silly one’s expected to say ‘How sweet!’ I hate their ‘if’-ing and ‘but’-ing and ‘and’-ing. And poor Lucy—serve her right—worn to a shadow.”\n\nMr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and shouting over the tennis-court. Cecil was absent—one did not play bumble-puppy when he was there.\n\n“Well, if they are coming—No, Minnie, not Saturn.” Saturn was a tennis-ball whose skin was partially unsewn. When in motion his orb was encircled by a ring. “If they are coming, Sir Harry will let them move in before the twenty-ninth, and he will cross out the clause about whitewashing the ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in the fair wear and tear one.—That doesn’t count. I told you not Saturn.”\n\n“Saturn’s all right for bumble-puppy,” cried Freddy, joining them.\n“Minnie, don’t you listen to her.”\n\n“Saturn doesn’t bounce.”\n\n“Saturn bounces enough.”\n\n“No, he doesn’t.”\n\n“Well; he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil.”\n\n“Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Honeychurch.\n\n" -- "“But look at Lucy—complaining of Saturn, and all the time’s got the Beautiful White Devil in her hand, ready to plug it in. That’s right,\nMinnie, go for her—get her over the shins with the racquet—get her over the shins!”\n\nLucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand.\n\nMr. Beebe picked it up, and said: “The name of this ball is Vittoria Corombona, please.” But his correction passed unheeded.\n\nFreddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little girls to fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie from a well-mannered child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house Cecil heard them, and, though he was full of entertaining news, he did not come down to impart it, in case he got hurt. He was not a coward and bore necessary pain as well as any man. But he hated the physical violence of the young. How right it was! Sure enough it ended in a cry.\n\n“I wish the Miss Alans could see this,” observed Mr. Beebe, just as Lucy, who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted off her feet by her brother.\n\n“Who are the Miss Alans?” Freddy panted.\n\n“They have taken Cissie Villa.”\n\n“That wasn’t the name—”\n\nHere his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the grass. An interval elapses.\n\n“Wasn’t what name?” asked Lucy, with her brother’s head in her lap.\n\n“Alan wasn’t the name of the people Sir Harry’s let to.”\n\n“Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it.”\n\n“Nonsense yourself! I’ve this minute seen him. He said to me: ‘Ahem!\nHoneychurch,’”—Freddy was an indifferent mimic—“‘ahem! ahem! I have at last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.’ I said, ‘ooray, old boy!’\nand slapped him on the back.”\n\n“Exactly. The Miss Alans?”\n\n“Rather not. More like Anderson.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious, there isn’t going to be another muddle!” Mrs.\nHoneychurch exclaimed. “Do you notice, Lucy, I’m always right? I _said_ don’t interfere with Cissie Villa. I’m always right. I’m quite uneasy at being always right so often.”\n\n“It’s only another muddle of Freddy’s. Freddy doesn’t even know the name of the people he pretends have taken it instead.”\n\n“Yes, I do. I’ve got it. Emerson.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“Emerson. I’ll bet you anything you like.”\n\n“What a weathercock Sir Harry is,” said Lucy quietly. “I wish I had never bothered over it at all.”\n\nThen she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe,\nwhose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that _that_ was the proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong.\n\nMeanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch from the contemplation of her own abilities.\n\n“Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?”\n\n“I don’t know whether they’re any Emersons,” retorted Freddy, who was democratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he was naturally attracted by the idea of equality, and the undeniable fact that there are different kinds of Emersons annoyed him beyond measure.\n\n“I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy”—she was sitting up again—“I see you looking down your nose and thinking your mother’s a snob. But there is a right sort and a wrong sort, and it’s affectation to pretend there isn’t.”\n\n“Emerson’s a common enough name,” Lucy remarked.\n\nShe was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she could see the pine-clad promontories descending one beyond another into the Weald. The further one descended the garden, the more glorious was this lateral view.\n\n“I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were no relations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray, does that satisfy you?”\n\n“Oh, yes,” he grumbled. “And you will be satisfied, too, for they’re friends of Cecil; so”—elaborate irony—“you and the other country families will be able to call in perfect safety.”\n\n" -- "“_Cecil?_” exclaimed Lucy.\n\n“Don’t be rude, dear,” said his mother placidly. “Lucy, don’t screech.\nIt’s a new bad habit you’re getting into.”\n\n“But has Cecil—”\n\n“Friends of Cecil’s,” he repeated, “‘and so really dee-sire-rebel.\nAhem! Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.’”\n\nShe got up from the grass.\n\nIt was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized with her very much. While she believed that her snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She might well “screech” when she heard that it came partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was a tease—something worse than a tease: he took a malicious pleasure in thwarting people. The clergyman, knowing this, looked at Miss Honeychurch with more than his usual kindness.\n\nWhen she exclaimed, “But Cecil’s Emersons—they can’t possibly be the same ones—there is that—” he did not consider that the exclamation was strange, but saw in it an opportunity of diverting the conversation while she recovered her composure. He diverted it as follows:\n\n“The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don’t suppose it will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friends of Mr. Vyse’s. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerest people! For our part we liked them, didn’t we?” He appealed to Lucy.\n“There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets and filled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who have failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine’s great stories. ‘My dear sister loves flowers,’ it began. They found the whole room a mass of blue—vases and jugs—and the story ends with ‘So ungentlemanly and yet so beautiful.’ It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect those Florentine Emersons with violets.”\n\n“Fiasco’s done you this time,” remarked Freddy, not seeing that his sister’s face was very red. She could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe saw it, and continued to divert the conversation.\n\n“These particular Emersons consisted of a father and a son—the son a goodly, if not a good young man; not a fool, I fancy, but very immature—pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the father—such a sentimental darling, and people declared he had murdered his wife.”\n\nIn his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have repeated such gossip,\nbut he was trying to shelter Lucy in her little trouble. He repeated any rubbish that came into his head.\n\n“Murdered his wife?” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “Lucy, don’t desert us—go on playing bumble-puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have been the oddest place. That’s the second murderer I’ve heard of as being there. Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop? By-the-by, we really must ask Charlotte here some time.”\n\nMr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He suggested that his hostess was mistaken. At the hint of opposition she warmed. She was perfectly sure that there had been a second tourist of whom the same story had been told. The name escaped her. What was the name? Oh, what was the name? She clasped her knees for the name. Something in Thackeray. She struck her matronly forehead.\n\nLucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in.\n\n“Oh, don’t go!” he cried, and tried to catch her by the ankles.\n\n“I must go,” she said gravely. “Don’t be silly. You always overdo it when you play.”\n\n" -- "As she left them her mother’s shout of “Harris!” shivered the tranquil air, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had never put it right. Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves and made her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil’s, with a pair of nondescript tourists. Hitherto truth had come to her naturally. She saw that for the future she must be more vigilant, and be—absolutely truthful? Well, at all events, she must not tell lies. She hurried up the garden, still flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would soothe her, she was sure.\n\n“Cecil!”\n\n“Hullo!” he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed in high spirits. “I was hoping you’d come. I heard you all bear-gardening, but there’s better fun up here. I, even I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith’s right—the cause of Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don’t be angry! Don’t be angry! You’ll forgive me when you hear it all.”\n\nHe looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings at once.\n\n“I have heard,” she said. “Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing!\nCertainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I’d rather have nice friends of yours. But you oughtn’t to tease one so.”\n\n“Friends of mine?” he laughed. “But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come!\nCome here.” But she remained standing where she was. “Do you know where I met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up to see my mother last week.”\n\n“What an odd place to meet people!” she said nervously. “I don’t quite understand.”\n\n“In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca Signorelli—of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy.”\n\n“But, Cecil—” proceeded hilariously.\n\n“In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country cottage—the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends. I thought, ‘What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!’ and I took their address and a London reference, found they weren’t actual blackguards—it was great sport—and wrote to him, making out—”\n\n“Cecil! No, it’s not fair. I’ve probably met them before—”\n\nHe bore her down.\n\n“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time.\nNo, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—”\n\n“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”\n\nHe stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”\n\nHer face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago.\n\n“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”\n\nShe left him.\n\n“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows.\n\nNo, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n\n\n" -- "The Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,\nmet Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die.\n\nLucy—to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows because there are hills—Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least.\nNow that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little thinking, and—so illogical are girls—the event remained rather greater and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa while she was safe in the London flat.\n\n“Cecil—Cecil darling,” she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept into his arms.\n\nCecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should,\nand looked up to him because he was a man.\n\n“So you do love me, little thing?” he murmured.\n\n“Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don’t know what I should do without you.”\n\nSeveral days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what Charlotte would call “the flight to Rome,” and in Rome it had increased amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy’s, and once, in the Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses—Mrs. Vyse was an acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.\n\n“TUNBRIDGE WELLS,\n“_September_.\n\n\n“DEAREST LUCIA,\n\n\n“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house. He _said_ he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune,\nand I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\nLucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n" -- "“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,\nand cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,\nthey would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.\nAs for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January.\n\n“Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do not put ‘Private’ outside your envelope again. No one opens my letters.\n\n\n“Yours affectionately,\n“L. M. HONEYCHURCH.”\n\n\nSecrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil’s life if he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.\n“Emerson, not Harris”; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she stopped.\n\nShe and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool,\nand it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the past.\n\nThe grandchildren asked her to play the piano.\n\nShe played Schumann. “Now some Beethoven” called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete—the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art—throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and “Too much Schumann” was not the remark that Mr.\nBeebe had passed to himself when she returned.\n\nWhen the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son.\nMrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another’s,\nhad been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd.\n\n“Make Lucy one of us,” she said, looking round intelligently at the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again.\n“Lucy is becoming wonderful—wonderful.”\n\n“Her music always was wonderful.”\n\n" -- "“Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made.”\n\n“Italy has done it.”\n\n“Perhaps,” she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. “It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January.\nShe is one of us already.”\n\n“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to London. I don’t believe in these London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”\n\n“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.\n\nAs she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek.\n\n“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”\n\nThe elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII Twelfth Chapter\n\n\nIt was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.\nAll that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n“M’m.”\n\n“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in.\n\n“I suggested we should hinder them,” said Mr. Beebe. “They are worth it.” Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. “Hullo!” he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible.\n\nA grave voice replied, “Hullo!”\n\n“I’ve brought someone to see you.”\n\n“I’ll be down in a minute.”\n\nThe passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books.\n\n“Are these people great readers?” Freddy whispered. “Are they that sort?”\n\n“I fancy they know how to read—a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German.\nUm—um—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, look at that,” said Freddy in awestruck tones.\n\nOn the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: “Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.”\n\n“I know. Isn’t it jolly? I like that. I’m certain that’s the old man’s doing.”\n\n“How very odd of him!”\n\n“Surely you agree?”\n\nBut Freddy was his mother’s son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture.\n\n" -- "“Pictures!” the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.\n“Giotto—they got that at Florence, I’ll be bound.”\n\n“The same as Lucy’s got.”\n\n“Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?”\n\n“She came back yesterday.”\n\n“I suppose she had a good time?”\n\n“Yes, very,” said Freddy, taking up a book. “She and Cecil are thicker than ever.”\n\n“That’s good hearing.”\n\n“I wish I wasn’t such a fool, Mr. Beebe.”\n\nMr. Beebe ignored the remark.\n\n“Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it’ll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books.”\n\n“So will you.”\n\n“Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards.\nCecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful.\nThere are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says—”\n\n“What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson—we think we’ll come another time.”\n\nGeorge ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking.\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour.”\n\nThen Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George’s face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, “How d’ye do? Come and have a bathe.”\n\n“Oh, all right,” said George, impassive.\n\nMr. Beebe was highly entertained.\n\n“‘How d’ye do? how d’ye do? Come and have a bathe,’” he chuckled.\n“That’s the best conversational opening I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with ‘How do you do? Come and have a bathe’? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal.”\n\n“I tell you that they shall be,” said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same.”\n\n“We are to raise ladies to our level?” the clergyman inquired.\n\n“The Garden of Eden,” pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, “which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies.”\n\nMr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.\n\n“In this—not in other things—we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden.”\n\n“I say, what about this bathe?” murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him.\n\n“I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage.”\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence.”\n\n“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry.\nMarriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr.\nVyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”\n\n“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. “I must—that is to say, I have to—have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope.”\n\n“_Call_, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country.”\n\nMr. Beebe came to the rescue.\n\n" -- "“Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days’ interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon.”\n\n“Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can’t believe he’s well.”\n\nGeorge bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture.\n\n“Do you really want this bathe?” Freddy asked him. “It is only a pond,\ndon’t you know. I dare say you are used to something better.”\n\n“Yes—I have said ‘Yes’ already.”\n\nMr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads.\n\n“And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?”\n\n“I did not. Miss Lavish told me.”\n\n“When I was a young man, I always meant to write a ‘History of Coincidence.’”\n\nNo enthusiasm.\n\n“Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn’t purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect.”\n\nTo his relief, George began to talk.\n\n“It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate—flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us—we settle nothing—”\n\n“You have not reflected at all,” rapped the clergyman. “Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don’t say, ‘I didn’t do this,’ for you did it, ten to one. Now I’ll cross-question you.\nWhere did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?”\n\n“Italy.”\n\n“And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?”\n\n“National Gallery.”\n\n“Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it.”\n\n“It is Fate that I am here,” persisted George. “But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy.”\n\nMr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George.\n\n“And so for this and for other reasons my ‘History of Coincidence’ is still to write.”\n\nSilence.\n\nWishing to round off the episode, he added; “We are all so glad that you have come.”\n\nSilence.\n\n“Here we are!” called Freddy.\n\n“Oh, good!” exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow.\n\n“In there’s the pond. I wish it was bigger,” he added apologetically.\n\nThey climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond,\nset in its little alp of green—only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool.\n\n“It’s distinctly successful, as ponds go,” said Mr. Beebe. “No apologies are necessary for the pond.”\n\nGeorge sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots.\n\n" -- "“Aren’t those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What’s the name of this aromatic plant?”\n\nNo one knew, or seemed to care.\n\n“These abrupt changes of vegetation—this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle—heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, aren’t you bathing?” called Freddy, as he stripped himself.\n\nMr. Beebe thought he was not.\n\n“Water’s wonderful!” cried Freddy, prancing in.\n\n“Water’s water,” murmured George. Wetting his hair first—a sure sign of apathy—he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.\n\n“Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,” went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud.\n\n“Is it worth it?” asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin.\n\nThe bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly.\n\n“Hee-poof—I’ve swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water’s wonderful,\nwater’s simply ripping.”\n\n“Water’s not so bad,” said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun.\n\n“Water’s wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do.”\n\n“Apooshoo, kouf.”\n\nMr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible,\nlooked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind—these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man?\n\n“I may as well wash too”; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water.\n\nIt was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Götterdämmerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit—for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out.\nHe smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool.\n\n“Race you round it, then,” cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run—a memorable sight.\n\nThey ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the sward, proclaiming:\n\n“No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in the end.”\n\n“A try! A try!” yelled Freddy, snatching up George’s bundle and placing it beside an imaginary goal-post.\n\n“Socker rules,” George retorted, scattering Freddy’s bundle with a kick.\n\n“Goal!”\n\n“Goal!”\n\n“Pass!”\n\n“Take care my watch!” cried Mr. Beebe.\n\nClothes flew in all directions.\n\n“Take care my hat! No, that’s enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!”\n\n" -- "But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair.\n\n“That’ll do!” shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. “Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!”\n\nYells, and widening circles over the dappled earth.\n\n“Hi! hi! _Ladies!_”\n\nNeither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe’s last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch,\nCecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth.\nFreddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe’s hat.\n\n“Gracious alive!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch. “Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too!\nWhatever has happened?”\n\n“Come this way immediately,” commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed.\n\n“Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil,\nMr. Beebe’s waistcoat—”\n\nNo business of ours, said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently “minded.”\n\n“I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond.”\n\n“This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way.”\n\nThey followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.\n\n“Well, _I_ can’t help it,” said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. “I can’t be trodden on, can I?”\n\n“Good gracious me, dear; so it’s you! What miserable management! Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?”\n\n“Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow’s got to dry, and if another fellow—”\n\n“Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy.” They turned. “Oh, look—don’t look! Oh, poor Mr.\nBeebe! How unfortunate again—”\n\nFor Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.\n\n“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”\n\n“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”\n\n“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”\n\n“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.\n\nHe regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed.\n\nThat evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n\n\n" +- "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,\nwho stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett,\nsmarting 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,\nhe knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner.\n\nLucy, 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.\n\n“But aren’t they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?” said the little lady inquisitively.\n\n“Only once. Charlotte didn’t like it, and said something—quite politely, of course.”\n\n“Most right of her. They don’t understand our ways. They must find their level.”\n\nMr. 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.\n\nEvening 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 façade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun.\n\n“Too late to go out,” said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. “All the galleries are shut.”\n\n“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.”\n\nHer two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:\n\n“I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won’t you be better on your feet?”\n\n“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan.\n\n“Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!”\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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.”\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\n" +- "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?\nCharlotte 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.\nIndirectly, 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.\n\nThere 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.\nBut 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.\n\nLucy 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.\n\nThere she bought a photograph of Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.” Venus,\nbeing 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.\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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,\nhalf 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.\n\n" +- "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,\nstill dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home.\n\nThen something did happen.\n\nTwo 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.\n\nThat 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,\nfell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.\n\nShe thought: “Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“Oh, what have I done?” she murmured, and opened her eyes.\n\nGeorge 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.\n\nThey 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:\n\n“Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“You fainted.”\n\n“I—I am very sorry.”\n\n“How are you now?”\n\n“Perfectly well—absolutely well.” And she began to nod and smile.\n\n“Then let us come home. There’s no point in our stopping.”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you.”\n\nHis hand was still extended.\n\n“Oh, my photographs!” she exclaimed suddenly.\n\n“What photographs?”\n\n“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?”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“Miss Honeychurch!”\n\nShe stopped with her hand on her heart.\n\n“You sit still; you aren’t fit to go home alone.”\n\n“Yes, I am, thank you so very much.”\n\n“No, you aren’t. You’d go openly if you were.”\n\n“But I had rather—”\n\n“Then I don’t fetch your photographs.”\n\n“I had rather be alone.”\n\nHe 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.”\n\nIn the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day,\nand joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,\n“Oh, what have I done?”—the thought that she, as well as the dying man,\nhad crossed some spiritual boundary.\n\nHe 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,\nshe walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.\n\n" +- "“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?”\n\nHe had thrown something into the stream.\n\n“What did you throw in?”\n\n“Things I didn’t want,” he said crossly.\n\n“Mr. Emerson!”\n\n“Well?”\n\n“Where are the photographs?”\n\nHe was silent.\n\n“I believe it was my photographs that you threw away.”\n\n“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.\n“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.”\n\nSomething warned Lucy that she must stop him.\n\n“It has happened,” he repeated, “and I mean to find out what it is.”\n\n“Mr. Emerson—”\n\nHe turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.\n\n“I want to ask you something before we go in.”\n\nThey 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:\n\n“I have behaved ridiculously.”\n\nHe was following his own thoughts.\n\n“I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me.”\n\n“I nearly fainted myself,” he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.\n\n“Well, I owe you a thousand apologies.”\n\n“Oh, all right.”\n\n“And—this is the real point—you know how silly people are gossiping—ladies especially, I am afraid—you understand what I mean?”\n\n“I’m afraid I don’t.”\n\n“I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?”\n\n“Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right—all right.”\n\n“Thank you so much. And would you—”\n\nShe 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;\nhis 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.\n\n“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”\n\n“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n\n\n" +- "It was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one.\n\nFor good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure,\nnot that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events,\ncontradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.\n\nAt breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties—all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.\n\n“No, Charlotte!” cried the girl, with real warmth. “It’s very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather.”\n\n“Very well, dear,” said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her.\n\nShe slipped her arm into her cousin’s, and they started off along the Lung’ Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was “How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!”\n\nLucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.\n\n“Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice.”\n\nSerious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle—queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper—but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett’s insinuations.\n\nBut though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones,\na Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts.\n\nThe exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.\n\n“Oh, let me congratulate you!” said Miss Bartlett. “After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!”\n\n“Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning.” Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.\n\n“But perhaps you would rather not?”\n\n“I’m sorry—if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not.”\n\nThe elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.\n\n“It is I who am sorry,” said Miss Lavish “literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there’s no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn’t pry.”\n\n" +- "She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o’clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.\n\n“What is the heroine’s name?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Leonora,” said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.\n\n“I do hope she’s nice.”\n\nThat desideratum would not be omitted.\n\n“And what is the plot?”\n\nLove, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.\n\n“I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,” Miss Lavish concluded. “It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist.”\n\n“Oh, you wicked woman,” cried Miss Bartlett. “I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons.”\n\nMiss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile.\n\n“I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen.\nIt is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday’s is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life.”\n\nThere was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square.\n\n“She is my idea of a really clever woman,” said Miss Bartlett. “That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel.”\n\nLucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an _ingenué_.\n\n“She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word,”\ncontinued Miss Bartlett slowly. “None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman—Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!”\n\n“Ah, not for me,” said the chaplain blandly, “for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time.”\n\n“We were chatting to Miss Lavish.”\n\nHis brow contracted.\n\n“So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!” The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. “I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week—a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano.\nThere is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour’s ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful—far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures.\nThat man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us.”\n\n" +- "Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of,\nand saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them.\nLiving in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole’s slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook.\n\nTherefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of.\nBetween the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that—how Lucy would enjoy it!\n\nA few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett—even if culminating in a residential tea-party—was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere.\n\n“So we shall be a _partie carrée_,” said the chaplain. “In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town! Beautiful as it is, it is the town.”\n\nThey assented.\n\n“This very square—so I am told—witnessed yesterday the most sordid of tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola there is something portentous in such desecration—portentous and humiliating.”\n\n“Humiliating indeed,” said Miss Bartlett. “Miss Honeychurch happened to be passing through as it happened. She can hardly bear to speak of it.”\nShe glanced at Lucy proudly.\n\n“And how came we to have you here?” asked the chaplain paternally.\n\nMiss Bartlett’s recent liberalism oozed away at the question. “Do not blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The fault is mine: I left her unchaperoned.”\n\n“So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?” His voice suggested sympathetic reproof but at the same time indicated that a few harrowing details would not be unacceptable. His dark, handsome face drooped mournfully towards her to catch her reply.\n\n“Practically.”\n\n“One of our pension acquaintances kindly brought her home,” said Miss Bartlett, adroitly concealing the sex of the preserver.\n\n“For her also it must have been a terrible experience. I trust that neither of you was at all—that it was not in your immediate proximity?”\n\nOf the many things Lucy was noticing to-day, not the least remarkable was this: the ghoulish fashion in which respectable people will nibble after blood. George Emerson had kept the subject strangely pure.\n\n“He died by the fountain, I believe,” was her reply.\n\n“And you and your friend—”\n\n“Were over at the Loggia.”\n\n“That must have saved you much. You have not, of course, seen the disgraceful illustrations which the gutter Press—This man is a public nuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly well, and yet he goes on worrying me to buy his vulgar views.”\n\nSurely the vendor of photographs was in league with Lucy—in the eternal league of Italy with youth. He had suddenly extended his book before Miss Bartlett and Mr. Eager, binding their hands together by a long glossy ribbon of churches, pictures, and views.\n\n“This is too much!” cried the chaplain, striking petulantly at one of Fra Angelico’s angels. She tore. A shrill cry rose from the vendor. The book it seemed, was more valuable than one would have supposed.\n\n“Willingly would I purchase—” began Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Ignore him,” said Mr. Eager sharply, and they all walked rapidly away from the square.\n\n" +- "But an Italian can never be ignored, least of all when he has a grievance. His mysterious persecution of Mr. Eager became relentless;\nthe air rang with his threats and lamentations. He appealed to Lucy;\nwould not she intercede? He was poor—he sheltered a family—the tax on bread. He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed, he was dissatisfied,\nhe did not leave them until he had swept their minds clean of all thoughts whether pleasant or unpleasant.\n\nShopping was the topic that now ensued. Under the chaplain’s guidance they selected many hideous presents and mementoes—florid little picture-frames that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other little frames, more severe, that stood on little easels, and were carven out of oak; a blotting book of vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheap mosaic brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, would never tell from real; pins, pots, heraldic saucers, brown art-photographs; Eros and Psyche in alabaster; St. Peter to match—all of which would have cost less in London.\n\nThis successful morning left no pleasant impressions on Lucy. She had been a little frightened, both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she knew not why. And as they frightened her, she had, strangely enough,\nceased to respect them. She doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist. She doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality and culture as she had been led to suppose. They were tried by some new test, and they were found wanting. As for Charlotte—as for Charlotte she was exactly the same. It might be possible to be nice to her; it was impossible to love her.\n\n“The son of a labourer; I happen to know it for a fact. A mechanic of some sort himself when he was young; then he took to writing for the Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton.”\n\nThey were talking about the Emersons.\n\n“How wonderfully people rise in these days!” sighed Miss Bartlett,\nfingering a model of the leaning Tower of Pisa.\n\n“Generally,” replied Mr. Eager, “one has only sympathy for their success. The desire for education and for social advance—in these things there is something not wholly vile. There are some working men whom one would be very willing to see out here in Florence—little as they would make of it.”\n\n“Is he a journalist now?” Miss Bartlett asked.\n\n“He is not; he made an advantageous marriage.”\n\nHe uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning, and ended with a sigh.\n\n“Oh, so he has a wife.”\n\n“Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder—yes I wonder how he has the effrontery to look me in the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with me. He was in my London parish long ago. The other day in Santa Croce,\nwhen he was with Miss Honeychurch, I snubbed him. Let him beware that he does not get more than a snub.”\n\n“What?” cried Lucy, flushing.\n\n“Exposure!” hissed Mr. Eager.\n\nHe tried to change the subject; but in scoring a dramatic point he had interested his audience more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett was full of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she wished never to see the Emersons again, was not disposed to condemn them on a single word.\n\n“Do you mean,” she asked, “that he is an irreligious man? We know that already.”\n\n“Lucy, dear—” said Miss Bartlett, gently reproving her cousin’s penetration.\n\n“I should be astonished if you knew all. The boy—an innocent child at the time—I will exclude. God knows what his education and his inherited qualities may have made him.”\n\n“Perhaps,” said Miss Bartlett, “it is something that we had better not hear.”\n\n“To speak plainly,” said Mr. Eager, “it is. I will say no more.” For the first time Lucy’s rebellious thoughts swept out in words—for the first time in her life.\n\n“You have said very little.”\n\n“It was my intention to say very little,” was his frigid reply.\n\nHe gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal indignation.\nShe turned towards him from the shop counter; her breast heaved quickly. He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of her lips. It was intolerable that she should disbelieve him.\n\n" +- "“Murder, if you want to know,” he cried angrily. “That man murdered his wife!”\n\n“How?” she retorted.\n\n“To all intents and purposes he murdered her. That day in Santa Croce—did they say anything against me?”\n\n“Not a word, Mr. Eager—not a single word.”\n\n“Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to you. But I suppose it is only their personal charms that makes you defend them.”\n\n“I’m not defending them,” said Lucy, losing her courage, and relapsing into the old chaotic methods. “They’re nothing to me.”\n\n“How could you think she was defending them?” said Miss Bartlett, much discomfited by the unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly listening.\n\n“She will find it difficult. For that man has murdered his wife in the sight of God.”\n\nThe addition of God was striking. But the chaplain was really trying to qualify a rash remark. A silence followed which might have been impressive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bartlett hastily purchased the Leaning Tower, and led the way into the street.\n\n“I must be going,” said he, shutting his eyes and taking out his watch.\n\nMiss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, and spoke with enthusiasm of the approaching drive.\n\n“Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off?”\n\nLucy was recalled to her manners, and after a little exertion the complacency of Mr. Eager was restored.\n\n“Bother the drive!” exclaimed the girl, as soon as he had departed. “It is just the drive we had arranged with Mr. Beebe without any fuss at all. Why should he invite us in that absurd manner? We might as well invite him. We are each paying for ourselves.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, was launched by this remark into unexpected thoughts.\n\n“If that is so, dear—if the drive we and Mr. Beebe are going with Mr.\nEager is really the same as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then I foresee a sad kettle of fish.”\n\n“How?”\n\n“Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish to come, too.”\n\n“That will mean another carriage.”\n\n“Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it herself. The truth must be told; she is too unconventional for him.”\n\nThey were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank. Lucy stood by the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to answer,\nor at all events to formulate the questions rioting in her brain. The well-known world had broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic city where people thought and did the most extraordinary things.\nMurder, accusations of murder, a lady clinging to one man and being rude to another—were these the daily incidents of her streets? Was there more in her frank beauty than met the eye—the power, perhaps, to evoke passions, good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment?\n\nHappy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture with admirable delicacy “where things might lead to,” but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: “Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr.\nEager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor out altogether—which they could scarcely do—but in any case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!”\n\n“It is indeed,” replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic.\n\n“What do you think about it?” asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress.\n\n“I don’t know what I think, nor what I want.”\n\n“Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn’t boring you. Speak the word,\nand, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow.”\n\n" +- "“Thank you, Charlotte,” said Lucy, and pondered over the offer.\n\nThere were letters for her at the bureau—one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother’s letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald—all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveller returns.\n\n“And the news?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome,” said Lucy, giving the news that interested her least. “Do you know the Vyses?”\n\n“Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Piazza Signoria.”\n\n“They’re nice people, the Vyses. So clever—my idea of what’s really clever. Don’t you long to be in Rome?”\n\n“I die for it!”\n\nThe Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something,\nand though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god.\n\n“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them.\n\n\n" +- "It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guard against imposition. But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god.\n\nPhaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus enabling himself to drive with his arm round her waist. She did not mind. Mr.\nEager, who sat with his back to the horses, saw nothing of the indecorous proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy. The other two occupants of the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and Miss Lavish. For a dreadful thing had happened: Mr. Beebe, without consulting Mr. Eager, had doubled the size of the party. And though Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how the people were to sit, at the critical moment when the carriages came round they lost their heads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while Miss Bartlett, with George Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind.\n\nIt was hard on the poor chaplain to have his _partie carrée_ thus transformed. Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated it,\nwas now impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain style about them, and Mr. Beebe, though unreliable, was a man of parts. But a shoddy lady writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife in the sight of God—they should enter no villa at his introduction.\n\nLucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and nervous amid these explosive ingredients, attentive to Mr. Eager, repressive towards Miss Lavish, watchful of old Mr. Emerson, hitherto fortunately asleep,\nthanks to a heavy lunch and the drowsy atmosphere of Spring. She looked on the expedition as the work of Fate. But for it she would have avoided George Emerson successfully. In an open manner he had shown that he wished to continue their intimacy. She had refused, not because she disliked him, but because she did not know what had happened, and suspected that he did know. And this frightened her.\n\nFor the real event—whatever it was—had taken place, not in the Loggia,\nbut by the river. To behave wildly at the sight of death is pardonable.\nBut to discuss it afterwards, to pass from discussion into silence, and through silence into sympathy, that is an error, not of a startled emotion, but of the whole fabric. There was really something blameworthy (she thought) in their joint contemplation of the shadowy stream, in the common impulse which had turned them to the house without the passing of a look or word. This sense of wickedness had been slight at first. She had nearly joined the party to the Torre del Gallo. But each time that she avoided George it became more imperative that she should avoid him again. And now celestial irony, working through her cousin and two clergymen, did not suffer her to leave Florence till she had made this expedition with him through the hills.\n\nMeanwhile Mr. Eager held her in civil converse; their little tiff was over.\n\n“So, Miss Honeychurch, you are travelling? As a student of art?”\n\n“Oh, dear me, no—oh, no!”\n\n“Perhaps as a student of human nature,” interposed Miss Lavish, “like myself?”\n\n“Oh, no. I am here as a tourist.”\n\n" +- "“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Eager. “Are you indeed? If you will not think me rude, we residents sometimes pity you poor tourists not a little—handed about like a parcel of goods from Venice to Florence, from Florence to Rome, living herded together in pensions or hotels, quite unconscious of anything that is outside Baedeker, their one anxiety to get ‘done’\nor ‘through’ and go on somewhere else. The result is, they mix up towns, rivers, palaces in one inextricable whirl. You know the American girl in Punch who says: ‘Say, poppa, what did we see at Rome?’ And the father replies: ‘Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the yaller dog.’ There’s travelling for you. Ha! ha! ha!”\n\n“I quite agree,” said Miss Lavish, who had several times tried to interrupt his mordant wit. “The narrowness and superficiality of the Anglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace.”\n\n“Quite so. Now, the English colony at Florence, Miss Honeychurch—and it is of considerable size, though, of course, not all equally—a few are here for trade, for example. But the greater part are students. Lady Helen Laverstock is at present busy over Fra Angelico. I mention her name because we are passing her villa on the left. No, you can only see it if you stand—no, do not stand; you will fall. She is very proud of that thick hedge. Inside, perfect seclusion. One might have gone back six hundred years. Some critics believe that her garden was the scene of The Decameron, which lends it an additional interest, does it not?”\n\n“It does indeed!” cried Miss Lavish. “Tell me, where do they place the scene of that wonderful seventh day?”\n\nBut Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honeychurch that on the right lived Mr. Someone Something, an American of the best type—so rare!—and that the Somebody Elses were farther down the hill. “Doubtless you know her monographs in the series of ‘Mediæval Byways’? He is working at Gemistus Pletho. Sometimes as I take tea in their beautiful grounds I hear, over the wall, the electric tram squealing up the new road with its loads of hot, dusty, unintelligent tourists who are going to ‘do’\nFiesole in an hour in order that they may say they have been there, and I think—think—I think how little they think what lies so near them.”\n\nDuring this speech the two figures on the box were sporting with each other disgracefully. Lucy had a spasm of envy. Granted that they wished to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to do so. They were probably the only people enjoying the expedition. The carriage swept with agonizing jolts up through the Piazza of Fiesole and into the Settignano road.\n\n“Piano! piano!” said Mr. Eager, elegantly waving his hand over his head.\n\n“Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene,” crooned the driver, and whipped his horses up again.\n\nNow Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on the subject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or was he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind.\nAs the pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr.\nEmerson was thrown against the chaplain with the regularity of a machine.\n\n“Piano! piano!” said he, with a martyred look at Lucy.\n\nAn extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. Phaethon, who for some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded.\n\nA little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was most unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered to disentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his _pourboire_, the girl was immediately to get down.\n\n“She is my sister,” said he, turning round on them with piteous eyes.\n\nMr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar.\n\n" +- "Phaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation, but at its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated,\nand patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish,\nthough unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism.\n\n“Most certainly I would let them be,” she cried. “But I dare say I shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the conventions all my life. This is what _I_ call an adventure.”\n\n“We must not submit,” said Mr. Eager. “I knew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook’s tourists.”\n\n“Surely no!” said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing.\n\nThe other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly.\n\n“Leave them alone,” Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. “Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers—A king might envy us, and if we part them it’s more like sacrilege than anything I know.”\n\nHere the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect.\n\nMr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream,\nwith unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager’s mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker,\nand more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.\n\n“Signorina!” said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy?\n\n“Signorina!” echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why?\n\nFor a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box.\n\n“Victory at last!” said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again.\n\n“It is not victory,” said Mr. Emerson. “It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy.”\n\nMr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son.\n\n“We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul.”\n\nMiss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character.\n\n“He was not driving us well,” she said. “He jolted us.”\n\n“That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now.\nCan you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I’d be frightened of the girl,\ntoo. It doesn’t do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?”\n\nMiss Lavish bristled.\n\n“Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?”\n\n“The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line—so I heard yesterday—which runs like this: ‘Don’t go fighting against the Spring.’”\n\nMr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition.\n\n“Non fate guerra al Maggio,” he murmured. “‘War not with the May’ would render a correct meaning.”\n\n" +- "“The point is, we have warred with it. Look.” He pointed to the Val d’Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.\n“Fifty miles of Spring, and we’ve come up to admire them. Do you suppose there’s any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both.”\n\nNo one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated,\nwet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d’Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become equally enthusiastic.\n\nBut it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting.\nAnd the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest.\n\nThe party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in common, were left to each other.\n\nThe two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered “the railway.” She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not very much hurt at her asking him.\n\n“The railway!” gasped Miss Lavish. “Oh, but I shall die! Of course it was the railway!” She could not control her mirth. “He is the image of a porter—on, on the South-Eastern.”\n\n“Eleanor, be quiet,” plucking at her vivacious companion. “Hush!\nThey’ll hear—the Emersons—”\n\n“I can’t stop. Let me go my wicked way. A porter—”\n\n“Eleanor!”\n\n“I’m sure it’s all right,” put in Lucy. “The Emersons won’t hear, and they wouldn’t mind if they did.”\n\nMiss Lavish did not seem pleased at this.\n\n“Miss Honeychurch listening!” she said rather crossly. “Pouf! Wouf! You naughty girl! Go away!”\n\n“Oh, Lucy, you ought to be with Mr. Eager, I’m sure.”\n\n“I can’t find them now, and I don’t want to either.”\n\n“Mr. Eager will be offended. It is your party.”\n\n“Please, I’d rather stop here with you.”\n\n“No, I agree,” said Miss Lavish. “It’s like a school feast; the boys have got separated from the girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish to converse on high topics unsuited for your ear.”\n\nThe girl was stubborn. As her time at Florence drew to its close she was only at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent. Such a one was Miss Lavish, and such for the moment was Charlotte. She wished she had not called attention to herself; they were both annoyed at her remark and seemed determined to get rid of her.\n\n“How tired one gets,” said Miss Bartlett. “Oh, I do wish Freddy and your mother could be here.”\n\n" +- "Unselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely usurped the functions of enthusiasm. Lucy did not look at the view either. She would not enjoy anything till she was safe at Rome.\n\n“Then sit you down,” said Miss Lavish. “Observe my foresight.”\n\nWith many a smile she produced two of those mackintosh squares that protect the frame of the tourist from damp grass or cold marble steps.\nShe sat on one; who was to sit on the other?\n\n“Lucy; without a moment’s doubt, Lucy. The ground will do for me.\nReally I have not had rheumatism for years. If I do feel it coming on I shall stand. Imagine your mother’s feelings if I let you sit in the wet in your white linen.” She sat down heavily where the ground looked particularly moist. “Here we are, all settled delightfully. Even if my dress is thinner it will not show so much, being brown. Sit down, dear;\nyou are too unselfish; you don’t assert yourself enough.” She cleared her throat. “Now don’t be alarmed; this isn’t a cold. It’s the tiniest cough, and I have had it three days. It’s nothing to do with sitting here at all.”\n\nThere was only one way of treating the situation. At the end of five minutes Lucy departed in search of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager, vanquished by the mackintosh square.\n\nShe addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in the carriages, perfuming the cushions with cigars. The miscreant, a bony young man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with the courtesy of a host and the assurance of a relative.\n\n“Dove?” said Lucy, after much anxious thought.\n\nHis face lit up. Of course he knew where. Not so far either. His arm swept three-fourths of the horizon. He should just think he did know where. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead and then pushed them towards her, as if oozing with visible extract of knowledge.\n\nMore seemed necessary. What was the Italian for “clergyman”?\n\n“Dove buoni uomini?” said she at last.\n\nGood? Scarcely the adjective for those noble beings! He showed her his cigar.\n\n“Uno—piu—piccolo,” was her next remark, implying “Has the cigar been given to you by Mr. Beebe, the smaller of the two good men?”\n\nShe was correct as usual. He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it to make it stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded his hat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than a quarter of a minute was ready to conduct her. Italians are born knowing the way.\nIt would seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but as a chess-board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces as well as the squares. Any one can find places, but the finding of people is a gift from God.\n\nHe only stopped once, to pick her some great blue violets. She thanked him with real pleasure. In the company of this common man the world was beautiful and direct. For the first time she felt the influence of Spring. His arm swept the horizon gracefully; violets, like other things, existed in great profusion there; “would she like to see them?”\n\n“Ma buoni uomini.”\n\nHe bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceeded briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. They were nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing round them, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into countless pieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the pliant boughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not a twig, was unimportant to her.\n\n“What is that?”\n\nThere was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The voice of Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian’s ignorance is sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She could not make him understand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view was forming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, other hills.\n\n“Eccolo!” he exclaimed.\n\nAt the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end.\n\n" +- "“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above.\n“Courage and love.”\n\nShe did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view,\nand violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth.\n\nStanding at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.\nBut he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.\n\nGeorge had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.\n\nBefore she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VII They Return\n\n\n" +- "Some complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye.\nCharlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon had lost the game.\n\nThat last fact was undeniable. He climbed on to the box shivering, with his collar up, prophesying the swift approach of bad weather. “Let us go immediately,” he told them. “The signorino will walk.”\n\n“All the way? He will be hours,” said Mr. Beebe.\n\n“Apparently. I told him it was unwise.” He would look no one in the face; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him. He alone had played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the others had used scraps of their intelligence. He alone had divined what things were, and what he wished them to be. He alone had interpreted the message that Lucy had received five days before from the lips of a dying man. Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave—she could interpret it also. Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly,\nand perhaps too late.\n\nThe thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, seldom affect the lives of his employers. He was the most competent of Miss Bartlett’s opponents,\nbut infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the town, he and his insight and his knowledge would trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in the bushes; he might make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what have we to do with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed downwards towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious. They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.\n\nRain and darkness came on together. The two ladies huddled together under an inadequate parasol. There was a lightning flash, and Miss Lavish who was nervous, screamed from the carriage in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally:\n\n“Courage, Miss Honeychurch, courage and faith. If I might say so, there is something almost blasphemous in this horror of the elements. Are we seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all this immense electrical display, is simply called into existence to extinguish you or me?”\n\n“No—of course—”\n\n“Even from the scientific standpoint the chances against our being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage—courage and faith.”\n\nUnder the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin’s hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles,\ngained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination.\n\nShe renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence.\n\n“Mr. Eager!” called Mr. Beebe. “We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?”\n\n“George!” cried Mr. Emerson. “Ask your driver which way George went.\nThe boy may lose his way. He may be killed.”\n\n“Go, Mr. Eager,” said Miss Bartlett, “don’t ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe—, he is nearly demented.”\n\n“He may be killed!” cried the old man. “He may be killed!”\n\n" +- "“Typical behaviour,” said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. “In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down.”\n\n“What does he know?” whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone.\n“Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?”\n\n“Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But—” she pointed at the driver—“_he_ knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?” She took out her purse. “It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all.” Tapping Phaethon’s back with her guide-book,\nshe said, “Silenzio!” and offered him a franc.\n\n“Va bene,” he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him.\n\nThere was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity,\nwhich fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good.\n\nThe older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that,\neven if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers,\nthrough miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin.\n\n“Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I—I thought I was developing.”\n\n“Do not cry, dearest. Take your time.”\n\n“I have been obstinate and silly—worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river—Oh, but he isn’t killed—he wouldn’t be killed, would he?”\n\nThe thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone.\n\n“I trust not. One would always pray against that.”\n\n“He is really—I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before.\nBut this time I’m not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book.”\n\n“In a book?”\n\n“Heroes—gods—the nonsense of schoolgirls.”\n\n“And then?”\n\n“But, Charlotte, you know what happened then.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy’s body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.\n\n“I want to be truthful,” she whispered. “It is so hard to be absolutely truthful.”\n\n“Don’t be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room.”\n\nSo they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased,\nand Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of—Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love.\n\nThe luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.\n\n“At last,” thought she, “I shall understand myself. I shan’t again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don’t know what.”\n\n" +- "Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage.\nWhen it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:\n\n“Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair.”\n\nWith some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said “So what is to be done?”\n\nShe was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.\n\n“What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle.”\n\nThe rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett’s toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.\n\n“It has been raining for nearly four hours,” she said at last.\n\nMiss Bartlett ignored the remark.\n\n“How do you propose to silence him?”\n\n“The driver?”\n\n“My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson.”\n\nLucy began to pace up and down the room.\n\n“I don’t understand,” she said at last.\n\nShe understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.\n\n“How are you going to stop him talking about it?”\n\n“I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do.”\n\n“I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves.”\n\n“Exploits?” cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.\n\n“My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.\n\n“Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man,\nbut obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?”\n\nAn idea rushed across Lucy’s brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.\n\n“I propose to speak to him,” said she.\n\nMiss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.\n\n“You see, Charlotte, your kindness—I shall never forget it. But—as you said—it is my affair. Mine and his.”\n\n“And you are going to _implore_ him, to _beg_ him to keep silence?”\n\n“Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit.”\n\n“But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be—how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy gravely.\n\nSomething in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.\n\n“What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy again.\n\n“When he insulted you, how would you have replied?”\n\n“I hadn’t time to think. You came.”\n\n“Yes, but won’t you tell me now what you would have done?”\n\n" +- "“I should have—” She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness.\nShe could not think what she would have done.\n\n“Come away from the window, dear,” said Miss Bartlett. “You will be seen from the road.”\n\nLucy obeyed. She was in her cousin’s power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him.\n\nMiss Bartlett became plaintive.\n\n“Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister’s insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman.”\n\nAs she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:\n\n“It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try.”\n\n“What train?”\n\n“The train to Rome.” She looked at her gloves critically.\n\nThe girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.\n\n“When does the train to Rome go?”\n\n“At eight.”\n\n“Signora Bertolini would be upset.”\n\n“We must face that,” said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.\n\n“She will make us pay for a whole week’s pension.”\n\n“I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses’ hotel. Isn’t afternoon tea given there for nothing?”\n\n“Yes, but they pay extra for wine.” After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream.\n\nThey began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished,\nbegan to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte,\nwho was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk,\nvainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old.\nThe girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause.\nShe only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier,\nthe world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love.\nThe impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin’s side and took her in her arms.\n\nMiss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:\n\n“Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?”\n\nLucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:\n\n“Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!”\n\n“You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself,\ntoo. I know well how much I vex you at every turn.”\n\n“But no—”\n\nMiss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.\n\n“Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned—only fit to pack and unpack your things.”\n\n“Please—”\n\n“My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events.”\n\n“You mustn’t say these things,” said Lucy softly.\n\n" +- "She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other,\nheart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.\n\n“I have been a failure,” said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy’s trunk instead of strapping her own. “Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster.”\n\n“But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn’t a disaster either.”\n\n“It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?”\n\n“Every right.”\n\n“When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her.”\n\nLucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:\n\n“Why need mother hear of it?”\n\n“But you tell her everything?”\n\n“I suppose I do generally.”\n\n“I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it.\nUnless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her.”\n\nThe girl would not be degraded to this.\n\n“Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one.”\n\nHer promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room.\n\nFor a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin’s voice had intervened, and, ever since,\nit was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now,\ncould be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time—indeed,\nfor years—she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better—a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most.\n\nLucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity,\nof her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul.\n\nThe door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,\nthough she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her.\n\nTo reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.\n\nWhether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:\n\n“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”\n\nSoon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\nIn the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VIII Medieval\n\n\n" +- "The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,”\nor might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;\nwithin, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man.\n\nTwo pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.\n\n“Where aren’t they?” said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy’s brother. “I tell you I’m getting fairly sick.”\n\n“For goodness’ sake go out of my drawing-room, then?” cried Mrs.\nHoneychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally.\n\nFreddy did not move or reply.\n\n“I think things are coming to a head,” she observed, rather wanting her son’s opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.\n\n“Time they did.”\n\n“I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more.”\n\n“It’s his third go, isn’t it?”\n\n“Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind.”\n\n“I didn’t mean to be unkind.” Then he added: “But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don’t know how girls manage things, but she can’t have said ‘No’ properly before, or she wouldn’t have to say it again now. Over the whole thing—I can’t explain—I do feel so uncomfortable.”\n\n“Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!”\n\n“I feel—never mind.”\n\nHe returned to his work.\n\n“Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: ‘Dear Mrs.\nVyse.’”\n\n“Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter.”\n\n“I said: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it,\nand I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But—’” She stopped reading, “I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can’t get on without me.”\n\n“Nor me.”\n\n“You?”\n\nFreddy nodded.\n\n“What do you mean?”\n\n“He asked me for my permission also.”\n\nShe exclaimed: “How very odd of him!”\n\n“Why so?” asked the son and heir. “Why shouldn’t my permission be asked?”\n\n“What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?”\n\n“I said to Cecil, ‘Take her or leave her; it’s no business of mine!’”\n\n“What a helpful answer!” But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.\n\n“The bother is this,” began Freddy.\n\nThen he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was.\nMrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.\n\n“Freddy, you must come. There they still are!”\n\n“I don’t see you ought to go peeping like that.”\n\n“Peeping like that! Can’t I look out of my own window?”\n\nBut she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, “Still page 322?” Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased.\n\n" +- "“The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully.”\nHe gave a nervous gulp. “Not content with ‘permission’, which I did give—that is to say, I said, ‘I don’t mind’—well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn’t off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn’t it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer—he said it would strengthen his hand.”\n\n“I hope you gave a careful answer, dear.”\n\n“I answered ‘No’” said the boy, grinding his teeth. “There! Fly into a stew! I can’t help it—had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me.”\n\n“Ridiculous child!” cried his mother. “You think you’re so holy and truthful, but really it’s only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?”\n\n“Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn’t say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn’t mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot’s in it.\nOh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work.”\n\n“No,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, “I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house.”\n\n“Not a bit!” he pleaded. “I only let out I didn’t like him. I don’t hate him, but I don’t like him. What I mind is that he’ll tell Lucy.”\n\nHe glanced at the curtains dismally.\n\n“Well, _I_ like him,” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “I know his mother; he’s good, he’s clever, he’s rich, he’s well connected—Oh, you needn’t kick the piano! He’s well connected—I’ll say it again if you like: he’s well connected.” She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: “And he has beautiful manners.”\n\n“I liked him till just now. I suppose it’s having him spoiling Lucy’s first week at home; and it’s also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe?” said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. “I don’t see how Mr. Beebe comes in.”\n\n“You know Mr. Beebe’s funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said: ‘Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.’ I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said ‘Oh, he’s like me—better detached.’ I couldn’t make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn’t been so pleasant, at least—I can’t explain.”\n\n“You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties.”\n\nThe explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one’s own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow’s cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.\n\n" +- "“Will this do?” called his mother. “‘Dear Mrs. Vyse,—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.’ Then I put in at the top, ‘and I have told Lucy so.’ I must write the letter out again—‘and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.’\nI said that because I didn’t want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned.\nShe goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid’s dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably—”\n\n“Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?”\n\n“Don’t interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes—‘Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.’ No, I’ll cross that last bit out—it looks patronizing. I’ll stop at ‘because she tells me everything.’ Or shall I cross that out,\ntoo?”\n\n“Cross it out, too,” said Freddy.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left it in.\n\n“Then the whole thing runs: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse.—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know—’”\n\n“Look out!” cried Freddy.\n\nThe curtains parted.\n\nCecil’s first movement was one of irritation. He couldn’t bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture.\nInstinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world.\n\nCecil entered.\n\nAppearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral.\nWell educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision,\nworshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow’s cap.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!” she exclaimed—“oh, Cecil, do tell me!”\n\n“I promessi sposi,” said he.\n\nThey stared at him anxiously.\n\n“She has accepted me,” he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human.\n\n“I am so glad,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences.\n\n“Welcome as one of the family!” said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. “This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy.”\n\n“I hope so,” replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling.\n\n" +- "“We mothers—” simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic—all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room;\nlooking very cross and almost handsome?\n\n“I say, Lucy!” called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag.\n\nLucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother’s face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, “Steady on!”\n\n“Not a kiss for me?” asked her mother.\n\nLucy kissed her also.\n\n“Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?” Cecil suggested. “And I’d stop here and tell my mother.”\n\n“We go with Lucy?” said Freddy, as if taking orders.\n\n“Yes, you go with Lucy.”\n\nThey passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace,\nand descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend—he knew their ways—past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed,\nuntil they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed.\n\nSmiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that had led to such a happy conclusion.\n\nHe had known Lucy for several years, but only as a commonplace girl who happened to be musical. He could still remember his depression that afternoon at Rome, when she and her terrible cousin fell on him out of the blue, and demanded to be taken to St. Peter’s. That day she had seemed a typical tourist—shrill, crude, and gaunt with travel. But Italy worked some marvel in her. It gave her light, and—which he held more precious—it gave her shadow. Soon he detected in her a wonderful reticence. She was like a woman of Leonardo da Vinci’s, whom we love not so much for herself as for the things that she will not tell us.\nThe things are assuredly not of this life; no woman of Leonardo’s could have anything so vulgar as a “story.” She did develop most wonderfully day by day.\n\nSo it happened that from patronizing civility he had slowly passed if not to passion, at least to a profound uneasiness. Already at Rome he had hinted to her that they might be suitable for each other. It had touched him greatly that she had not broken away at the suggestion. Her refusal had been clear and gentle; after it—as the horrid phrase went—she had been exactly the same to him as before. Three months later, on the margin of Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked her again in bald, traditional language. She reminded him of a Leonardo more than ever; her sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic rock;\nat his words she had turned and stood between him and the light with immeasurable plains behind her. He walked home with her unashamed,\nfeeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things that really mattered were unshaken.\n\nSo now he had asked her once more, and, clear and gentle as ever, she had accepted him, giving no coy reasons for her delay, but simply saying that she loved him and would do her best to make him happy. His mother, too, would be pleased; she had counselled the step; he must write her a long account.\n\nGlancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy’s chemicals had come off on it, he moved to the writing table. There he saw “Dear Mrs. Vyse,”\nfollowed by many erasures. He recoiled without reading any more, and after a little hesitation sat down elsewhere, and pencilled a note on his knee.\n\n" +- "Then he lit another cigarette, which did not seem quite as divine as the first, and considered what might be done to make Windy Corner drawing-room more distinctive. With that outlook it should have been a successful room, but the trail of Tottenham Court Road was upon it; he could almost visualize the motor-vans of Messrs. Shoolbred and Messrs.\nMaple arriving at the door and depositing this chair, those varnished book-cases, that writing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch’s letter. He did not want to read that letter—his temptations never lay in that direction; but he worried about it none the less. It was his own fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and so he had asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for Freddy—“He is only a boy,” he reflected. “I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?”\n\nThe Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps—he did not put it very definitely—he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible.\n\n“Mr. Beebe!” said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy’s praise of him in her letters from Florence.\n\nCecil greeted him rather critically.\n\n“I’ve come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?”\n\n“I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here—Don’t sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it.”\n\n“Pfui!”\n\n“I know,” said Cecil. “I know. I can’t think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it.”\n\nFor Cecil considered the bone and the Maples’ furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired.\n\n“I’ve come for tea and for gossip. Isn’t this news?”\n\n“News? I don’t understand you,” said Cecil. “News?”\n\nMr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward.\n\n“I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!”\n\n“Has he indeed?” said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder.\n\n“Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I’ll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you.”\n\n“I’m shockingly stupid over local affairs,” said the young man languidly. “I can’t even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference,\nor perhaps those aren’t the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don’t feel to exist on sufferance.”\n\nMr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert,\ndetermined to shift the subject.\n\n“Let me see, Mr. Vyse—I forget—what is your profession?”\n\n“I have no profession,” said Cecil. “It is another example of my decadence. My attitude—quite an indefensible one—is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don’t care a straw about, but somehow, I’ve not been able to begin.”\n\n“You are very fortunate,” said Mr. Beebe. “It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure.”\n\n" +- "His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also.\n\n“I am glad that you approve. I daren’t face the healthy person—for example, Freddy Honeychurch.”\n\n“Oh, Freddy’s a good sort, isn’t he?”\n\n“Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is.”\n\nCecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe’s mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science.\n\n“Where are the others?” said Mr. Beebe at last, “I insist on extracting tea before evening service.”\n\n“I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary—I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?”\n\n“I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs.”\n\n“The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small.”\n\nThey both laughed, and things began to go better.\n\n“The faults of Freddy—” Cecil continued.\n\n“Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable.”\n\n“She has none,” said the young man, with grave sincerity.\n\n“I quite agree. At present she has none.”\n\n“At present?”\n\n“I’m not cynical. I’m only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down,\nand music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good,\nheroically bad—too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad.”\n\nCecil found his companion interesting.\n\n“And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?”\n\n“Well, I must say I’ve only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn’t you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn’t wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be.”\n\n“In what way?”\n\nConversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace.\n\n“I could as easily tell you what tune she’ll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks.”\n\nThe sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself.\n\n“But the string never broke?”\n\n“No. I mightn’t have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall.”\n\n“It has broken now,” said the young man in low, vibrating tones.\n\nImmediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous,\ncontemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him?\n\n“Broken? What do you mean?”\n\n“I meant,” said Cecil stiffly, “that she is going to marry me.”\n\nThe clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice.\n\n“I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way.\nMr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me.” And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed.\n\n" +- "Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered.\n\nOccasionally he could be quite crude.\n\n“I am sorry I have given you a shock,” he said dryly. “I fear that Lucy’s choice does not meet with your approval.”\n\n“Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. I know Miss Honeychurch only a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have discussed her so freely with any one; certainly not with you.”\n\n“You are conscious of having said something indiscreet?”\n\nMr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really, Mr. Vyse had the art of placing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to use the prerogatives of his profession.\n\n“No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it.\nShe has learnt—you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely—she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides.” It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. “She has learnt through you,” and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; “let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her.”\n\n“Grazie tante!” said Cecil, who did not like parsons.\n\n“Have you heard?” shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden. “Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?”\n\nFreddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact.\n\n“Indeed I have!” he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer—at all events not without apology. “Mrs.\nHoneychurch, I’m going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I’m too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them,\ngrave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my tea.”\n\n“You only asked for it just in time,” the lady retorted. “How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?”\n\nHe took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be serious any more.\n\nAn engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present.\n\n" +- "So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne,\nputting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped.\nFreddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art\n\n\n" +- "A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\nfor naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man.\n\nCecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers.\n\nAt tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been.\n\n“Do you go to much of this sort of thing?” he asked when they were driving home.\n\n“Oh, now and then,” said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself.\n\n“Is it typical of country society?”\n\n“I suppose so. Mother, would it be?”\n\n“Plenty of society,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses.\n\nSeeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said:\n\n“To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous.”\n\n“I am so sorry that you were stranded.”\n\n“Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property—a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!”\n\n“One has to go through it, I suppose. They won’t notice us so much next time.”\n\n“But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement—horrid word in the first place—is a private matter, and should be treated as such.”\n\nYet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them,\nrejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different—personal love. Hence Cecil’s irritation and Lucy’s belief that his irritation was just.\n\n“How tiresome!” she said. “Couldn’t you have escaped to tennis?”\n\n“I don’t play tennis—at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato.”\n\n“Inglese Italianato?”\n\n“E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?”\n\nShe did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement,\nhad taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing.\n\n“Well,” said he, “I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them.”\n\n“We all have our limitations, I suppose,” said wise Lucy.\n\n“Sometimes they are forced on us, though,” said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.\n\n“How?”\n\n“It makes a difference doesn’t it, whether we fully fence ourselves in,\nor whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?”\n\nShe thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference.\n\n“Difference?” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. “I don’t see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place.”\n\n“We were speaking of motives,” said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred.\n\n“My dear Cecil, look here.” She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. “This is me. That’s Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here.”\n\n“We weren’t talking of real fences,” said Lucy, laughing.\n\n“Oh, I see, dear—poetry.”\n\nShe leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused.\n\n“I tell you who has no ‘fences,’ as you call them,” she said, “and that’s Mr. Beebe.”\n\n" +- "“A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless.”\n\nLucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil’s epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it.\n\n“Don’t you like Mr. Beebe?” she asked thoughtfully.\n\n“I never said so!” he cried. “I consider him far above the average. I only denied—” And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant.\n\n“Now, a clergyman that I do hate,” said she wanting to say something sympathetic, “a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere—not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things.”\n\n“What sort of things?”\n\n“There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife.”\n\n“Perhaps he had.”\n\n“No!”\n\n“Why ‘no’?”\n\n“He was such a nice old man, I’m sure.”\n\nCecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence.\n\n“Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague—said the old man had ‘practically’ murdered his wife—had murdered her in the sight of God.”\n\n“Hush, dear!” said Mrs. Honeychurch absently.\n\n“But isn’t it intolerable that a person whom we’re told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn’t that.”\n\n“Poor old man! What was his name?”\n\n“Harris,” said Lucy glibly.\n\n“Let’s hope that Mrs. Harris there warn’t no sich person,” said her mother.\n\nCecil nodded intelligently.\n\n“Isn’t Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?” he asked.\n\n“I don’t know. I hate him. I’ve heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I _hate_ him.”\n\n“My goodness gracious me, child!” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “You’ll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen.”\n\nHe smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy’s moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman’s power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, he thought—lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch’s mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.\n\n“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.\nHoneychurch?”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil,\nwho was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again.\n\n" +- "Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\n" +- "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\nThe woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.\nPretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil.\n\n“Cissie” was the name of one of these villas, “Albert” of the other.\nThese titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. “Albert”\nwas inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. “Cissie” was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions.\n\n“The place is ruined!” said the ladies mechanically. “Summer Street will never be the same again.”\n\nAs the carriage passed, “Cissie’s” door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.\n\n“Stop!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.\n“Here’s Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!”\n\nSir Harry Otway—who need not be described—came to the carriage and said “Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can’t, I really can’t turn out Miss Flack.”\n\n“Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew’s time?”\n\n“But what can I do?” He lowered his voice. “An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden.”\n\n“Turn her out,” said Cecil bravely.\n\nSir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack’s intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm.\nHe called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,—a most reasonable and respectful man—who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ,\nhowever, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the façade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative.\n\nMr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, “and all the capitals different—one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack’s initials—every one different.” For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy.\n\nThis futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch’s carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well.\nHe had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever.\nAll he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for “Cissie”—someone really desirable.\n\n" +- "“The rent is absurdly low,” he told them, “and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves.”\n\nCecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.\n\n“You ought to find a tenant at once,” he said maliciously. “It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk.”\n\n“Exactly!” said Sir Harry excitedly. “That is exactly what I fear, Mr.\nVyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved—a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?”\n\n“Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,” said Lucy.\n\nCecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.\n\n“Sir Harry!” she exclaimed, “I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?”\n\n“My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?”\n\n“Yes; I met them abroad.”\n\n“Gentlewomen?” he asked tentatively.\n\n“Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week—Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I’m really not joking.\nThey are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?”\n\n“Indeed you may!” he cried. “Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities—please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents’ fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote—a tactful letter, you know—asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory—people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!”\n\nShe nodded.\n\n“My advice,” put in Mrs. Honeychurch, “is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It’s a sad thing, but I’d far rather let to some one who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down.”\n\n“I think I follow you,” said Sir Harry; “but it is, as you say, a very sad thing.”\n\n“The Misses Alan aren’t that!” cried Lucy.\n\n“Yes, they are,” said Cecil. “I haven’t met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood.”\n\n“Don’t listen to him, Sir Harry—he’s tiresome.”\n\n“It’s I who am tiresome,” he replied. “I oughtn’t to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help.”\n\n“Then may I write to my Misses Alan?”\n\n“Please!”\n\nBut his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:\n\n“Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man.”\n\n“Really—” he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.\n\n“Men don’t gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there’s an end of them—they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they’re vulgar,\nthey somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn’t spread so. Give me a man—of course, provided he’s clean.”\n\n" +- "Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time,\nshould descend from the carriage and inspect “Cissie” for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale.\n\nCecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.\n\n“Mrs. Honeychurch,” he said, “what if we two walk home and leave you?”\n\n“Certainly!” was her cordial reply.\n\nSir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, “Aha! young people, young people!” and then hastened to unlock the house.\n\n“Hopeless vulgarian!” exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!”\n\n“I can’t help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man.”\n\n“He isn’t clever, but really he is nice.”\n\n“No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and every one—even your mother—is taken in.”\n\n“All that you say is quite true,” said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. “I wonder whether—whether it matters so very much.”\n\n“It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party.\nOh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he’ll get some vulgar tenant in that villa—some woman so really vulgar that he’ll notice it.\n_Gentlefolks!_ Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let’s forget him.”\n\nThis Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever,\nnor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, “It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy”? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps,\nduring the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.\n\n“Which way shall we go?” she asked him.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, she thought—was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad.\n\n“Are there two ways?”\n\n“Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we’re got up smart.”\n\n“I’d rather go through the wood,” said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. “Why is it,\nLucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?”\n\n“Haven’t I? The wood, then,” said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning.\n\nShe led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards.\n\n“I had got an idea—I dare say wrongly—that you feel more at home with me in a room.”\n\n“A room?” she echoed, hopelessly bewildered.\n\n“Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this.”\n\n“Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person.”\n\n“I don’t know that you aren’t. I connect you with a view—a certain type of view. Why shouldn’t you connect me with a room?”\n\nShe reflected a moment, and then said, laughing:\n\n“Do you know that you’re right? I do. I must be a poetess after all.\nWhen I think of you it’s always as in a room. How funny!”\n\nTo her surprise, he seemed annoyed.\n\n“A drawing-room, pray? With no view?”\n\n" +- "“Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?”\n\n“I’d rather,” he said reproachfully, “that you connected me with the open air.”\n\nShe said again, “Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?”\n\nAs no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm.\n\nPresently they came to a little clearing among the pines—another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool.\n\nShe exclaimed, “The Sacred Lake!”\n\n“Why do you call it that?”\n\n“I can’t remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It’s only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can’t get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it.”\n\n“And you?”\n\nHe meant, “Are you fond of it?” But she answered dreamily, “I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row.”\n\nAt another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool’s edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it,\nand she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green.\n\n“Who found you out?”\n\n“Charlotte,” she murmured. “She was stopping with us.\nCharlotte—Charlotte.”\n\n“Poor girl!”\n\nShe smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk, now appeared practical.\n\n“Lucy!”\n\n“Yes, I suppose we ought to be going,” was her reply.\n\n“Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before.”\n\nAt the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards him.\n\n“What, Cecil?”\n\n“Hitherto never—not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry me—”\n\nHe became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were observed. His courage had gone.\n\n“Yes?”\n\n“Up to now I have never kissed you.”\n\nShe was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately.\n\n“No—more you have,” she stammered.\n\n“Then I ask you—may I now?”\n\n“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can’t run at you, you know.”\n\nAt that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.\nAs he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them.\n\nSuch was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. Lucy was standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.\n\nThey left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.\n\n“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter X Cecil as a Humourist\n\n\n" +- "The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,\nand, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter.\nOther houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility. “I cannot think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction—which few honest solicitors despise—of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable.\n\nThe best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were rather dull,\nand Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy.\nHitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning—their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags,\norange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to speak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and identical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the London fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished.\nHer senses expanded; she felt that there was no one whom she might not get to like, that social barriers were irremovable, doubtless, but not particularly high. You jump over them just as you jump into a peasant’s olive-yard in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returned with new eyes.\n\nSo did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not to tolerance, but to irritation. He saw that the local society was narrow, but, instead of saying, “Does that very much matter?” he rebelled, and tried to substitute for it the society he called broad. He did not realize that Lucy had consecrated her environment by the thousand little civilities that create a tenderness in time, and that though her eyes saw its defects, her heart refused to despise it entirely. Nor did he realize a more important point—that if she was too great for this society, she was too great for all society, and had reached the stage where personal intercourse would alone satisfy her. A rebel she was, but not of the kind he understood—a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling-room, but equality beside the man she loved. For Italy was offering her the most priceless of all possessions—her own soul.\n\nPlaying bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece to the rector, and aged thirteen—an ancient and most honourable game, which consists in striking tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over the net and immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs. Honeychurch; others are lost.\nThe sentence is confused, but the better illustrates Lucy’s state of mind, for she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the same time.\n\n“Oh, it has been such a nuisance—first he, then they—no one knowing what they wanted, and everyone so tiresome.”\n\n“But they really are coming now,” said Mr. Beebe. “I wrote to Miss Teresa a few days ago—she was wondering how often the butcher called,\nand my reply of once a month must have impressed her favourably. They are coming. I heard from them this morning.\n\n" +- "“I shall hate those Miss Alans!” Mrs. Honeychurch cried. “Just because they’re old and silly one’s expected to say ‘How sweet!’ I hate their ‘if’-ing and ‘but’-ing and ‘and’-ing. And poor Lucy—serve her right—worn to a shadow.”\n\nMr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and shouting over the tennis-court. Cecil was absent—one did not play bumble-puppy when he was there.\n\n“Well, if they are coming—No, Minnie, not Saturn.” Saturn was a tennis-ball whose skin was partially unsewn. When in motion his orb was encircled by a ring. “If they are coming, Sir Harry will let them move in before the twenty-ninth, and he will cross out the clause about whitewashing the ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in the fair wear and tear one.—That doesn’t count. I told you not Saturn.”\n\n“Saturn’s all right for bumble-puppy,” cried Freddy, joining them.\n“Minnie, don’t you listen to her.”\n\n“Saturn doesn’t bounce.”\n\n“Saturn bounces enough.”\n\n“No, he doesn’t.”\n\n“Well; he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil.”\n\n“Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Honeychurch.\n\n“But look at Lucy—complaining of Saturn, and all the time’s got the Beautiful White Devil in her hand, ready to plug it in. That’s right,\nMinnie, go for her—get her over the shins with the racquet—get her over the shins!”\n\nLucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand.\n\nMr. Beebe picked it up, and said: “The name of this ball is Vittoria Corombona, please.” But his correction passed unheeded.\n\nFreddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little girls to fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie from a well-mannered child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house Cecil heard them, and, though he was full of entertaining news, he did not come down to impart it, in case he got hurt. He was not a coward and bore necessary pain as well as any man. But he hated the physical violence of the young. How right it was! Sure enough it ended in a cry.\n\n“I wish the Miss Alans could see this,” observed Mr. Beebe, just as Lucy, who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted off her feet by her brother.\n\n“Who are the Miss Alans?” Freddy panted.\n\n“They have taken Cissie Villa.”\n\n“That wasn’t the name—”\n\nHere his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the grass. An interval elapses.\n\n“Wasn’t what name?” asked Lucy, with her brother’s head in her lap.\n\n“Alan wasn’t the name of the people Sir Harry’s let to.”\n\n“Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it.”\n\n“Nonsense yourself! I’ve this minute seen him. He said to me: ‘Ahem!\nHoneychurch,’”—Freddy was an indifferent mimic—“‘ahem! ahem! I have at last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.’ I said, ‘ooray, old boy!’\nand slapped him on the back.”\n\n“Exactly. The Miss Alans?”\n\n“Rather not. More like Anderson.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious, there isn’t going to be another muddle!” Mrs.\nHoneychurch exclaimed. “Do you notice, Lucy, I’m always right? I _said_ don’t interfere with Cissie Villa. I’m always right. I’m quite uneasy at being always right so often.”\n\n“It’s only another muddle of Freddy’s. Freddy doesn’t even know the name of the people he pretends have taken it instead.”\n\n“Yes, I do. I’ve got it. Emerson.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“Emerson. I’ll bet you anything you like.”\n\n“What a weathercock Sir Harry is,” said Lucy quietly. “I wish I had never bothered over it at all.”\n\nThen she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe,\nwhose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that _that_ was the proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong.\n\n" +- "Meanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch from the contemplation of her own abilities.\n\n“Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?”\n\n“I don’t know whether they’re any Emersons,” retorted Freddy, who was democratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he was naturally attracted by the idea of equality, and the undeniable fact that there are different kinds of Emersons annoyed him beyond measure.\n\n“I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy”—she was sitting up again—“I see you looking down your nose and thinking your mother’s a snob. But there is a right sort and a wrong sort, and it’s affectation to pretend there isn’t.”\n\n“Emerson’s a common enough name,” Lucy remarked.\n\nShe was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she could see the pine-clad promontories descending one beyond another into the Weald. The further one descended the garden, the more glorious was this lateral view.\n\n“I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were no relations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray, does that satisfy you?”\n\n“Oh, yes,” he grumbled. “And you will be satisfied, too, for they’re friends of Cecil; so”—elaborate irony—“you and the other country families will be able to call in perfect safety.”\n\n“_Cecil?_” exclaimed Lucy.\n\n“Don’t be rude, dear,” said his mother placidly. “Lucy, don’t screech.\nIt’s a new bad habit you’re getting into.”\n\n“But has Cecil—”\n\n“Friends of Cecil’s,” he repeated, “‘and so really dee-sire-rebel.\nAhem! Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.’”\n\nShe got up from the grass.\n\nIt was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized with her very much. While she believed that her snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She might well “screech” when she heard that it came partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was a tease—something worse than a tease: he took a malicious pleasure in thwarting people. The clergyman, knowing this, looked at Miss Honeychurch with more than his usual kindness.\n\nWhen she exclaimed, “But Cecil’s Emersons—they can’t possibly be the same ones—there is that—” he did not consider that the exclamation was strange, but saw in it an opportunity of diverting the conversation while she recovered her composure. He diverted it as follows:\n\n“The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don’t suppose it will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friends of Mr. Vyse’s. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerest people! For our part we liked them, didn’t we?” He appealed to Lucy.\n“There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets and filled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who have failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine’s great stories. ‘My dear sister loves flowers,’ it began. They found the whole room a mass of blue—vases and jugs—and the story ends with ‘So ungentlemanly and yet so beautiful.’ It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect those Florentine Emersons with violets.”\n\n“Fiasco’s done you this time,” remarked Freddy, not seeing that his sister’s face was very red. She could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe saw it, and continued to divert the conversation.\n\n“These particular Emersons consisted of a father and a son—the son a goodly, if not a good young man; not a fool, I fancy, but very immature—pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the father—such a sentimental darling, and people declared he had murdered his wife.”\n\nIn his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have repeated such gossip,\nbut he was trying to shelter Lucy in her little trouble. He repeated any rubbish that came into his head.\n\n" +- "“Murdered his wife?” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “Lucy, don’t desert us—go on playing bumble-puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have been the oddest place. That’s the second murderer I’ve heard of as being there. Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop? By-the-by, we really must ask Charlotte here some time.”\n\nMr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He suggested that his hostess was mistaken. At the hint of opposition she warmed. She was perfectly sure that there had been a second tourist of whom the same story had been told. The name escaped her. What was the name? Oh, what was the name? She clasped her knees for the name. Something in Thackeray. She struck her matronly forehead.\n\nLucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in.\n\n“Oh, don’t go!” he cried, and tried to catch her by the ankles.\n\n“I must go,” she said gravely. “Don’t be silly. You always overdo it when you play.”\n\nAs she left them her mother’s shout of “Harris!” shivered the tranquil air, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had never put it right. Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves and made her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil’s, with a pair of nondescript tourists. Hitherto truth had come to her naturally. She saw that for the future she must be more vigilant, and be—absolutely truthful? Well, at all events, she must not tell lies. She hurried up the garden, still flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would soothe her, she was sure.\n\n“Cecil!”\n\n“Hullo!” he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed in high spirits. “I was hoping you’d come. I heard you all bear-gardening, but there’s better fun up here. I, even I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith’s right—the cause of Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don’t be angry! Don’t be angry! You’ll forgive me when you hear it all.”\n\nHe looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings at once.\n\n“I have heard,” she said. “Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing!\nCertainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I’d rather have nice friends of yours. But you oughtn’t to tease one so.”\n\n“Friends of mine?” he laughed. “But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come!\nCome here.” But she remained standing where she was. “Do you know where I met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up to see my mother last week.”\n\n“What an odd place to meet people!” she said nervously. “I don’t quite understand.”\n\n“In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca Signorelli—of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy.”\n\n“But, Cecil—” proceeded hilariously.\n\n“In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country cottage—the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends. I thought, ‘What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!’ and I took their address and a London reference, found they weren’t actual blackguards—it was great sport—and wrote to him, making out—”\n\n“Cecil! No, it’s not fair. I’ve probably met them before—”\n\nHe bore her down.\n\n“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time.\nNo, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—”\n\n“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”\n\nHe stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”\n\n" +- "Her face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago.\n\n“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”\n\nShe left him.\n\n“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows.\n\nNo, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n\n\nThe Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,\nmet Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die.\n\nLucy—to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows because there are hills—Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least.\nNow that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little thinking, and—so illogical are girls—the event remained rather greater and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa while she was safe in the London flat.\n\n“Cecil—Cecil darling,” she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept into his arms.\n\nCecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should,\nand looked up to him because he was a man.\n\n“So you do love me, little thing?” he murmured.\n\n“Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don’t know what I should do without you.”\n\nSeveral days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what Charlotte would call “the flight to Rome,” and in Rome it had increased amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy’s, and once, in the Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses—Mrs. Vyse was an acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.\n\n“TUNBRIDGE WELLS,\n“_September_.\n\n\n“DEAREST LUCIA,\n\n\n“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house. He _said_ he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune,\nand I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\nLucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,\nand cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,\nthey would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.\nAs for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January.\n\n“Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do not put ‘Private’ outside your envelope again. No one opens my letters.\n\n\n“Yours affectionately,\n“L. M. HONEYCHURCH.”\n\n\n" +- "Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil’s life if he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.\n“Emerson, not Harris”; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she stopped.\n\nShe and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool,\nand it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the past.\n\nThe grandchildren asked her to play the piano.\n\nShe played Schumann. “Now some Beethoven” called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete—the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art—throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and “Too much Schumann” was not the remark that Mr.\nBeebe had passed to himself when she returned.\n\nWhen the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son.\nMrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another’s,\nhad been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd.\n\n“Make Lucy one of us,” she said, looking round intelligently at the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again.\n“Lucy is becoming wonderful—wonderful.”\n\n“Her music always was wonderful.”\n\n“Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made.”\n\n“Italy has done it.”\n\n“Perhaps,” she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. “It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January.\nShe is one of us already.”\n\n“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to London. I don’t believe in these London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”\n\n“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.\n\nAs she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek.\n\n" +- "“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”\n\nThe elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XII Twelfth Chapter\n\n\n" +- "It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.\nAll that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n“M’m.”\n\n“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in.\n\n“I suggested we should hinder them,” said Mr. Beebe. “They are worth it.” Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. “Hullo!” he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible.\n\nA grave voice replied, “Hullo!”\n\n“I’ve brought someone to see you.”\n\n“I’ll be down in a minute.”\n\nThe passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books.\n\n“Are these people great readers?” Freddy whispered. “Are they that sort?”\n\n“I fancy they know how to read—a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German.\nUm—um—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, look at that,” said Freddy in awestruck tones.\n\nOn the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: “Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.”\n\n“I know. Isn’t it jolly? I like that. I’m certain that’s the old man’s doing.”\n\n“How very odd of him!”\n\n“Surely you agree?”\n\nBut Freddy was his mother’s son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture.\n\n“Pictures!” the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.\n“Giotto—they got that at Florence, I’ll be bound.”\n\n“The same as Lucy’s got.”\n\n“Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?”\n\n“She came back yesterday.”\n\n“I suppose she had a good time?”\n\n“Yes, very,” said Freddy, taking up a book. “She and Cecil are thicker than ever.”\n\n“That’s good hearing.”\n\n“I wish I wasn’t such a fool, Mr. Beebe.”\n\nMr. Beebe ignored the remark.\n\n“Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it’ll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books.”\n\n“So will you.”\n\n“Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards.\nCecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful.\nThere are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says—”\n\n“What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson—we think we’ll come another time.”\n\nGeorge ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking.\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour.”\n\nThen Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George’s face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, “How d’ye do? Come and have a bathe.”\n\n“Oh, all right,” said George, impassive.\n\nMr. Beebe was highly entertained.\n\n“‘How d’ye do? how d’ye do? Come and have a bathe,’” he chuckled.\n“That’s the best conversational opening I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with ‘How do you do? Come and have a bathe’? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal.”\n\n" +- "“I tell you that they shall be,” said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same.”\n\n“We are to raise ladies to our level?” the clergyman inquired.\n\n“The Garden of Eden,” pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, “which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies.”\n\nMr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.\n\n“In this—not in other things—we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden.”\n\n“I say, what about this bathe?” murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him.\n\n“I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage.”\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence.”\n\n“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry.\nMarriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr.\nVyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”\n\n“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. “I must—that is to say, I have to—have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope.”\n\n“_Call_, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country.”\n\nMr. Beebe came to the rescue.\n\n“Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days’ interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon.”\n\n“Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can’t believe he’s well.”\n\nGeorge bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture.\n\n“Do you really want this bathe?” Freddy asked him. “It is only a pond,\ndon’t you know. I dare say you are used to something better.”\n\n“Yes—I have said ‘Yes’ already.”\n\nMr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads.\n\n“And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?”\n\n“I did not. Miss Lavish told me.”\n\n“When I was a young man, I always meant to write a ‘History of Coincidence.’”\n\nNo enthusiasm.\n\n“Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn’t purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect.”\n\nTo his relief, George began to talk.\n\n" +- "“It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate—flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us—we settle nothing—”\n\n“You have not reflected at all,” rapped the clergyman. “Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don’t say, ‘I didn’t do this,’ for you did it, ten to one. Now I’ll cross-question you.\nWhere did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?”\n\n“Italy.”\n\n“And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?”\n\n“National Gallery.”\n\n“Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it.”\n\n“It is Fate that I am here,” persisted George. “But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy.”\n\nMr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George.\n\n“And so for this and for other reasons my ‘History of Coincidence’ is still to write.”\n\nSilence.\n\nWishing to round off the episode, he added; “We are all so glad that you have come.”\n\nSilence.\n\n“Here we are!” called Freddy.\n\n“Oh, good!” exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow.\n\n“In there’s the pond. I wish it was bigger,” he added apologetically.\n\nThey climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond,\nset in its little alp of green—only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool.\n\n“It’s distinctly successful, as ponds go,” said Mr. Beebe. “No apologies are necessary for the pond.”\n\nGeorge sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots.\n\n“Aren’t those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What’s the name of this aromatic plant?”\n\nNo one knew, or seemed to care.\n\n“These abrupt changes of vegetation—this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle—heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, aren’t you bathing?” called Freddy, as he stripped himself.\n\nMr. Beebe thought he was not.\n\n“Water’s wonderful!” cried Freddy, prancing in.\n\n“Water’s water,” murmured George. Wetting his hair first—a sure sign of apathy—he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.\n\n“Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,” went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud.\n\n“Is it worth it?” asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin.\n\nThe bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly.\n\n“Hee-poof—I’ve swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water’s wonderful,\nwater’s simply ripping.”\n\n“Water’s not so bad,” said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun.\n\n“Water’s wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do.”\n\n“Apooshoo, kouf.”\n\nMr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible,\nlooked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind—these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man?\n\n" +- "“I may as well wash too”; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water.\n\nIt was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Götterdämmerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit—for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out.\nHe smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool.\n\n“Race you round it, then,” cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run—a memorable sight.\n\nThey ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the sward, proclaiming:\n\n“No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in the end.”\n\n“A try! A try!” yelled Freddy, snatching up George’s bundle and placing it beside an imaginary goal-post.\n\n“Socker rules,” George retorted, scattering Freddy’s bundle with a kick.\n\n“Goal!”\n\n“Goal!”\n\n“Pass!”\n\n“Take care my watch!” cried Mr. Beebe.\n\nClothes flew in all directions.\n\n“Take care my hat! No, that’s enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!”\n\nBut the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair.\n\n“That’ll do!” shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. “Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!”\n\nYells, and widening circles over the dappled earth.\n\n“Hi! hi! _Ladies!_”\n\nNeither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe’s last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch,\nCecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth.\nFreddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe’s hat.\n\n“Gracious alive!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch. “Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too!\nWhatever has happened?”\n\n“Come this way immediately,” commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed.\n\n“Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil,\nMr. Beebe’s waistcoat—”\n\nNo business of ours, said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently “minded.”\n\n“I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond.”\n\n“This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way.”\n\nThey followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.\n\n“Well, _I_ can’t help it,” said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. “I can’t be trodden on, can I?”\n\n“Good gracious me, dear; so it’s you! What miserable management! Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?”\n\n" +- "“Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow’s got to dry, and if another fellow—”\n\n“Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy.” They turned. “Oh, look—don’t look! Oh, poor Mr.\nBeebe! How unfortunate again—”\n\nFor Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.\n\n“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”\n\n“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”\n\n“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”\n\n“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.\n\nHe regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed.\n\nThat evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n\n\n" - "How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these.\nBut she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star.\n\nIndoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. “I will bow,” she had thought. “I will not shake hands with him.\nThat will be just the proper thing.” She had bowed—but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world.\n\nSo ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and made long, clever answers where “Yes” or “No” would have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed,\nthough not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover.\n\n“Lucy,” said her mother, when they got home, “is anything the matter with Cecil?”\n\nThe question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with charity and restraint.\n\n“No, I don’t think so, mother; Cecil’s all right.”\n\n“Perhaps he’s tired.”\n\nLucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired.\n\n“Because otherwise”—she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering displeasure—“because otherwise I cannot account for him.”\n\n“I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that.”\n\n“Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid fever. No—it is just the same thing everywhere.”\n\n“Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?”\n\n“Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?”\n\n“Cecil has a very high standard for people,” faltered Lucy, seeing trouble ahead. “It’s part of his ideals—it is really that that makes him sometimes seem—”\n\n“Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the better,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet.\n\n“Now, mother! I’ve seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!”\n\n“Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way.\nNo. It is the same with Cecil all over.”\n\n“By-the-by—I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I was away in London.”\n\nThis attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs.\nHoneychurch resented it.\n\n“Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him.\nWhenever I speak he winces;—I see him, Lucy; it is useless to contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture;\nyour father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly remember.”\n\n“I—I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn’t to. But he does not mean to be uncivil—he once explained—it is the _things_ that upset him—he is easily upset by ugly things—he is not uncivil to _people_.”\n\n" - "“Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?”\n\n“You can’t expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as we do.”\n\n“Then why didn’t he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering and spoiling everyone’s pleasure?”\n\n“We mustn’t be unjust to people,” faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations had clashed—Cecil hinted that they might—and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song.\n\nShe remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy—she knew not why—wished that the trouble could have come at any other time.\n\n“Go and dress, dear; you’ll be late.”\n\n“All right, mother—”\n\n“Don’t say ‘All right’ and stop. Go.”\n\nShe obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to herself, “Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?” It seemed to her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to have mentioned Miss Bartlett’s letter. She must be more careful;\nher mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?—and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved.\n\n“I say, those are topping people.”\n\n“My dear baby, how tiresome you’ve been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it’s much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban.”\n\n“I say, is anything on to-morrow week?”\n\n“Not that I know of.”\n\n“Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis.”\n\n“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Freddy, I wouldn’t do that with all this muddle.”\n\n“What’s wrong with the court? They won’t mind a bump or two, and I’ve ordered new balls.”\n\n“I meant _it’s_ better not. I really mean it.”\n\nHe seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: “Lucy, what a noise you’re making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?” and Freddy ran away.\n\n“Yes. I really can’t stop. I must dress too.”\n\n“How’s Charlotte?”\n\n“All right.”\n\n“Lucy!”\n\nThe unfortunate girl returned.\n\n“You’ve a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one’s sentences.\nDid Charlotte mention her boiler?”\n\n“Her _what?_”\n\n“Don’t you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?”\n\n“I can’t remember all Charlotte’s worries,” said Lucy bitterly. “I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil.”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: “Come here, old lady—thank you for putting away my bonnet—kiss me.” And,\nthough nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect.\n\n" - "So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner.\nAt the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods—perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own.\n\nDinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry.\nNothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said:\n\n“Lucy, what’s Emerson like?”\n\n“I saw him in Florence,” said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply.\n\n“Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?”\n\n“Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here.”\n\n“He is the clever sort, like myself,” said Cecil.\n\nFreddy looked at him doubtfully.\n\n“How well did you know them at the Bertolini?” asked Mrs. Honeychurch.\n\n“Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did.”\n\n“Oh, that reminds me—you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter.”\n\n“One thing and another,” said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie. “Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she’d come up and see us, and mercifully didn’t.”\n\n“Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind.”\n\n“She was a novelist,” said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one,\nfor nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: “If books must be written, let them be written by men”; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at “This year, next year, now, never,”\nwith his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother’s wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost—that touch of lips on her cheek—had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once.\nBut it had begotten a spectral family—Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett’s letter, Mr. Beebe’s memories of violets—and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil’s very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness.\n\n“I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte’s. How is she?”\n\n“I tore the thing up.”\n\n“Didn’t she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?”\n\n“Oh, yes I suppose so—no—not very cheerful, I suppose.”\n\n“Then, depend upon it, it _is_ the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one’s mind. I would rather anything else—even a misfortune with the meat.”\n\nCecil laid his hand over his eyes.\n\n“So would I,” asserted Freddy, backing his mother up—backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance.\n\n“And I have been thinking,” she added rather nervously, “surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while the plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long.”\n\nIt was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother’s goodness to her upstairs.\n\n“Mother, no!” she pleaded. “It’s impossible. We can’t have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we’re squeezed to death as it is. Freddy’s got a friend coming Tuesday, there’s Cecil, and you’ve promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can’t be done.”\n\n“Nonsense! It can.”\n\n“If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise.”\n\n“Minnie can sleep with you.”\n\n“I won’t have her.”\n\n“Then, if you’re so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy.”\n\n“Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett,” moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes.\n\n" -- "“It’s impossible,” repeated Lucy. “I don’t want to make difficulties,\nbut it really isn’t fair on the maids to fill up the house so.”\n\nAlas!\n\n“The truth is, dear, you don’t like Charlotte.”\n\n“No, I don’t. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven’t seen her lately, and don’t realize how tiresome she can be,\nthough so good. So please, mother, don’t worry us this last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come.”\n\n“Hear, hear!” said Cecil.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling than she usually permitted herself, replied: “This isn’t very kind of you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are,\nand however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like to grow old.”\n\nCecil crumbled his bread.\n\n“I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on my bike,” put in Freddy. “She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right.”\n\n“I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return.”\n\nBut Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”\n\n“From your own account, you told her as much.”\n\n“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—”\n\nThe ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.\n\n“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”\n\nCecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n\n\nOf course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week.\n\nLucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.” Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed.\n\n" -- "It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, “She loves young Emerson.” A reader in Lucy’s place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome “nerves”\nor any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?\n\nBut the external situation—she will face that bravely.\n\nThe meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,\nand George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy,\nand was glad that he did not seem shy either.\n\n“A nice fellow,” said Mr. Beebe afterwards “He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully.”\n\nLucy said, “He seems in better spirits. He laughs more.”\n\n“Yes,” replied the clergyman. “He is waking up.”\n\nThat was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs.\nHoneychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o’clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea.\n\n“I shall never forgive myself,” said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain. “I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate.”\n\n“Our visitors never do such dreadful things,” said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: “Just what I’ve been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour.”\n\n“I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor,” said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove.\n\n“All right, if you’d really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver.”\n\nMiss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: “But who am I to give the sovereign to?”\n\n“Let’s leave it all till mother comes back,” suggested Lucy.\n\n“No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts.”\n\nHere Freddy’s friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett’s quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance,\nand turned round.\n\nBut this did not do, either.\n\n“Please—please—I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost.”\n\n“Freddy owes me fifteen shillings,” interposed Cecil. “So it will work out right if you give the pound to me.”\n\n“Fifteen shillings,” said Miss Bartlett dubiously. “How is that, Mr.\nVyse?”\n\n“Because, don’t you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths.\nFor a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle.\n\n" -- "“But I don’t see that!” exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. “I don’t see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid.”\n\n“Because of the fifteen shillings and the five,” they said solemnly.\n“Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see.”\n\n“But I don’t see—”\n\nThey tried to stifle her with cake.\n\n“No, thank you. I’m done. I don’t see why—Freddy, don’t poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother’s hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd’s ten shillings? Ow! No, I don’t see and I never shall see why Miss What’s-her-name shouldn’t pay that bob for the driver.”\n\n“I had forgotten the driver,” said Miss Bartlett, reddening. “Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?”\n\n“I’ll get it,” said the young hostess, rising with decision.\n\n“Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I’ll get Euphemia to change it, and we’ll start the whole thing again from the beginning.”\n\n“Lucy—Lucy—what a nuisance I am!” protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: “Have you told him about him yet?”\n\n“No, I haven’t,” replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. “Let me see—a sovereign’s worth of silver.”\n\nShe escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett’s sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul.\n\n“No, I haven’t told Cecil or any one,” she remarked, when she returned.\n“I promised you I shouldn’t. Here is your money—all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St.\nJohn ascending, which had been framed.\n\n“How dreadful!” she murmured, “how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source.”\n\n“Oh, no, Charlotte,” said the girl, entering the battle. “George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?”\n\nMiss Bartlett considered. “For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth.”\n\nLucy shuddered a little. “We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren’t careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?”\n\n“We must think of every possibility.”\n\n“Oh, it’s all right.”\n\n“Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know.”\n\n“I don’t care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it.”\n\n“To contradict it?”\n\n“No, to laugh at it.” But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched.\n\n“Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different.”\n\n“Now, Charlotte!” She struck at her playfully. “You kind, anxious thing. What _would_ you have me do? First you say ‘Don’t tell’; and then you say, ‘Tell’. Which is it to be? Quick!”\n\nMiss Bartlett sighed “I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me.”\n\n“Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don’t.”\n\nFor the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon.\n\n" -- "“Dear, one moment—we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?”\n\n“Yes, I have.”\n\n“What happened?”\n\n“We met at the Rectory.”\n\n“What line is he taking up?”\n\n“No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won’t be any nuisance, Charlotte.”\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion.”\n\nLucy paused. “Cecil said one day—and I thought it so profound—that there are two kinds of cads—the conscious and the subconscious.” She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil’s profundity.\nThrough the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith’s library. Her mother must have returned from the station.\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad,” droned Miss Bartlett.\n\n“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him,\nand has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden.” She took hold of her guest by the arm. “Suppose we don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.”\n\nLucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\nThe Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells.\n\nThe garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her,\nno nonsense”—“Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!”—“Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?” For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church.\n\nThe sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan;\non George Emerson cleaning his father’s boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly,\nas though acknowledging the caress.\n\n" -- "Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies—an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little—not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills.\n\n“Lucy! Lucy! What’s that book? Who’s been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?”\n\n“It’s only the library book that Cecil’s been reading.”\n\n“But pick it up, and don’t stand idling there like a flamingo.”\n\nLucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, “What! you aren’t forgetting your Italy already?” And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun.\n\n“Lucy—have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?”\n\nShe hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster.\n\n“It’s a special collection—I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book’s all warped.\n(Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press.\nMinnie!”\n\n“Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch—” from the upper regions.\n\n“Minnie, don’t be late. Here comes the horse”—it was always the horse,\nnever the carriage. “Where’s Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte—How I do detest blouses! Minnie!”\n\nPaganism is infectious—more infectious than diphtheria or piety—and the Rector’s niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn’t see why. Why shouldn’t she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs.\nHoneychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs.\n\n“Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change—nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me—”\n\n“Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame.”\n\n“If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?” said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued,\nand then they drove off.\n\n“Good-bye! Be good!” called out Cecil.\n\nLucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of “church and so on” they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different.\n\nShe saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden.\n\n" -- "“Introduce me,” said her mother. “Unless the young man considers that he knows me already.”\n\nHe probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic,\nand asked him how he liked his new house.\n\n“Very much,” he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice;\nshe had never known him offended before. He added: “We find, though,\nthat the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out.\nWomen mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it.”\n\n“I believe that there was some misunderstanding,” said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily.\n\n“Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person,”\nsaid George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. “He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed.”\n\n“And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?” He appealed to Lucy.\n\n“Oh, stop now you have come,” said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned,\nthough his name was never mentioned.\n\n“So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind.”\n\n“There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world,” said George,\nwatching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages.\n\n“Yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. “That’s exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?”\n\n“There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,” he continued in measured tones. “We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm—yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you’re clever!”\n\n“Eh—?”\n\n“I see you’re going to be clever. I hope you didn’t go behaving like that to poor Freddy.”\n\nGeorge’s eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well.\n\n“No, I didn’t,” he said. “He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first.”\n\n“What _do_ you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don’t explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday—?”\n\n“George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday—”\n\n“Very well, George doesn’t mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That’s settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased.”\n\nHe thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days.\n\nShe turned to George: “And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans.”\n\n“I know,” said George, and put his arm round his father’s neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape—a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection.\n\nMiss Bartlett approached.\n\n“You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett,” said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly.\n“You met her with my daughter in Florence.”\n\n“Yes, indeed!” said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine.\nIt was the old, old battle of the room with the view.\n\n" -- "George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: “I—I’ll come up to tennis if I can manage it,” and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno.\n\n“George, don’t go,” cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. “George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon.”\n\nLucy caught her cousin’s eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. “Yes,” she said, raising her voice, “I do hope he will.” Then she went to the carriage and murmured, “The old man hasn’t been told; I knew it was all right.” Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away.\n\nSatisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy’s spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses’ hoofs sang a tune to her: “He has not told, he has not told.” Her brain expanded the melody: “He has not told his father—to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone.” She raised her hand to her cheek. “He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did!\nBut he has not told. He will not tell.”\n\nShe longed to shout the words: “It is all right. It’s a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear.” She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded.\n\nOnly three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:\n\n“The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously.”\n\n“How are my protégés?” asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them,\nand had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes.\n\n“Protégés!” she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl’s soul yearned.\n\n“You shall see for yourself how your protégés are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don’t—” She nearly said, “Don’t protect him.” But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte.\n\nLunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning,\nwould never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n" +- "“It’s impossible,” repeated Lucy. “I don’t want to make difficulties,\nbut it really isn’t fair on the maids to fill up the house so.”\n\nAlas!\n\n“The truth is, dear, you don’t like Charlotte.”\n\n“No, I don’t. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven’t seen her lately, and don’t realize how tiresome she can be,\nthough so good. So please, mother, don’t worry us this last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come.”\n\n“Hear, hear!” said Cecil.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling than she usually permitted herself, replied: “This isn’t very kind of you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are,\nand however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like to grow old.”\n\nCecil crumbled his bread.\n\n“I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on my bike,” put in Freddy. “She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right.”\n\n“I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return.”\n\nBut Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”\n\n“From your own account, you told her as much.”\n\n“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—”\n\nThe ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.\n\n“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”\n\nCecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n\n\n" +- "Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week.\n\nLucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.” Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed.\n\nIt is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, “She loves young Emerson.” A reader in Lucy’s place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome “nerves”\nor any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?\n\nBut the external situation—she will face that bravely.\n\nThe meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,\nand George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy,\nand was glad that he did not seem shy either.\n\n“A nice fellow,” said Mr. Beebe afterwards “He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully.”\n\nLucy said, “He seems in better spirits. He laughs more.”\n\n“Yes,” replied the clergyman. “He is waking up.”\n\nThat was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs.\nHoneychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o’clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea.\n\n“I shall never forgive myself,” said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain. “I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate.”\n\n“Our visitors never do such dreadful things,” said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: “Just what I’ve been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour.”\n\n“I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor,” said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove.\n\n“All right, if you’d really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver.”\n\nMiss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: “But who am I to give the sovereign to?”\n\n“Let’s leave it all till mother comes back,” suggested Lucy.\n\n“No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts.”\n\n" +- "Here Freddy’s friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett’s quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance,\nand turned round.\n\nBut this did not do, either.\n\n“Please—please—I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost.”\n\n“Freddy owes me fifteen shillings,” interposed Cecil. “So it will work out right if you give the pound to me.”\n\n“Fifteen shillings,” said Miss Bartlett dubiously. “How is that, Mr.\nVyse?”\n\n“Because, don’t you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths.\nFor a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle.\n\n“But I don’t see that!” exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. “I don’t see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid.”\n\n“Because of the fifteen shillings and the five,” they said solemnly.\n“Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see.”\n\n“But I don’t see—”\n\nThey tried to stifle her with cake.\n\n“No, thank you. I’m done. I don’t see why—Freddy, don’t poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother’s hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd’s ten shillings? Ow! No, I don’t see and I never shall see why Miss What’s-her-name shouldn’t pay that bob for the driver.”\n\n“I had forgotten the driver,” said Miss Bartlett, reddening. “Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?”\n\n“I’ll get it,” said the young hostess, rising with decision.\n\n“Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I’ll get Euphemia to change it, and we’ll start the whole thing again from the beginning.”\n\n“Lucy—Lucy—what a nuisance I am!” protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: “Have you told him about him yet?”\n\n“No, I haven’t,” replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. “Let me see—a sovereign’s worth of silver.”\n\nShe escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett’s sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul.\n\n“No, I haven’t told Cecil or any one,” she remarked, when she returned.\n“I promised you I shouldn’t. Here is your money—all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St.\nJohn ascending, which had been framed.\n\n“How dreadful!” she murmured, “how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source.”\n\n“Oh, no, Charlotte,” said the girl, entering the battle. “George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?”\n\nMiss Bartlett considered. “For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth.”\n\nLucy shuddered a little. “We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren’t careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?”\n\n“We must think of every possibility.”\n\n“Oh, it’s all right.”\n\n“Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know.”\n\n" +- "“I don’t care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it.”\n\n“To contradict it?”\n\n“No, to laugh at it.” But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched.\n\n“Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different.”\n\n“Now, Charlotte!” She struck at her playfully. “You kind, anxious thing. What _would_ you have me do? First you say ‘Don’t tell’; and then you say, ‘Tell’. Which is it to be? Quick!”\n\nMiss Bartlett sighed “I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me.”\n\n“Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don’t.”\n\nFor the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon.\n\n“Dear, one moment—we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?”\n\n“Yes, I have.”\n\n“What happened?”\n\n“We met at the Rectory.”\n\n“What line is he taking up?”\n\n“No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won’t be any nuisance, Charlotte.”\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion.”\n\nLucy paused. “Cecil said one day—and I thought it so profound—that there are two kinds of cads—the conscious and the subconscious.” She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil’s profundity.\nThrough the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith’s library. Her mother must have returned from the station.\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad,” droned Miss Bartlett.\n\n“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him,\nand has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden.” She took hold of her guest by the arm. “Suppose we don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.”\n\nLucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\n" +- "The Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells.\n\nThe garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her,\nno nonsense”—“Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!”—“Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?” For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church.\n\nThe sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan;\non George Emerson cleaning his father’s boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly,\nas though acknowledging the caress.\n\nPresently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies—an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little—not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills.\n\n“Lucy! Lucy! What’s that book? Who’s been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?”\n\n“It’s only the library book that Cecil’s been reading.”\n\n“But pick it up, and don’t stand idling there like a flamingo.”\n\nLucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, “What! you aren’t forgetting your Italy already?” And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun.\n\n“Lucy—have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?”\n\nShe hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster.\n\n“It’s a special collection—I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book’s all warped.\n(Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press.\nMinnie!”\n\n“Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch—” from the upper regions.\n\n“Minnie, don’t be late. Here comes the horse”—it was always the horse,\nnever the carriage. “Where’s Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte—How I do detest blouses! Minnie!”\n\n" +- "Paganism is infectious—more infectious than diphtheria or piety—and the Rector’s niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn’t see why. Why shouldn’t she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs.\nHoneychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs.\n\n“Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change—nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me—”\n\n“Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame.”\n\n“If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?” said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued,\nand then they drove off.\n\n“Good-bye! Be good!” called out Cecil.\n\nLucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of “church and so on” they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different.\n\nShe saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden.\n\n“Introduce me,” said her mother. “Unless the young man considers that he knows me already.”\n\nHe probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic,\nand asked him how he liked his new house.\n\n“Very much,” he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice;\nshe had never known him offended before. He added: “We find, though,\nthat the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out.\nWomen mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it.”\n\n“I believe that there was some misunderstanding,” said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily.\n\n“Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person,”\nsaid George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. “He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed.”\n\n“And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?” He appealed to Lucy.\n\n“Oh, stop now you have come,” said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned,\nthough his name was never mentioned.\n\n“So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind.”\n\n“There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world,” said George,\nwatching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages.\n\n“Yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. “That’s exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?”\n\n“There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,” he continued in measured tones. “We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm—yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you’re clever!”\n\n“Eh—?”\n\n“I see you’re going to be clever. I hope you didn’t go behaving like that to poor Freddy.”\n\nGeorge’s eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well.\n\n" +- "“No, I didn’t,” he said. “He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first.”\n\n“What _do_ you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don’t explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday—?”\n\n“George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday—”\n\n“Very well, George doesn’t mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That’s settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased.”\n\nHe thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days.\n\nShe turned to George: “And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans.”\n\n“I know,” said George, and put his arm round his father’s neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape—a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection.\n\nMiss Bartlett approached.\n\n“You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett,” said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly.\n“You met her with my daughter in Florence.”\n\n“Yes, indeed!” said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine.\nIt was the old, old battle of the room with the view.\n\nGeorge did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: “I—I’ll come up to tennis if I can manage it,” and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno.\n\n“George, don’t go,” cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. “George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon.”\n\nLucy caught her cousin’s eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. “Yes,” she said, raising her voice, “I do hope he will.” Then she went to the carriage and murmured, “The old man hasn’t been told; I knew it was all right.” Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away.\n\nSatisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy’s spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses’ hoofs sang a tune to her: “He has not told, he has not told.” Her brain expanded the melody: “He has not told his father—to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone.” She raised her hand to her cheek. “He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did!\nBut he has not told. He will not tell.”\n\nShe longed to shout the words: “It is all right. It’s a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear.” She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded.\n\nOnly three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:\n\n“The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously.”\n\n“How are my protégés?” asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them,\nand had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes.\n\n" +- "“Protégés!” she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl’s soul yearned.\n\n“You shall see for yourself how your protégés are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don’t—” She nearly said, “Don’t protect him.” But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte.\n\nLunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning,\nwould never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n" - "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.\n\n" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@room_with_a_view.txt.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@room_with_a_view.txt.snap index 3b6f814a..38b5a8f3 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@room_with_a_view.txt.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_default@room_with_a_view.txt.snap @@ -29,7 +29,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "ROOM WITH A VIEW " - "***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n" - "A Room With A View\n\n" -- "By E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n" +- "By E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\n" +- "CONTENTS\n\n" - " Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n" - " Chapter II. " - "In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n" @@ -64,7 +65,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n" - " Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n" - " Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\n" -- "PART ONE\n\n\n\n\nChapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n" +- "PART ONE\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n" - “The Signora had no business to do it - ",” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at " - "all. " @@ -4424,7 +4426,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Go to bed at once, dear. " - "You need all the rest you can get.”\n\n" - "In the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\n" -- "PART TWO\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval\n\n\n" +- "PART TWO\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VIII Medieval\n\n\n" - "The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had " - "been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new " - "and deserved protection from the August sun. " diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap index 4aa76bf1..21c22f39 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap @@ -6,31 +6,33 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare" - "This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before" - "using this eBook.\n\nTitle: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***" -- "THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House." +- THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET +- "by William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House." - "ACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell." - "ACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden." -- "ACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ" -- "ESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris." +- "ACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets." +- "Dramatis Personæ\n\nESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris." - "MONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo." - "CAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet." - "GREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants." -- "SCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\nTHE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus." +- "SCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua." +- "THE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus." - "CHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife." -- "The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place." -- "Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar." -- "SAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away." -- "SAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall." -- "GREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\nSAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?" -- "SAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh." -- "GREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not." -- "GREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it." -- "ABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir." -- "GREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen." -- "SAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt." -- "TYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]" -- "Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!" -- "LADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\nCAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go." -- "LADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants." +- "The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]" +- "ACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw." +- "GREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me." +- "GREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall." +- "SAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men." +- "SAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt." +- "GREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar." +- "SAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list." +- "SAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo." +- "SAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir." +- "Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do." +- "[_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me." +- "TYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!" +- "Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\nCAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague." +- "MONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants." - "PRINCE.\nRebellious subjects, enemies to peace,\nProfaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—\nWill they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts,\nThat quench the fire of your pernicious rage\nWith purple fountains issuing from your veins,\nOn pain of torture, from those bloody hands\nThrow your mistemper’d weapons to the ground\nAnd hear the sentence of your moved prince." - "Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,\nBy thee, old Capulet, and Montague,\nHave thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,\nAnd made Verona’s ancient citizens\nCast by their grave beseeming ornaments,\nTo wield old partisans, in hands as old,\nCanker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.\nIf ever you disturb our streets again,\nYour lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace." - "For this time all the rest depart away:\nYou, Capulet, shall go along with me,\nAnd Montague, come you this afternoon,\nTo know our farther pleasure in this case,\nTo old Free-town, our common judgement-place.\nOnce more, on pain of death, all men depart.\n\n [_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt,\n Citizens and Servants._]" @@ -140,7 +142,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "[_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nCome hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?\n\nNURSE.\nThe son and heir of old Tiberio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that now is going out of door?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, that I think be young Petruchio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that follows here, that would not dance?" - "NURSE.\nI know not.\n\nJULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy." - "JULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]" -- "NURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n Enter Chorus." +- "NURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT II\n\n Enter Chorus." - "CHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:" - "Being held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo." - "ROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed." @@ -254,8 +257,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot\nWill ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.\nA lover may bestride the gossamers\nThat idles in the wanton summer air\nAnd yet not fall; so light is vanity.\n\nJULIET.\nGood even to my ghostly confessor.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both." - "JULIET.\nAs much to him, else is his thanks too much.\n\nROMEO.\nAh, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy\nBe heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue\nUnfold the imagin’d happiness that both\nReceive in either by this dear encounter." - "JULIET.\nConceit more rich in matter than in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of ornament.\nThey are but beggars that can count their worth;\nBut my true love is grown to such excess,\nI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth." -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants." -- "BENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring." +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring." - "MERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?" - "MERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?" - "MERCUTIO.\nNay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would\nkill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a\nhair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel\nwith a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou" @@ -392,8 +395,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "NURSE.\nAnd from my soul too,\nOr else beshrew them both.\n\nJULIET.\nAmen.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat?\n\nJULIET.\nWell, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\nGo in, and tell my lady I am gone,\nHaving displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,\nTo make confession and to be absolv’d." - "NURSE.\nMarry, I will; and this is wisely done.\n\n [_Exit._]" - "JULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy." -- "If all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste." -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not." +- "If all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]" +- "ACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not." - "PARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society." - "Now do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife." - "PARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me." @@ -464,7 +467,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "PETER.\nThen have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and\nput up my iron dagger. Answer me like men.\n ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound,\n And doleful dumps the mind oppress,\n Then music with her silver sound’—\nWhy ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you,\nSimon Catling?" - "FIRST MUSICIAN.\nMarry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.\n\nPETER.\nPrates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck?\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nI say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.\n\nPETER.\nPrates too! What say you, James Soundpost?\n\nTHIRD MUSICIAN.\nFaith, I know not what to say." - "PETER.\nO, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is\n‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for\nsounding.\n ‘Then music with her silver sound\n With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!" -- "SECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo." +- "SECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo." - "ROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips," - "That I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well." - "BALTHASAR.\nThen she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleeps in Capel’s monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you.\nO pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir." diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap index 3668298f..bc8b3319 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap @@ -3,19 +3,22 @@ source: tests/text_splitter_snapshots.rs expression: chunks input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt --- -- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook.\n\nTitle: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\nACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n\nACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n\nACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ\n\nESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\nMONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.\n\nCAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\nGREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\nSCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\nTHE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus." -- "CHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\nThe fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\nSAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie." -- "SAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\nCAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants.\n\nPRINCE.\nRebellious subjects, enemies to peace,\nProfaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—\nWill they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts,\nThat quench the fire of your pernicious rage\nWith purple fountains issuing from your veins,\nOn pain of torture, from those bloody hands\nThrow your mistemper’d weapons to the ground\nAnd hear the sentence of your moved prince.\nThree civil brawls, bred of an airy word,\nBy thee, old Capulet, and Montague,\nHave thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,\nAnd made Verona’s ancient citizens\nCast by their grave beseeming ornaments,\nTo wield old partisans, in hands as old,\nCanker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.\nIf ever you disturb our streets again,\nYour lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.\nFor this time all the rest depart away:\nYou, Capulet, shall go along with me,\nAnd Montague, come you this afternoon,\nTo know our farther pleasure in this case,\nTo old Free-town, our common judgement-place.\nOnce more, on pain of death, all men depart.\n\n [_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt,\n Citizens and Servants._]\n\nMONTAGUE.\nWho set this ancient quarrel new abroach?\nSpeak, nephew, were you by when it began?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere were the servants of your adversary\nAnd yours, close fighting ere I did approach.\nI drew to part them, in the instant came\nThe fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d,\nWhich, as he breath’d defiance to my ears,\nHe swung about his head, and cut the winds,\nWho nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn.\nWhile we were interchanging thrusts and blows\nCame more and more, and fought on part and part,\nTill the Prince came, who parted either part.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nO where is Romeo, saw you him today?\nRight glad I am he was not at this fray.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMadam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun\nPeer’d forth the golden window of the east,\nA troubled mind drave me to walk abroad,\nWhere underneath the grove of sycamore\nThat westward rooteth from this city side,\nSo early walking did I see your son.\nTowards him I made, but he was ware of me,\nAnd stole into the covert of the wood.\nI, measuring his affections by my own,\nWhich then most sought where most might not be found,\nBeing one too many by my weary self,\nPursu’d my humour, not pursuing his,\nAnd gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me." -- "MONTAGUE.\nMany a morning hath he there been seen,\nWith tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,\nAdding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;\nBut all so soon as the all-cheering sun\nShould in the farthest east begin to draw\nThe shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,\nAway from light steals home my heavy son,\nAnd private in his chamber pens himself,\nShuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out\nAnd makes himself an artificial night.\nBlack and portentous must this humour prove,\nUnless good counsel may the cause remove.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMy noble uncle, do you know the cause?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI neither know it nor can learn of him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHave you importun’d him by any means?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nBoth by myself and many other friends;\nBut he, his own affections’ counsellor,\nIs to himself—I will not say how true—\nBut to himself so secret and so close,\nSo far from sounding and discovery,\nAs is the bud bit with an envious worm\nEre he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,\nOr dedicate his beauty to the sun.\nCould we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,\nWe would as willingly give cure as know.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSee, where he comes. So please you step aside;\nI’ll know his grievance or be much denied.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI would thou wert so happy by thy stay\nTo hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away,\n\n [_Exeunt Montague and Lady Montague._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGood morrow, cousin.\n\nROMEO.\nIs the day so young?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBut new struck nine.\n\nROMEO.\nAy me, sad hours seem long.\nWas that my father that went hence so fast?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nIt was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?\n\nROMEO.\nNot having that which, having, makes them short.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nIn love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nOf love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut of her favour where I am in love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAlas that love so gentle in his view,\nShould be so tyrannous and rough in proof.\n\nROMEO.\nAlas that love, whose view is muffled still,\nShould, without eyes, see pathways to his will!\nWhere shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?\nYet tell me not, for I have heard it all.\nHere’s much to do with hate, but more with love:\nWhy, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!\nO anything, of nothing first create!\nO heavy lightness! serious vanity!\nMisshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!\nFeather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!\nStill-waking sleep, that is not what it is!\nThis love feel I, that feel no love in this.\nDost thou not laugh?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nNo coz, I rather weep.\n\nROMEO.\nGood heart, at what?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt thy good heart’s oppression.\n\nROMEO.\nWhy such is love’s transgression.\nGriefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,\nWhich thou wilt propagate to have it prest\nWith more of thine. This love that thou hast shown\nDoth add more grief to too much of mine own.\nLove is a smoke made with the fume of sighs;\nBeing purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;\nBeing vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:\nWhat is it else? A madness most discreet,\nA choking gall, and a preserving sweet.\nFarewell, my coz.\n\n [_Going._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSoft! I will go along:\nAnd if you leave me so, you do me wrong.\n\nROMEO.\nTut! I have lost myself; I am not here.\nThis is not Romeo, he’s some other where.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTell me in sadness who is that you love?\n\nROMEO.\nWhat, shall I groan and tell thee?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGroan! Why, no; but sadly tell me who.\n\nROMEO.\nBid a sick man in sadness make his will,\nA word ill urg’d to one that is so ill.\nIn sadness, cousin, I do love a woman." -- "BENVOLIO.\nI aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.\n\nROMEO.\nA right good markman, and she’s fair I love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nA right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.\n\nROMEO.\nWell, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit\nWith Cupid’s arrow, she hath Dian’s wit;\nAnd in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,\nFrom love’s weak childish bow she lives uncharm’d.\nShe will not stay the siege of loving terms\nNor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes,\nNor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:\nO she’s rich in beauty, only poor\nThat when she dies, with beauty dies her store.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThen she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?\n\nROMEO.\nShe hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;\nFor beauty starv’d with her severity,\nCuts beauty off from all posterity.\nShe is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair,\nTo merit bliss by making me despair.\nShe hath forsworn to love, and in that vow\nDo I live dead, that live to tell it now.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBe rul’d by me, forget to think of her.\n\nROMEO.\nO teach me how I should forget to think.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy giving liberty unto thine eyes;\nExamine other beauties.\n\nROMEO.\n’Tis the way\nTo call hers, exquisite, in question more.\nThese happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows,\nBeing black, puts us in mind they hide the fair;\nHe that is strucken blind cannot forget\nThe precious treasure of his eyesight lost.\nShow me a mistress that is passing fair,\nWhat doth her beauty serve but as a note\nWhere I may read who pass’d that passing fair?\nFarewell, thou canst not teach me to forget.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Street.\n\n Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant.\n\nCAPULET.\nBut Montague is bound as well as I,\nIn penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think,\nFor men so old as we to keep the peace.\n\nPARIS.\nOf honourable reckoning are you both,\nAnd pity ’tis you liv’d at odds so long.\nBut now my lord, what say you to my suit?\n\nCAPULET.\nBut saying o’er what I have said before.\nMy child is yet a stranger in the world,\nShe hath not seen the change of fourteen years;\nLet two more summers wither in their pride\nEre we may think her ripe to be a bride.\n\nPARIS.\nYounger than she are happy mothers made.\n\nCAPULET.\nAnd too soon marr’d are those so early made.\nThe earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,\nShe is the hopeful lady of my earth:\nBut woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,\nMy will to her consent is but a part;\nAnd she agree, within her scope of choice\nLies my consent and fair according voice.\nThis night I hold an old accustom’d feast,\nWhereto I have invited many a guest,\nSuch as I love, and you among the store,\nOne more, most welcome, makes my number more.\nAt my poor house look to behold this night\nEarth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:\nSuch comfort as do lusty young men feel\nWhen well apparell’d April on the heel\nOf limping winter treads, even such delight\nAmong fresh female buds shall you this night\nInherit at my house. Hear all, all see,\nAnd like her most whose merit most shall be:\nWhich, on more view of many, mine, being one,\nMay stand in number, though in reckoning none.\nCome, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about\nThrough fair Verona; find those persons out\nWhose names are written there, [_gives a paper_] and to them say,\nMy house and welcome on their pleasure stay.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet and Paris._]" -- "SERVANT.\nFind them out whose names are written here! It is written that the\nshoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the\nfisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to\nfind those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what\nnames the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good\ntime!\n\n Enter Benvolio and Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning,\nOne pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;\nTurn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;\nOne desperate grief cures with another’s languish:\nTake thou some new infection to thy eye,\nAnd the rank poison of the old will die.\n\nROMEO.\nYour plantain leaf is excellent for that.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nFor what, I pray thee?\n\nROMEO.\nFor your broken shin.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy, Romeo, art thou mad?\n\nROMEO.\nNot mad, but bound more than a madman is:\nShut up in prison, kept without my food,\nWhipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.\n\nSERVANT.\nGod gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, mine own fortune in my misery.\n\nSERVANT.\nPerhaps you have learned it without book.\nBut I pray, can you read anything you see?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, If I know the letters and the language.\n\nSERVANT.\nYe say honestly, rest you merry!\n\nROMEO.\nStay, fellow; I can read.\n\n [_He reads the letter._]\n\n_Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;\nCounty Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;\nThe lady widow of Utruvio;\nSignior Placentio and his lovely nieces;\nMercutio and his brother Valentine;\nMine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;\nMy fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\nSignior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt;\nLucio and the lively Helena. _\n\n\nA fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?\n\nSERVANT.\nUp.\n\nROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?\n\nSERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\nROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before.\n\nSERVANT.\nNow I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet,\nand if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a\ncup of wine. Rest you merry.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt this same ancient feast of Capulet’s\nSups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st;\nWith all the admired beauties of Verona.\nGo thither and with unattainted eye,\nCompare her face with some that I shall show,\nAnd I will make thee think thy swan a crow.\n\nROMEO.\nWhen the devout religion of mine eye\nMaintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire;\nAnd these who, often drown’d, could never die,\nTransparent heretics, be burnt for liars.\nOne fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun\nNe’er saw her match since first the world begun.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, you saw her fair, none else being by,\nHerself pois’d with herself in either eye:\nBut in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d\nYour lady’s love against some other maid\nThat I will show you shining at this feast,\nAnd she shall scant show well that now shows best.\n\nROMEO.\nI’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,\nBut to rejoice in splendour of my own.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me.\n\nNURSE.\nNow, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old,\nI bade her come. What, lamb! What ladybird!\nGod forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet!\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nHow now, who calls?\n\nNURSE.\nYour mother.\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, I am here. What is your will?" -- "LADY CAPULET.\nThis is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile,\nWe must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again,\nI have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.\nThou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, I can tell her age unto an hour.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nShe’s not fourteen.\n\nNURSE.\nI’ll lay fourteen of my teeth,\nAnd yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,\nShe is not fourteen. How long is it now\nTo Lammas-tide?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA fortnight and odd days.\n\nNURSE.\nEven or odd, of all days in the year,\nCome Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.\nSusan and she,—God rest all Christian souls!—\nWere of an age. Well, Susan is with God;\nShe was too good for me. But as I said,\nOn Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;\nThat shall she, marry; I remember it well.\n’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;\nAnd she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it—,\nOf all the days of the year, upon that day:\nFor I had then laid wormwood to my dug,\nSitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall;\nMy lord and you were then at Mantua:\nNay, I do bear a brain. But as I said,\nWhen it did taste the wormwood on the nipple\nOf my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,\nTo see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug!\nShake, quoth the dovehouse: ’twas no need, I trow,\nTo bid me trudge.\nAnd since that time it is eleven years;\nFor then she could stand alone; nay, by th’rood\nShe could have run and waddled all about;\nFor even the day before she broke her brow,\nAnd then my husband,—God be with his soul!\nA was a merry man,—took up the child:\n‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame,\nThe pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay’.\nTo see now how a jest shall come about.\nI warrant, and I should live a thousand years,\nI never should forget it. ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he;\nAnd, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nEnough of this; I pray thee hold thy peace.\n\nNURSE.\nYes, madam, yet I cannot choose but laugh,\nTo think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay’;\nAnd yet I warrant it had upon it brow\nA bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone;\nA perilous knock, and it cried bitterly.\n‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted, and said ‘Ay’.\n\nJULIET.\nAnd stint thou too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I.\n\nNURSE.\nPeace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace\nThou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d:\nAnd I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nMarry, that marry is the very theme\nI came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,\nHow stands your disposition to be married?\n\nJULIET.\nIt is an honour that I dream not of.\n\nNURSE.\nAn honour! Were not I thine only nurse,\nI would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, think of marriage now: younger than you,\nHere in Verona, ladies of esteem,\nAre made already mothers. By my count\nI was your mother much upon these years\nThat you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief;\nThe valiant Paris seeks you for his love.\n\nNURSE.\nA man, young lady! Lady, such a man\nAs all the world—why he’s a man of wax.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nVerona’s summer hath not such a flower.\n\nNURSE.\nNay, he’s a flower, in faith a very flower." +- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook.\n\nTitle: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\nACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n\nACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n\nACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets." +- "Dramatis Personæ\n\nESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\nMONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.\n\nCAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\nGREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\nSCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\nTHE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\nThe fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]" +- "ACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\nSAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n Enter three or four Citizens with clubs." +- "FIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\nCAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants.\n\nPRINCE.\nRebellious subjects, enemies to peace,\nProfaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—\nWill they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts,\nThat quench the fire of your pernicious rage\nWith purple fountains issuing from your veins,\nOn pain of torture, from those bloody hands\nThrow your mistemper’d weapons to the ground\nAnd hear the sentence of your moved prince.\nThree civil brawls, bred of an airy word,\nBy thee, old Capulet, and Montague,\nHave thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,\nAnd made Verona’s ancient citizens\nCast by their grave beseeming ornaments,\nTo wield old partisans, in hands as old,\nCanker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.\nIf ever you disturb our streets again,\nYour lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.\nFor this time all the rest depart away:\nYou, Capulet, shall go along with me,\nAnd Montague, come you this afternoon,\nTo know our farther pleasure in this case,\nTo old Free-town, our common judgement-place.\nOnce more, on pain of death, all men depart.\n\n [_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt,\n Citizens and Servants._]\n\nMONTAGUE.\nWho set this ancient quarrel new abroach?\nSpeak, nephew, were you by when it began?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere were the servants of your adversary\nAnd yours, close fighting ere I did approach.\nI drew to part them, in the instant came\nThe fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d,\nWhich, as he breath’d defiance to my ears,\nHe swung about his head, and cut the winds,\nWho nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn.\nWhile we were interchanging thrusts and blows\nCame more and more, and fought on part and part,\nTill the Prince came, who parted either part.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nO where is Romeo, saw you him today?\nRight glad I am he was not at this fray.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMadam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun\nPeer’d forth the golden window of the east,\nA troubled mind drave me to walk abroad,\nWhere underneath the grove of sycamore\nThat westward rooteth from this city side,\nSo early walking did I see your son.\nTowards him I made, but he was ware of me,\nAnd stole into the covert of the wood.\nI, measuring his affections by my own,\nWhich then most sought where most might not be found,\nBeing one too many by my weary self,\nPursu’d my humour, not pursuing his,\nAnd gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nMany a morning hath he there been seen,\nWith tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,\nAdding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;\nBut all so soon as the all-cheering sun\nShould in the farthest east begin to draw\nThe shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,\nAway from light steals home my heavy son,\nAnd private in his chamber pens himself,\nShuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out\nAnd makes himself an artificial night.\nBlack and portentous must this humour prove,\nUnless good counsel may the cause remove.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMy noble uncle, do you know the cause?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI neither know it nor can learn of him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHave you importun’d him by any means?" +- "MONTAGUE.\nBoth by myself and many other friends;\nBut he, his own affections’ counsellor,\nIs to himself—I will not say how true—\nBut to himself so secret and so close,\nSo far from sounding and discovery,\nAs is the bud bit with an envious worm\nEre he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,\nOr dedicate his beauty to the sun.\nCould we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,\nWe would as willingly give cure as know.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSee, where he comes. So please you step aside;\nI’ll know his grievance or be much denied.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI would thou wert so happy by thy stay\nTo hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away,\n\n [_Exeunt Montague and Lady Montague._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGood morrow, cousin.\n\nROMEO.\nIs the day so young?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBut new struck nine.\n\nROMEO.\nAy me, sad hours seem long.\nWas that my father that went hence so fast?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nIt was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?\n\nROMEO.\nNot having that which, having, makes them short.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nIn love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nOf love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut of her favour where I am in love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAlas that love so gentle in his view,\nShould be so tyrannous and rough in proof.\n\nROMEO.\nAlas that love, whose view is muffled still,\nShould, without eyes, see pathways to his will!\nWhere shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?\nYet tell me not, for I have heard it all.\nHere’s much to do with hate, but more with love:\nWhy, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!\nO anything, of nothing first create!\nO heavy lightness! serious vanity!\nMisshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!\nFeather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!\nStill-waking sleep, that is not what it is!\nThis love feel I, that feel no love in this.\nDost thou not laugh?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nNo coz, I rather weep.\n\nROMEO.\nGood heart, at what?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt thy good heart’s oppression.\n\nROMEO.\nWhy such is love’s transgression.\nGriefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,\nWhich thou wilt propagate to have it prest\nWith more of thine. This love that thou hast shown\nDoth add more grief to too much of mine own.\nLove is a smoke made with the fume of sighs;\nBeing purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;\nBeing vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:\nWhat is it else? A madness most discreet,\nA choking gall, and a preserving sweet.\nFarewell, my coz.\n\n [_Going._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSoft! I will go along:\nAnd if you leave me so, you do me wrong.\n\nROMEO.\nTut! I have lost myself; I am not here.\nThis is not Romeo, he’s some other where.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTell me in sadness who is that you love?\n\nROMEO.\nWhat, shall I groan and tell thee?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGroan! Why, no; but sadly tell me who.\n\nROMEO.\nBid a sick man in sadness make his will,\nA word ill urg’d to one that is so ill.\nIn sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.\n\nROMEO.\nA right good markman, and she’s fair I love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nA right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.\n\nROMEO.\nWell, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit\nWith Cupid’s arrow, she hath Dian’s wit;\nAnd in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,\nFrom love’s weak childish bow she lives uncharm’d.\nShe will not stay the siege of loving terms\nNor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes,\nNor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:\nO she’s rich in beauty, only poor\nThat when she dies, with beauty dies her store." +- "BENVOLIO.\nThen she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?\n\nROMEO.\nShe hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;\nFor beauty starv’d with her severity,\nCuts beauty off from all posterity.\nShe is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair,\nTo merit bliss by making me despair.\nShe hath forsworn to love, and in that vow\nDo I live dead, that live to tell it now.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBe rul’d by me, forget to think of her.\n\nROMEO.\nO teach me how I should forget to think.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy giving liberty unto thine eyes;\nExamine other beauties.\n\nROMEO.\n’Tis the way\nTo call hers, exquisite, in question more.\nThese happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows,\nBeing black, puts us in mind they hide the fair;\nHe that is strucken blind cannot forget\nThe precious treasure of his eyesight lost.\nShow me a mistress that is passing fair,\nWhat doth her beauty serve but as a note\nWhere I may read who pass’d that passing fair?\nFarewell, thou canst not teach me to forget.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Street.\n\n Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant.\n\nCAPULET.\nBut Montague is bound as well as I,\nIn penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think,\nFor men so old as we to keep the peace.\n\nPARIS.\nOf honourable reckoning are you both,\nAnd pity ’tis you liv’d at odds so long.\nBut now my lord, what say you to my suit?\n\nCAPULET.\nBut saying o’er what I have said before.\nMy child is yet a stranger in the world,\nShe hath not seen the change of fourteen years;\nLet two more summers wither in their pride\nEre we may think her ripe to be a bride.\n\nPARIS.\nYounger than she are happy mothers made.\n\nCAPULET.\nAnd too soon marr’d are those so early made.\nThe earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,\nShe is the hopeful lady of my earth:\nBut woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,\nMy will to her consent is but a part;\nAnd she agree, within her scope of choice\nLies my consent and fair according voice.\nThis night I hold an old accustom’d feast,\nWhereto I have invited many a guest,\nSuch as I love, and you among the store,\nOne more, most welcome, makes my number more.\nAt my poor house look to behold this night\nEarth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:\nSuch comfort as do lusty young men feel\nWhen well apparell’d April on the heel\nOf limping winter treads, even such delight\nAmong fresh female buds shall you this night\nInherit at my house. Hear all, all see,\nAnd like her most whose merit most shall be:\nWhich, on more view of many, mine, being one,\nMay stand in number, though in reckoning none.\nCome, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about\nThrough fair Verona; find those persons out\nWhose names are written there, [_gives a paper_] and to them say,\nMy house and welcome on their pleasure stay.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet and Paris._]\n\nSERVANT.\nFind them out whose names are written here! It is written that the\nshoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the\nfisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to\nfind those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what\nnames the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good\ntime!\n\n Enter Benvolio and Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning,\nOne pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;\nTurn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;\nOne desperate grief cures with another’s languish:\nTake thou some new infection to thy eye,\nAnd the rank poison of the old will die.\n\nROMEO.\nYour plantain leaf is excellent for that.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nFor what, I pray thee?\n\nROMEO.\nFor your broken shin.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy, Romeo, art thou mad?" +- "ROMEO.\nNot mad, but bound more than a madman is:\nShut up in prison, kept without my food,\nWhipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.\n\nSERVANT.\nGod gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, mine own fortune in my misery.\n\nSERVANT.\nPerhaps you have learned it without book.\nBut I pray, can you read anything you see?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, If I know the letters and the language.\n\nSERVANT.\nYe say honestly, rest you merry!\n\nROMEO.\nStay, fellow; I can read.\n\n [_He reads the letter._]\n\n_Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;\nCounty Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;\nThe lady widow of Utruvio;\nSignior Placentio and his lovely nieces;\nMercutio and his brother Valentine;\nMine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;\nMy fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\nSignior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt;\nLucio and the lively Helena. _" +- "A fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?\n\nSERVANT.\nUp.\n\nROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?\n\nSERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\nROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before.\n\nSERVANT.\nNow I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet,\nand if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a\ncup of wine. Rest you merry.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt this same ancient feast of Capulet’s\nSups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st;\nWith all the admired beauties of Verona.\nGo thither and with unattainted eye,\nCompare her face with some that I shall show,\nAnd I will make thee think thy swan a crow.\n\nROMEO.\nWhen the devout religion of mine eye\nMaintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire;\nAnd these who, often drown’d, could never die,\nTransparent heretics, be burnt for liars.\nOne fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun\nNe’er saw her match since first the world begun.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, you saw her fair, none else being by,\nHerself pois’d with herself in either eye:\nBut in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d\nYour lady’s love against some other maid\nThat I will show you shining at this feast,\nAnd she shall scant show well that now shows best.\n\nROMEO.\nI’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,\nBut to rejoice in splendour of my own.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me.\n\nNURSE.\nNow, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old,\nI bade her come. What, lamb! What ladybird!\nGod forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet!\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nHow now, who calls?\n\nNURSE.\nYour mother.\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, I am here. What is your will?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThis is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile,\nWe must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again,\nI have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.\nThou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, I can tell her age unto an hour.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nShe’s not fourteen.\n\nNURSE.\nI’ll lay fourteen of my teeth,\nAnd yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,\nShe is not fourteen. How long is it now\nTo Lammas-tide?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA fortnight and odd days." +- "NURSE.\nEven or odd, of all days in the year,\nCome Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.\nSusan and she,—God rest all Christian souls!—\nWere of an age. Well, Susan is with God;\nShe was too good for me. But as I said,\nOn Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;\nThat shall she, marry; I remember it well.\n’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;\nAnd she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it—,\nOf all the days of the year, upon that day:\nFor I had then laid wormwood to my dug,\nSitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall;\nMy lord and you were then at Mantua:\nNay, I do bear a brain. But as I said,\nWhen it did taste the wormwood on the nipple\nOf my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,\nTo see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug!\nShake, quoth the dovehouse: ’twas no need, I trow,\nTo bid me trudge.\nAnd since that time it is eleven years;\nFor then she could stand alone; nay, by th’rood\nShe could have run and waddled all about;\nFor even the day before she broke her brow,\nAnd then my husband,—God be with his soul!\nA was a merry man,—took up the child:\n‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame,\nThe pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay’.\nTo see now how a jest shall come about.\nI warrant, and I should live a thousand years,\nI never should forget it. ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he;\nAnd, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nEnough of this; I pray thee hold thy peace.\n\nNURSE.\nYes, madam, yet I cannot choose but laugh,\nTo think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay’;\nAnd yet I warrant it had upon it brow\nA bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone;\nA perilous knock, and it cried bitterly.\n‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted, and said ‘Ay’.\n\nJULIET.\nAnd stint thou too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I.\n\nNURSE.\nPeace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace\nThou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d:\nAnd I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nMarry, that marry is the very theme\nI came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,\nHow stands your disposition to be married?\n\nJULIET.\nIt is an honour that I dream not of.\n\nNURSE.\nAn honour! Were not I thine only nurse,\nI would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, think of marriage now: younger than you,\nHere in Verona, ladies of esteem,\nAre made already mothers. By my count\nI was your mother much upon these years\nThat you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief;\nThe valiant Paris seeks you for his love.\n\nNURSE.\nA man, young lady! Lady, such a man\nAs all the world—why he’s a man of wax.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nVerona’s summer hath not such a flower.\n\nNURSE.\nNay, he’s a flower, in faith a very flower." - "LADY CAPULET.\nWhat say you, can you love the gentleman?\nThis night you shall behold him at our feast;\nRead o’er the volume of young Paris’ face,\nAnd find delight writ there with beauty’s pen.\nExamine every married lineament,\nAnd see how one another lends content;\nAnd what obscur’d in this fair volume lies,\nFind written in the margent of his eyes.\nThis precious book of love, this unbound lover,\nTo beautify him, only lacks a cover:\nThe fish lives in the sea; and ’tis much pride\nFor fair without the fair within to hide.\nThat book in many’s eyes doth share the glory,\nThat in gold clasps locks in the golden story;\nSo shall you share all that he doth possess,\nBy having him, making yourself no less.\n\nNURSE.\nNo less, nay bigger. Women grow by men.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nSpeak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?\n\nJULIET.\nI’ll look to like, if looking liking move:\nBut no more deep will I endart mine eye\nThan your consent gives strength to make it fly.\n\n Enter a Servant.\n\nSERVANT.\nMadam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady\nasked for, the Nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity.\nI must hence to wait, I beseech you follow straight.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe follow thee.\n\n [_Exit Servant._]\n\nJuliet, the County stays.\n\nNURSE.\nGo, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE IV. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers;\n Torch-bearers and others.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?\nOr shall we on without apology?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThe date is out of such prolixity:\nWe’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf,\nBearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,\nScaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;\nNor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke\nAfter the prompter, for our entrance:\nBut let them measure us by what they will,\nWe’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.\n\nROMEO.\nGive me a torch, I am not for this ambling;\nBeing but heavy I will bear the light.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.\n\nROMEO.\nNot I, believe me, you have dancing shoes,\nWith nimble soles, I have a soul of lead\nSo stakes me to the ground I cannot move.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nYou are a lover, borrow Cupid’s wings,\nAnd soar with them above a common bound.\n\nROMEO.\nI am too sore enpierced with his shaft\nTo soar with his light feathers, and so bound,\nI cannot bound a pitch above dull woe.\nUnder love’s heavy burden do I sink.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd, to sink in it, should you burden love;\nToo great oppression for a tender thing.\n\nROMEO.\nIs love a tender thing? It is too rough,\nToo rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be rough with you, be rough with love;\nPrick love for pricking, and you beat love down.\nGive me a case to put my visage in: [_Putting on a mask._]\nA visor for a visor. What care I\nWhat curious eye doth quote deformities?\nHere are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, knock and enter; and no sooner in\nBut every man betake him to his legs.\n\nROMEO.\nA torch for me: let wantons, light of heart,\nTickle the senseless rushes with their heels;\nFor I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase,\nI’ll be a candle-holder and look on,\nThe game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nTut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word:\nIf thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire\nOr save your reverence love, wherein thou stickest\nUp to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho.\n\nROMEO.\nNay, that’s not so." - "MERCUTIO.\nI mean sir, in delay\nWe waste our lights in vain, light lights by day.\nTake our good meaning, for our judgment sits\nFive times in that ere once in our five wits.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd we mean well in going to this mask;\nBut ’tis no wit to go.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhy, may one ask?\n\nROMEO.\nI dreamt a dream tonight.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd so did I.\n\nROMEO.\nWell what was yours?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThat dreamers often lie.\n\nROMEO.\nIn bed asleep, while they do dream things true.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.\nShe is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes\nIn shape no bigger than an agate-stone\nOn the fore-finger of an alderman,\nDrawn with a team of little atomies\nOver men’s noses as they lie asleep:\nHer waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs;\nThe cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;\nHer traces, of the smallest spider’s web;\nThe collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams;\nHer whip of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film;\nHer waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,\nNot half so big as a round little worm\nPrick’d from the lazy finger of a maid:\nHer chariot is an empty hazelnut,\nMade by the joiner squirrel or old grub,\nTime out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers.\nAnd in this state she gallops night by night\nThrough lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;\nO’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight;\nO’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees;\nO’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream,\nWhich oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,\nBecause their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:\nSometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,\nAnd then dreams he of smelling out a suit;\nAnd sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail,\nTickling a parson’s nose as a lies asleep,\nThen dreams he of another benefice:\nSometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,\nAnd then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,\nOf breaches, ambuscados, Spanish blades,\nOf healths five fathom deep; and then anon\nDrums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;\nAnd, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,\nAnd sleeps again. This is that very Mab\nThat plats the manes of horses in the night;\nAnd bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,\nWhich, once untangled, much misfortune bodes:\nThis is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,\nThat presses them, and learns them first to bear,\nMaking them women of good carriage:\nThis is she,—\n\nROMEO.\nPeace, peace, Mercutio, peace,\nThou talk’st of nothing.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nTrue, I talk of dreams,\nWhich are the children of an idle brain,\nBegot of nothing but vain fantasy,\nWhich is as thin of substance as the air,\nAnd more inconstant than the wind, who wooes\nEven now the frozen bosom of the north,\nAnd, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,\nTurning his side to the dew-dropping south.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThis wind you talk of blows us from ourselves:\nSupper is done, and we shall come too late.\n\nROMEO.\nI fear too early: for my mind misgives\nSome consequence yet hanging in the stars,\nShall bitterly begin his fearful date\nWith this night’s revels; and expire the term\nOf a despised life, clos’d in my breast\nBy some vile forfeit of untimely death.\nBut he that hath the steerage of my course\nDirect my suit. On, lusty gentlemen!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nStrike, drum.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Musicians waiting. Enter Servants.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nWhere’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away?\nHe shift a trencher! He scrape a trencher!" - "SECOND SERVANT.\nWhen good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they\nunwash’d too, ’tis a foul thing.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nAway with the join-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the\nplate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and as thou loves me,\nlet the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony and Potpan!\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nAy, boy, ready.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nYou are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the\ngreat chamber.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nWe cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys. Be brisk awhile, and\nthe longer liver take all.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n Enter Capulet, &c. with the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers.\n\nCAPULET.\nWelcome, gentlemen, ladies that have their toes\nUnplagu’d with corns will have a bout with you.\nAh my mistresses, which of you all\nWill now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,\nShe I’ll swear hath corns. Am I come near ye now?\nWelcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day\nThat I have worn a visor, and could tell\nA whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear,\nSuch as would please; ’tis gone, ’tis gone, ’tis gone,\nYou are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.\nA hall, a hall, give room! And foot it, girls.\n\n [_Music plays, and they dance._]\n\nMore light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,\nAnd quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.\nAh sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well.\nNay sit, nay sit, good cousin Capulet,\nFor you and I are past our dancing days;\nHow long is’t now since last yourself and I\nWere in a mask?\n\nCAPULET’S COUSIN.\nBy’r Lady, thirty years.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat, man, ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much:\n’Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,\nCome Pentecost as quickly as it will,\nSome five and twenty years; and then we mask’d.\n\nCAPULET’S COUSIN.\n’Tis more, ’tis more, his son is elder, sir;\nHis son is thirty.\n\nCAPULET.\nWill you tell me that?\nHis son was but a ward two years ago.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat lady is that, which doth enrich the hand\nOf yonder knight?\n\nSERVANT.\nI know not, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nO, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!\nIt seems she hangs upon the cheek of night\nAs a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear;\nBeauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!\nSo shows a snowy dove trooping with crows\nAs yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.\nThe measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand,\nAnd touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.\nDid my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!\nFor I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.\n\nTYBALT.\nThis by his voice, should be a Montague.\nFetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave\nCome hither, cover’d with an antic face,\nTo fleer and scorn at our solemnity?\nNow by the stock and honour of my kin,\nTo strike him dead I hold it not a sin.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhy how now, kinsman!\nWherefore storm you so?\n\nTYBALT.\nUncle, this is a Montague, our foe;\nA villain that is hither come in spite,\nTo scorn at our solemnity this night.\n\nCAPULET.\nYoung Romeo, is it?\n\nTYBALT.\n’Tis he, that villain Romeo." - "CAPULET.\nContent thee, gentle coz, let him alone,\nA bears him like a portly gentleman;\nAnd, to say truth, Verona brags of him\nTo be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth.\nI would not for the wealth of all the town\nHere in my house do him disparagement.\nTherefore be patient, take no note of him,\nIt is my will; the which if thou respect,\nShow a fair presence and put off these frowns,\nAn ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.\n\nTYBALT.\nIt fits when such a villain is a guest:\nI’ll not endure him.\n\nCAPULET.\nHe shall be endur’d.\nWhat, goodman boy! I say he shall, go to;\nAm I the master here, or you? Go to.\nYou’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul,\nYou’ll make a mutiny among my guests!\nYou will set cock-a-hoop, you’ll be the man!\n\nTYBALT.\nWhy, uncle, ’tis a shame.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo to, go to!\nYou are a saucy boy. Is’t so, indeed?\nThis trick may chance to scathe you, I know what.\nYou must contrary me! Marry, ’tis time.\nWell said, my hearts!—You are a princox; go:\nBe quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame!\nI’ll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts.\n\nTYBALT.\nPatience perforce with wilful choler meeting\nMakes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.\nI will withdraw: but this intrusion shall,\nNow seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\n[_To Juliet._] If I profane with my unworthiest hand\nThis holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,\nMy lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand\nTo smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.\n\nJULIET.\nGood pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,\nWhich mannerly devotion shows in this;\nFor saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,\nAnd palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.\n\nROMEO.\nHave not saints lips, and holy palmers too?\n\nJULIET.\nAy, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.\n\nROMEO.\nO, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do:\nThey pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.\n\nJULIET.\nSaints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.\n\nROMEO.\nThen move not while my prayer’s effect I take.\nThus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg’d.\n[_Kissing her._]\n\nJULIET.\nThen have my lips the sin that they have took.\n\nROMEO.\nSin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d!\nGive me my sin again.\n\nJULIET.\nYou kiss by the book.\n\nNURSE.\nMadam, your mother craves a word with you.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat is her mother?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, bachelor,\nHer mother is the lady of the house,\nAnd a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.\nI nurs’d her daughter that you talk’d withal.\nI tell you, he that can lay hold of her\nShall have the chinks.\n\nROMEO.\nIs she a Capulet?\nO dear account! My life is my foe’s debt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAway, be gone; the sport is at the best.\n\nROMEO.\nAy, so I fear; the more is my unrest.\n\nCAPULET.\nNay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,\nWe have a trifling foolish banquet towards.\nIs it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;\nI thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.\nMore torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.\nAh, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late,\nI’ll to my rest.\n\n [_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nCome hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?\n\nNURSE.\nThe son and heir of old Tiberio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that now is going out of door?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, that I think be young Petruchio." -- "JULIET.\nWhat’s he that follows here, that would not dance?\n\nNURSE.\nI know not.\n\nJULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\nJULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:\nBeing held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHe ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:\nCall, good Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, I’ll conjure too.\nRomeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover!\nAppear thou in the likeness of a sigh,\nSpeak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;\nCry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove;\nSpeak to my gossip Venus one fair word,\nOne nickname for her purblind son and heir,\nYoung Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim\nWhen King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.\nHe heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;\nThe ape is dead, and I must conjure him.\nI conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,\nBy her high forehead and her scarlet lip,\nBy her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,\nAnd the demesnes that there adjacent lie,\nThat in thy likeness thou appear to us.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAn if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThis cannot anger him. ’Twould anger him\nTo raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle,\nOf some strange nature, letting it there stand\nTill she had laid it, and conjur’d it down;\nThat were some spite. My invocation\nIs fair and honest, and, in his mistress’ name,\nI conjure only but to raise up him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, he hath hid himself among these trees\nTo be consorted with the humorous night.\nBlind is his love, and best befits the dark.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.\nNow will he sit under a medlar tree,\nAnd wish his mistress were that kind of fruit\nAs maids call medlars when they laugh alone.\nO Romeo, that she were, O that she were\nAn open-arse and thou a poperin pear!\nRomeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle-bed.\nThis field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.\nCome, shall we go?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGo then; for ’tis in vain\nTo seek him here that means not to be found.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo." -- "ROMEO.\nHe jests at scars that never felt a wound.\n\n Juliet appears above at a window.\n\nBut soft, what light through yonder window breaks?\nIt is the east, and Juliet is the sun!\nArise fair sun and kill the envious moon,\nWho is already sick and pale with grief,\nThat thou her maid art far more fair than she.\nBe not her maid since she is envious;\nHer vestal livery is but sick and green,\nAnd none but fools do wear it; cast it off.\nIt is my lady, O it is my love!\nO, that she knew she were!\nShe speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?\nHer eye discourses, I will answer it.\nI am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks.\nTwo of the fairest stars in all the heaven,\nHaving some business, do entreat her eyes\nTo twinkle in their spheres till they return.\nWhat if her eyes were there, they in her head?\nThe brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,\nAs daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven\nWould through the airy region stream so bright\nThat birds would sing and think it were not night.\nSee how she leans her cheek upon her hand.\nO that I were a glove upon that hand,\nThat I might touch that cheek.\n\nJULIET.\nAy me.\n\nROMEO.\nShe speaks.\nO speak again bright angel, for thou art\nAs glorious to this night, being o’er my head,\nAs is a winged messenger of heaven\nUnto the white-upturned wondering eyes\nOf mortals that fall back to gaze on him\nWhen he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds\nAnd sails upon the bosom of the air.\n\nJULIET.\nO Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?\nDeny thy father and refuse thy name.\nOr if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,\nAnd I’ll no longer be a Capulet.\n\nROMEO.\n[_Aside._] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?\n\nJULIET.\n’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;\nThou art thyself, though not a Montague.\nWhat’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot,\nNor arm, nor face, nor any other part\nBelonging to a man. O be some other name.\nWhat’s in a name? That which we call a rose\nBy any other name would smell as sweet;\nSo Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,\nRetain that dear perfection which he owes\nWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,\nAnd for thy name, which is no part of thee,\nTake all myself.\n\nROMEO.\nI take thee at thy word.\nCall me but love, and I’ll be new baptis’d;\nHenceforth I never will be Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat man art thou that, thus bescreen’d in night\nSo stumblest on my counsel?\n\nROMEO.\nBy a name\nI know not how to tell thee who I am:\nMy name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,\nBecause it is an enemy to thee.\nHad I it written, I would tear the word.\n\nJULIET.\nMy ears have yet not drunk a hundred words\nOf thy tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound.\nArt thou not Romeo, and a Montague?\n\nROMEO.\nNeither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.\n\nJULIET.\nHow cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?\nThe orchard walls are high and hard to climb,\nAnd the place death, considering who thou art,\nIf any of my kinsmen find thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nWith love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls,\nFor stony limits cannot hold love out,\nAnd what love can do, that dares love attempt:\nTherefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf they do see thee, they will murder thee.\n\nROMEO.\nAlack, there lies more peril in thine eye\nThan twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet,\nAnd I am proof against their enmity.\n\nJULIET.\nI would not for the world they saw thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nI have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes,\nAnd but thou love me, let them find me here.\nMy life were better ended by their hate\nThan death prorogued, wanting of thy love.\n\nJULIET.\nBy whose direction found’st thou out this place?" +- "JULIET.\nWhat’s he that follows here, that would not dance?\n\nNURSE.\nI know not.\n\nJULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\nJULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:\nBeing held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHe ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:\nCall, good Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, I’ll conjure too.\nRomeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover!\nAppear thou in the likeness of a sigh,\nSpeak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;\nCry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove;\nSpeak to my gossip Venus one fair word,\nOne nickname for her purblind son and heir,\nYoung Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim\nWhen King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.\nHe heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;\nThe ape is dead, and I must conjure him.\nI conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,\nBy her high forehead and her scarlet lip,\nBy her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,\nAnd the demesnes that there adjacent lie,\nThat in thy likeness thou appear to us.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAn if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThis cannot anger him. ’Twould anger him\nTo raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle,\nOf some strange nature, letting it there stand\nTill she had laid it, and conjur’d it down;\nThat were some spite. My invocation\nIs fair and honest, and, in his mistress’ name,\nI conjure only but to raise up him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, he hath hid himself among these trees\nTo be consorted with the humorous night.\nBlind is his love, and best befits the dark.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.\nNow will he sit under a medlar tree,\nAnd wish his mistress were that kind of fruit\nAs maids call medlars when they laugh alone.\nO Romeo, that she were, O that she were\nAn open-arse and thou a poperin pear!\nRomeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle-bed.\nThis field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.\nCome, shall we go?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGo then; for ’tis in vain\nTo seek him here that means not to be found.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nHe jests at scars that never felt a wound.\n\n Juliet appears above at a window." +- "But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?\nIt is the east, and Juliet is the sun!\nArise fair sun and kill the envious moon,\nWho is already sick and pale with grief,\nThat thou her maid art far more fair than she.\nBe not her maid since she is envious;\nHer vestal livery is but sick and green,\nAnd none but fools do wear it; cast it off.\nIt is my lady, O it is my love!\nO, that she knew she were!\nShe speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?\nHer eye discourses, I will answer it.\nI am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks.\nTwo of the fairest stars in all the heaven,\nHaving some business, do entreat her eyes\nTo twinkle in their spheres till they return.\nWhat if her eyes were there, they in her head?\nThe brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,\nAs daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven\nWould through the airy region stream so bright\nThat birds would sing and think it were not night.\nSee how she leans her cheek upon her hand.\nO that I were a glove upon that hand,\nThat I might touch that cheek.\n\nJULIET.\nAy me.\n\nROMEO.\nShe speaks.\nO speak again bright angel, for thou art\nAs glorious to this night, being o’er my head,\nAs is a winged messenger of heaven\nUnto the white-upturned wondering eyes\nOf mortals that fall back to gaze on him\nWhen he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds\nAnd sails upon the bosom of the air.\n\nJULIET.\nO Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?\nDeny thy father and refuse thy name.\nOr if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,\nAnd I’ll no longer be a Capulet.\n\nROMEO.\n[_Aside._] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?\n\nJULIET.\n’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;\nThou art thyself, though not a Montague.\nWhat’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot,\nNor arm, nor face, nor any other part\nBelonging to a man. O be some other name.\nWhat’s in a name? That which we call a rose\nBy any other name would smell as sweet;\nSo Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,\nRetain that dear perfection which he owes\nWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,\nAnd for thy name, which is no part of thee,\nTake all myself.\n\nROMEO.\nI take thee at thy word.\nCall me but love, and I’ll be new baptis’d;\nHenceforth I never will be Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat man art thou that, thus bescreen’d in night\nSo stumblest on my counsel?\n\nROMEO.\nBy a name\nI know not how to tell thee who I am:\nMy name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,\nBecause it is an enemy to thee.\nHad I it written, I would tear the word.\n\nJULIET.\nMy ears have yet not drunk a hundred words\nOf thy tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound.\nArt thou not Romeo, and a Montague?\n\nROMEO.\nNeither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.\n\nJULIET.\nHow cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?\nThe orchard walls are high and hard to climb,\nAnd the place death, considering who thou art,\nIf any of my kinsmen find thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nWith love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls,\nFor stony limits cannot hold love out,\nAnd what love can do, that dares love attempt:\nTherefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf they do see thee, they will murder thee.\n\nROMEO.\nAlack, there lies more peril in thine eye\nThan twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet,\nAnd I am proof against their enmity.\n\nJULIET.\nI would not for the world they saw thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nI have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes,\nAnd but thou love me, let them find me here.\nMy life were better ended by their hate\nThan death prorogued, wanting of thy love.\n\nJULIET.\nBy whose direction found’st thou out this place?" - "ROMEO.\nBy love, that first did prompt me to enquire;\nHe lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.\nI am no pilot; yet wert thou as far\nAs that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea,\nI should adventure for such merchandise.\n\nJULIET.\nThou knowest the mask of night is on my face,\nElse would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek\nFor that which thou hast heard me speak tonight.\nFain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny\nWhat I have spoke; but farewell compliment.\nDost thou love me? I know thou wilt say Ay,\nAnd I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear’st,\nThou mayst prove false. At lovers’ perjuries,\nThey say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,\nIf thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.\nOr if thou thinkest I am too quickly won,\nI’ll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay,\nSo thou wilt woo. But else, not for the world.\nIn truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;\nAnd therefore thou mayst think my ’haviour light:\nBut trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true\nThan those that have more cunning to be strange.\nI should have been more strange, I must confess,\nBut that thou overheard’st, ere I was ’ware,\nMy true-love passion; therefore pardon me,\nAnd not impute this yielding to light love,\nWhich the dark night hath so discovered.\n\nROMEO.\nLady, by yonder blessed moon I vow,\nThat tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,—\n\nJULIET.\nO swear not by the moon, th’inconstant moon,\nThat monthly changes in her circled orb,\nLest that thy love prove likewise variable.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat shall I swear by?\n\nJULIET.\nDo not swear at all.\nOr if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,\nWhich is the god of my idolatry,\nAnd I’ll believe thee.\n\nROMEO.\nIf my heart’s dear love,—\n\nJULIET.\nWell, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,\nI have no joy of this contract tonight;\nIt is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden,\nToo like the lightning, which doth cease to be\nEre one can say It lightens. Sweet, good night.\nThis bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,\nMay prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.\nGood night, good night. As sweet repose and rest\nCome to thy heart as that within my breast.\n\nROMEO.\nO wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?\n\nJULIET.\nWhat satisfaction canst thou have tonight?\n\nROMEO.\nTh’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.\n\nJULIET.\nI gave thee mine before thou didst request it;\nAnd yet I would it were to give again.\n\nROMEO.\nWould’st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?\n\nJULIET.\nBut to be frank and give it thee again.\nAnd yet I wish but for the thing I have;\nMy bounty is as boundless as the sea,\nMy love as deep; the more I give to thee,\nThe more I have, for both are infinite.\nI hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu.\n[_Nurse calls within._]\nAnon, good Nurse!—Sweet Montague be true.\nStay but a little, I will come again.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nO blessed, blessed night. I am afeard,\nBeing in night, all this is but a dream,\nToo flattering sweet to be substantial.\n\n Enter Juliet above.\n\nJULIET.\nThree words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.\nIf that thy bent of love be honourable,\nThy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow,\nBy one that I’ll procure to come to thee,\nWhere and what time thou wilt perform the rite,\nAnd all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay\nAnd follow thee my lord throughout the world.\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Madam.\n\nJULIET.\nI come, anon.— But if thou meanest not well,\nI do beseech thee,—\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Madam.\n\nJULIET.\nBy and by I come—\nTo cease thy strife and leave me to my grief.\nTomorrow will I send.\n\nROMEO.\nSo thrive my soul,—" - "JULIET.\nA thousand times good night.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nA thousand times the worse, to want thy light.\nLove goes toward love as schoolboys from their books,\nBut love from love, towards school with heavy looks.\n\n [_Retiring slowly._]\n\n Re-enter Juliet, above.\n\nJULIET.\nHist! Romeo, hist! O for a falconer’s voice\nTo lure this tassel-gentle back again.\nBondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud,\nElse would I tear the cave where Echo lies,\nAnd make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine\nWith repetition of my Romeo’s name.\n\nROMEO.\nIt is my soul that calls upon my name.\nHow silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,\nLike softest music to attending ears.\n\nJULIET.\nRomeo.\n\nROMEO.\nMy nyas?\n\nJULIET.\nWhat o’clock tomorrow\nShall I send to thee?\n\nROMEO.\nBy the hour of nine.\n\nJULIET.\nI will not fail. ’Tis twenty years till then.\nI have forgot why I did call thee back.\n\nROMEO.\nLet me stand here till thou remember it.\n\nJULIET.\nI shall forget, to have thee still stand there,\nRemembering how I love thy company.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,\nForgetting any other home but this.\n\nJULIET.\n’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone,\nAnd yet no farther than a wanton’s bird,\nThat lets it hop a little from her hand,\nLike a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,\nAnd with a silk thread plucks it back again,\nSo loving-jealous of his liberty.\n\nROMEO.\nI would I were thy bird.\n\nJULIET.\nSweet, so would I:\nYet I should kill thee with much cherishing.\nGood night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow\nThat I shall say good night till it be morrow.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nSleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast.\nWould I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest.\nThe grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night,\nChequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light;\nAnd darkness fleckled like a drunkard reels\nFrom forth day’s pathway, made by Titan’s wheels\nHence will I to my ghostly Sire’s cell,\nHis help to crave and my dear hap to tell.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNow, ere the sun advance his burning eye,\nThe day to cheer, and night’s dank dew to dry,\nI must upfill this osier cage of ours\nWith baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.\nThe earth that’s nature’s mother, is her tomb;\nWhat is her burying grave, that is her womb:\nAnd from her womb children of divers kind\nWe sucking on her natural bosom find.\nMany for many virtues excellent,\nNone but for some, and yet all different.\nO, mickle is the powerful grace that lies\nIn plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities.\nFor naught so vile that on the earth doth live\nBut to the earth some special good doth give;\nNor aught so good but, strain’d from that fair use,\nRevolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.\nVirtue itself turns vice being misapplied,\nAnd vice sometime’s by action dignified.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nWithin the infant rind of this weak flower\nPoison hath residence, and medicine power:\nFor this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;\nBeing tasted, slays all senses with the heart.\nTwo such opposed kings encamp them still\nIn man as well as herbs,—grace and rude will;\nAnd where the worser is predominant,\nFull soon the canker death eats up that plant.\n\nROMEO.\nGood morrow, father." - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nBenedicite!\nWhat early tongue so sweet saluteth me?\nYoung son, it argues a distemper’d head\nSo soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.\nCare keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,\nAnd where care lodges sleep will never lie;\nBut where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain\nDoth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.\nTherefore thy earliness doth me assure\nThou art uprous’d with some distemperature;\nOr if not so, then here I hit it right,\nOur Romeo hath not been in bed tonight.\n\nROMEO.\nThat last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nGod pardon sin. Wast thou with Rosaline?\n\nROMEO.\nWith Rosaline, my ghostly father? No.\nI have forgot that name, and that name’s woe.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s my good son. But where hast thou been then?\n\nROMEO.\nI’ll tell thee ere thou ask it me again.\nI have been feasting with mine enemy,\nWhere on a sudden one hath wounded me\nThat’s by me wounded. Both our remedies\nWithin thy help and holy physic lies.\nI bear no hatred, blessed man; for lo,\nMy intercession likewise steads my foe.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nBe plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;\nRiddling confession finds but riddling shrift.\n\nROMEO.\nThen plainly know my heart’s dear love is set\nOn the fair daughter of rich Capulet.\nAs mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;\nAnd all combin’d, save what thou must combine\nBy holy marriage. When, and where, and how\nWe met, we woo’d, and made exchange of vow,\nI’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,\nThat thou consent to marry us today.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHoly Saint Francis! What a change is here!\nIs Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear,\nSo soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies\nNot truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.\nJesu Maria, what a deal of brine\nHath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!\nHow much salt water thrown away in waste,\nTo season love, that of it doth not taste.\nThe sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,\nThy old groans yet ring in mine ancient ears.\nLo here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit\nOf an old tear that is not wash’d off yet.\nIf ere thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,\nThou and these woes were all for Rosaline,\nAnd art thou chang’d? Pronounce this sentence then,\nWomen may fall, when there’s no strength in men.\n\nROMEO.\nThou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nFor doting, not for loving, pupil mine.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd bad’st me bury love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNot in a grave\nTo lay one in, another out to have.\n\nROMEO.\nI pray thee chide me not, her I love now\nDoth grace for grace and love for love allow.\nThe other did not so.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO, she knew well\nThy love did read by rote, that could not spell.\nBut come young waverer, come go with me,\nIn one respect I’ll thy assistant be;\nFor this alliance may so happy prove,\nTo turn your households’ rancour to pure love.\n\nROMEO.\nO let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE IV. A Street.\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhere the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home tonight?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nNot to his father’s; I spoke with his man.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhy, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, torments him so\nthat he will sure run mad.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, hath sent a letter to his father’s\nhouse.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nA challenge, on my life.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo will answer it." @@ -23,33 +26,36 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "ROMEO.\nI stretch it out for that word broad, which added to the goose, proves\nthee far and wide a broad goose.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhy, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now art thou\nsociable, now art thou Romeo; not art thou what thou art, by art as\nwell as by nature. For this drivelling love is like a great natural,\nthat runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nStop there, stop there.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThou wouldst else have made thy tale large.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO, thou art deceived; I would have made it short, for I was come to the\nwhole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the argument no\nlonger.\n\n Enter Nurse and Peter.\n\nROMEO.\nHere’s goodly gear!\nA sail, a sail!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nTwo, two; a shirt and a smock.\n\nNURSE.\nPeter!\n\nPETER.\nAnon.\n\nNURSE.\nMy fan, Peter.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nGood Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the fairer face.\n\nNURSE.\nGod ye good morrow, gentlemen.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nGod ye good-den, fair gentlewoman.\n\nNURSE.\nIs it good-den?\n\nMERCUTIO.\n’Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the\nprick of noon.\n\nNURSE.\nOut upon you! What a man are you?\n\nROMEO.\nOne, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar.\n\nNURSE.\nBy my troth, it is well said; for himself to mar, quoth a? Gentlemen,\ncan any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo?\n\nROMEO.\nI can tell you: but young Romeo will be older when you have found him\nthan he was when you sought him. I am the youngest of that name, for\nfault of a worse.\n\nNURSE.\nYou say well.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nYea, is the worst well? Very well took, i’faith; wisely, wisely.\n\nNURSE.\nIf you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nShe will endite him to some supper.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nA bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho!\n\nROMEO.\nWhat hast thou found?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNo hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something\nstale and hoar ere it be spent.\n[_Sings._]\n An old hare hoar,\n And an old hare hoar,\n Is very good meat in Lent;\n But a hare that is hoar\n Is too much for a score\n When it hoars ere it be spent.\nRomeo, will you come to your father’s? We’ll to dinner thither.\n\nROMEO.\nI will follow you.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nFarewell, ancient lady; farewell, lady, lady, lady.\n\n [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._]\n\nNURSE.\nI pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his\nropery?\n\nROMEO.\nA gentleman, Nurse, that loves to hear himself talk, and will speak\nmore in a minute than he will stand to in a month.\n\nNURSE.\nAnd a speak anything against me, I’ll take him down, and a were lustier\nthan he is, and twenty such Jacks. And if I cannot, I’ll find those\nthat shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none of\nhis skains-mates.—And thou must stand by too and suffer every knave to\nuse me at his pleasure!\n\nPETER.\nI saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I had, my weapon should\nquickly have been out. I warrant you, I dare draw as soon as another\nman, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side." - "NURSE.\nNow, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me quivers. Scurvy\nknave. Pray you, sir, a word: and as I told you, my young lady bid me\nenquire you out; what she bade me say, I will keep to myself. But first\nlet me tell ye, if ye should lead her in a fool’s paradise, as they\nsay, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say; for the\ngentlewoman is young. And therefore, if you should deal double with\nher, truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and\nvery weak dealing.\n\nROMEO. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto\nthee,—\n\nNURSE.\nGood heart, and i’faith I will tell her as much. Lord, Lord, she will\nbe a joyful woman.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat wilt thou tell her, Nurse? Thou dost not mark me.\n\nNURSE.\nI will tell her, sir, that you do protest, which, as I take it, is a\ngentlemanlike offer.\n\nROMEO.\nBid her devise\nSome means to come to shrift this afternoon,\nAnd there she shall at Friar Lawrence’ cell\nBe shriv’d and married. Here is for thy pains.\n\nNURSE.\nNo truly, sir; not a penny.\n\nROMEO.\nGo to; I say you shall.\n\nNURSE.\nThis afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd stay, good Nurse, behind the abbey wall.\nWithin this hour my man shall be with thee,\nAnd bring thee cords made like a tackled stair,\nWhich to the high topgallant of my joy\nMust be my convoy in the secret night.\nFarewell, be trusty, and I’ll quit thy pains;\nFarewell; commend me to thy mistress.\n\nNURSE.\nNow God in heaven bless thee. Hark you, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat say’st thou, my dear Nurse?\n\nNURSE.\nIs your man secret? Did you ne’er hear say,\nTwo may keep counsel, putting one away?\n\nROMEO.\nI warrant thee my man’s as true as steel.\n\nNURSE.\nWell, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady. Lord, Lord! When ’twas a\nlittle prating thing,—O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that\nwould fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief see a\ntoad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her that\nParis is the properer man, but I’ll warrant you, when I say so, she\nlooks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and\nRomeo begin both with a letter?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, Nurse; what of that? Both with an R.\n\nNURSE.\nAh, mocker! That’s the dog’s name. R is for the—no, I know it begins\nwith some other letter, and she hath the prettiest sententious of it,\nof you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it.\n\nROMEO.\nCommend me to thy lady.\n\nNURSE.\nAy, a thousand times. Peter!\n\n [_Exit Romeo._]\n\nPETER.\nAnon.\n\nNURSE.\nBefore and apace.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nThe clock struck nine when I did send the Nurse,\nIn half an hour she promised to return.\nPerchance she cannot meet him. That’s not so.\nO, she is lame. Love’s heralds should be thoughts,\nWhich ten times faster glides than the sun’s beams,\nDriving back shadows over lowering hills:\nTherefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw love,\nAnd therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.\nNow is the sun upon the highmost hill\nOf this day’s journey, and from nine till twelve\nIs three long hours, yet she is not come.\nHad she affections and warm youthful blood,\nShe’d be as swift in motion as a ball;\nMy words would bandy her to my sweet love,\nAnd his to me.\nBut old folks, many feign as they were dead;\nUnwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.\n\n Enter Nurse and Peter." - "O God, she comes. O honey Nurse, what news?\nHast thou met with him? Send thy man away.\n\nNURSE.\nPeter, stay at the gate.\n\n [_Exit Peter._]\n\nJULIET.\nNow, good sweet Nurse,—O Lord, why look’st thou sad?\nThough news be sad, yet tell them merrily;\nIf good, thou sham’st the music of sweet news\nBy playing it to me with so sour a face.\n\nNURSE.\nI am aweary, give me leave awhile;\nFie, how my bones ache! What a jaunt have I had!\n\nJULIET.\nI would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news:\nNay come, I pray thee speak; good, good Nurse, speak.\n\nNURSE.\nJesu, what haste? Can you not stay a while? Do you not see that I am\nout of breath?\n\nJULIET.\nHow art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath\nTo say to me that thou art out of breath?\nThe excuse that thou dost make in this delay\nIs longer than the tale thou dost excuse.\nIs thy news good or bad? Answer to that;\nSay either, and I’ll stay the circumstance.\nLet me be satisfied, is’t good or bad?\n\nNURSE.\nWell, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man.\nRomeo? No, not he. Though his face be better than any man’s, yet his\nleg excels all men’s, and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though\nthey be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the\nflower of courtesy, but I’ll warrant him as gentle as a lamb. Go thy\nways, wench, serve God. What, have you dined at home?\n\nJULIET.\nNo, no. But all this did I know before.\nWhat says he of our marriage? What of that?\n\nNURSE.\nLord, how my head aches! What a head have I!\nIt beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.\nMy back o’ t’other side,—O my back, my back!\nBeshrew your heart for sending me about\nTo catch my death with jauncing up and down.\n\nJULIET.\nI’faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.\nSweet, sweet, sweet Nurse, tell me, what says my love?\n\nNURSE.\nYour love says like an honest gentleman,\nAnd a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome,\nAnd I warrant a virtuous,—Where is your mother?\n\nJULIET.\nWhere is my mother? Why, she is within.\nWhere should she be? How oddly thou repliest.\n‘Your love says, like an honest gentleman,\n‘Where is your mother?’\n\nNURSE.\nO God’s lady dear,\nAre you so hot? Marry, come up, I trow.\nIs this the poultice for my aching bones?\nHenceforward do your messages yourself.\n\nJULIET.\nHere’s such a coil. Come, what says Romeo?\n\nNURSE.\nHave you got leave to go to shrift today?\n\nJULIET.\nI have.\n\nNURSE.\nThen hie you hence to Friar Lawrence’ cell;\nThere stays a husband to make you a wife.\nNow comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks,\nThey’ll be in scarlet straight at any news.\nHie you to church. I must another way,\nTo fetch a ladder by the which your love\nMust climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark.\nI am the drudge, and toil in your delight;\nBut you shall bear the burden soon at night.\nGo. I’ll to dinner; hie you to the cell.\n\nJULIET.\nHie to high fortune! Honest Nurse, farewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSo smile the heavens upon this holy act\nThat after-hours with sorrow chide us not.\n\nROMEO.\nAmen, amen, but come what sorrow can,\nIt cannot countervail the exchange of joy\nThat one short minute gives me in her sight.\nDo thou but close our hands with holy words,\nThen love-devouring death do what he dare,\nIt is enough I may but call her mine." -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThese violent delights have violent ends,\nAnd in their triumph die; like fire and powder,\nWhich as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey\nIs loathsome in his own deliciousness,\nAnd in the taste confounds the appetite.\nTherefore love moderately: long love doth so;\nToo swift arrives as tardy as too slow.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nHere comes the lady. O, so light a foot\nWill ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.\nA lover may bestride the gossamers\nThat idles in the wanton summer air\nAnd yet not fall; so light is vanity.\n\nJULIET.\nGood even to my ghostly confessor.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.\n\nJULIET.\nAs much to him, else is his thanks too much.\n\nROMEO.\nAh, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy\nBe heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue\nUnfold the imagin’d happiness that both\nReceive in either by this dear encounter.\n\nJULIET.\nConceit more rich in matter than in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of ornament.\nThey are but beggars that can count their worth;\nBut my true love is grown to such excess,\nI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would\nkill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a\nhair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel\nwith a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou\nhast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?\nThy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy\nhead hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast\nquarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath\nwakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall\nout with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with\nanother for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt\ntutor me from quarrelling!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee\nsimple of my life for an hour and a quarter.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThe fee simple! O simple!\n\n Enter Tybalt and others.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy my head, here comes the Capulets.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBy my heel, I care not.\n\nTYBALT.\nFollow me close, for I will speak to them.\nGentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a\nword and a blow.\n\nTYBALT.\nYou shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me\noccasion.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCould you not take some occasion without giving?" -- "TYBALT.\nMercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nConsort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of\nus, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick, here’s\nthat shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWe talk here in the public haunt of men.\nEither withdraw unto some private place,\nAnd reason coldly of your grievances,\nOr else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nMen’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.\nI will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nTYBALT.\nWell, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBut I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery.\nMarry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower;\nYour worship in that sense may call him man.\n\nTYBALT.\nRomeo, the love I bear thee can afford\nNo better term than this: Thou art a villain.\n\nROMEO.\nTybalt, the reason that I have to love thee\nDoth much excuse the appertaining rage\nTo such a greeting. Villain am I none;\nTherefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.\n\nTYBALT.\nBoy, this shall not excuse the injuries\nThat thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw.\n\nROMEO.\nI do protest I never injur’d thee,\nBut love thee better than thou canst devise\nTill thou shalt know the reason of my love.\nAnd so good Capulet, which name I tender\nAs dearly as mine own, be satisfied.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO calm, dishonourable, vile submission!\n[_Draws._] Alla stoccata carries it away.\nTybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat wouldst thou have with me?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nGood King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to\nmake bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest\nof the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears?\nMake haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.\n\nTYBALT.\n[_Drawing._] I am for you.\n\nROMEO.\nGentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, sir, your passado.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nROMEO.\nDraw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.\nGentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage,\nTybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath\nForbid this bandying in Verona streets.\nHold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!\n\n [_Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans._]\n\nMERCUTIO.\nI am hurt.\nA plague o’ both your houses. I am sped.\nIs he gone, and hath nothing?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhat, art thou hurt?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAy, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough.\nWhere is my page? Go villain, fetch a surgeon.\n\n [_Exit Page._]\n\nROMEO.\nCourage, man; the hurt cannot be much.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNo, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis\nenough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a\ngrave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both\nyour houses. Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to\ndeath. A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of\narithmetic!—Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your\narm.\n\nROMEO.\nI thought all for the best.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHelp me into some house, Benvolio,\nOr I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses.\nThey have made worms’ meat of me.\nI have it, and soundly too. Your houses!\n\n [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._]" -- "ROMEO.\nThis gentleman, the Prince’s near ally,\nMy very friend, hath got his mortal hurt\nIn my behalf; my reputation stain’d\nWith Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour\nHath been my cousin. O sweet Juliet,\nThy beauty hath made me effeminate\nAnd in my temper soften’d valour’s steel.\n\n Re-enter Benvolio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead,\nThat gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds,\nWhich too untimely here did scorn the earth.\n\nROMEO.\nThis day’s black fate on mo days doth depend;\nThis but begins the woe others must end.\n\n Re-enter Tybalt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere comes the furious Tybalt back again.\n\nROMEO.\nAgain in triumph, and Mercutio slain?\nAway to heaven respective lenity,\nAnd fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now!\nNow, Tybalt, take the ‘villain’ back again\nThat late thou gav’st me, for Mercutio’s soul\nIs but a little way above our heads,\nStaying for thine to keep him company.\nEither thou or I, or both, must go with him.\n\nTYBALT.\nThou wretched boy, that didst consort him here,\nShalt with him hence.\n\nROMEO.\nThis shall determine that.\n\n [_They fight; Tybalt falls._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo, away, be gone!\nThe citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.\nStand not amaz’d. The Prince will doom thee death\nIf thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away!\n\nROMEO.\nO, I am fortune’s fool!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy dost thou stay?\n\n [_Exit Romeo._]\n\n Enter Citizens.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nWhich way ran he that kill’d Mercutio?\nTybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThere lies that Tybalt.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nUp, sir, go with me.\nI charge thee in the Prince’s name obey.\n\n Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives and others.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhere are the vile beginners of this fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO noble Prince, I can discover all\nThe unlucky manage of this fatal brawl.\nThere lies the man, slain by young Romeo,\nThat slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child!\nO Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill’d\nOf my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true,\nFor blood of ours shed blood of Montague.\nO cousin, cousin.\n\nPRINCE.\nBenvolio, who began this bloody fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay;\nRomeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink\nHow nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal\nYour high displeasure. All this uttered\nWith gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d\nCould not take truce with the unruly spleen\nOf Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts\nWith piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast,\nWho, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,\nAnd, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats\nCold death aside, and with the other sends\nIt back to Tybalt, whose dexterity\nRetorts it. Romeo he cries aloud,\n‘Hold, friends! Friends, part!’ and swifter than his tongue,\nHis agile arm beats down their fatal points,\nAnd ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm\nAn envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life\nOf stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled.\nBut by and by comes back to Romeo,\nWho had but newly entertain’d revenge,\nAnd to’t they go like lightning; for, ere I\nCould draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain;\nAnd as he fell did Romeo turn and fly.\nThis is the truth, or let Benvolio die." -- "LADY CAPULET.\nHe is a kinsman to the Montague.\nAffection makes him false, he speaks not true.\nSome twenty of them fought in this black strife,\nAnd all those twenty could but kill one life.\nI beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give;\nRomeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.\n\nPRINCE.\nRomeo slew him, he slew Mercutio.\nWho now the price of his dear blood doth owe?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nNot Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio’s friend;\nHis fault concludes but what the law should end,\nThe life of Tybalt.\n\nPRINCE.\nAnd for that offence\nImmediately we do exile him hence.\nI have an interest in your hate’s proceeding,\nMy blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding.\nBut I’ll amerce you with so strong a fine\nThat you shall all repent the loss of mine.\nI will be deaf to pleading and excuses;\nNor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses.\nTherefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste,\nElse, when he is found, that hour is his last.\nBear hence this body, and attend our will.\nMercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nGallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,\nTowards Phoebus’ lodging. Such a waggoner\nAs Phaeton would whip you to the west\nAnd bring in cloudy night immediately.\nSpread thy close curtain, love-performing night,\nThat runaway’s eyes may wink, and Romeo\nLeap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen.\nLovers can see to do their amorous rites\nBy their own beauties: or, if love be blind,\nIt best agrees with night. Come, civil night,\nThou sober-suited matron, all in black,\nAnd learn me how to lose a winning match,\nPlay’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.\nHood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,\nWith thy black mantle, till strange love, grow bold,\nThink true love acted simple modesty.\nCome, night, come Romeo; come, thou day in night;\nFor thou wilt lie upon the wings of night\nWhiter than new snow upon a raven’s back.\nCome gentle night, come loving black-brow’d night,\nGive me my Romeo, and when I shall die,\nTake him and cut him out in little stars,\nAnd he will make the face of heaven so fine\nThat all the world will be in love with night,\nAnd pay no worship to the garish sun.\nO, I have bought the mansion of a love,\nBut not possess’d it; and though I am sold,\nNot yet enjoy’d. So tedious is this day\nAs is the night before some festival\nTo an impatient child that hath new robes\nAnd may not wear them. O, here comes my Nurse,\nAnd she brings news, and every tongue that speaks\nBut Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence.\n\n Enter Nurse, with cords.\n\nNow, Nurse, what news? What hast thou there?\nThe cords that Romeo bid thee fetch?\n\nNURSE.\nAy, ay, the cords.\n\n [_Throws them down._]\n\nJULIET.\nAy me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands?\n\nNURSE.\nAh, well-a-day, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!\nWe are undone, lady, we are undone.\nAlack the day, he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead.\n\nJULIET.\nCan heaven be so envious?\n\nNURSE.\nRomeo can,\nThough heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo.\nWho ever would have thought it? Romeo!\n\nJULIET.\nWhat devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?\nThis torture should be roar’d in dismal hell.\nHath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but Ay,\nAnd that bare vowel I shall poison more\nThan the death-darting eye of cockatrice.\nI am not I if there be such an I;\nOr those eyes shut that make thee answer Ay.\nIf he be slain, say Ay; or if not, No.\nBrief sounds determine of my weal or woe." -- "NURSE.\nI saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,\nGod save the mark!—here on his manly breast.\nA piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;\nPale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood,\nAll in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight.\n\nJULIET.\nO, break, my heart. Poor bankrout, break at once.\nTo prison, eyes; ne’er look on liberty.\nVile earth to earth resign; end motion here,\nAnd thou and Romeo press one heavy bier.\n\nNURSE.\nO Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had.\nO courteous Tybalt, honest gentleman!\nThat ever I should live to see thee dead.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat storm is this that blows so contrary?\nIs Romeo slaughter’d and is Tybalt dead?\nMy dearest cousin, and my dearer lord?\nThen dreadful trumpet sound the general doom,\nFor who is living, if those two are gone?\n\nNURSE.\nTybalt is gone, and Romeo banished,\nRomeo that kill’d him, he is banished.\n\nJULIET.\nO God! Did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?\n\nNURSE.\nIt did, it did; alas the day, it did.\n\nJULIET.\nO serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!\nDid ever dragon keep so fair a cave?\nBeautiful tyrant, fiend angelical,\nDove-feather’d raven, wolvish-ravening lamb!\nDespised substance of divinest show!\nJust opposite to what thou justly seem’st,\nA damned saint, an honourable villain!\nO nature, what hadst thou to do in hell\nWhen thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend\nIn mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?\nWas ever book containing such vile matter\nSo fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell\nIn such a gorgeous palace.\n\nNURSE.\nThere’s no trust,\nNo faith, no honesty in men. All perjur’d,\nAll forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.\nAh, where’s my man? Give me some aqua vitae.\nThese griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.\nShame come to Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nBlister’d be thy tongue\nFor such a wish! He was not born to shame.\nUpon his brow shame is asham’d to sit;\nFor ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d\nSole monarch of the universal earth.\nO, what a beast was I to chide at him!\n\nNURSE.\nWill you speak well of him that kill’d your cousin?\n\nJULIET.\nShall I speak ill of him that is my husband?\nAh, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,\nWhen I thy three-hours’ wife have mangled it?\nBut wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?\nThat villain cousin would have kill’d my husband.\nBack, foolish tears, back to your native spring,\nYour tributary drops belong to woe,\nWhich you mistaking offer up to joy.\nMy husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain,\nAnd Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband.\nAll this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?\nSome word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,\nThat murder’d me. I would forget it fain,\nBut O, it presses to my memory\nLike damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds.\nTybalt is dead, and Romeo banished.\nThat ‘banished,’ that one word ‘banished,’\nHath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death\nWas woe enough, if it had ended there.\nOr if sour woe delights in fellowship,\nAnd needly will be rank’d with other griefs,\nWhy follow’d not, when she said Tybalt’s dead,\nThy father or thy mother, nay or both,\nWhich modern lamentation might have mov’d?\nBut with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death,\n‘Romeo is banished’—to speak that word\nIs father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,\nAll slain, all dead. Romeo is banished,\nThere is no end, no limit, measure, bound,\nIn that word’s death, no words can that woe sound.\nWhere is my father and my mother, Nurse?\n\nNURSE.\nWeeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse.\nWill you go to them? I will bring you thither." -- "JULIET.\nWash they his wounds with tears. Mine shall be spent,\nWhen theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment.\nTake up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil’d,\nBoth you and I; for Romeo is exil’d.\nHe made you for a highway to my bed,\nBut I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.\nCome cords, come Nurse, I’ll to my wedding bed,\nAnd death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead.\n\nNURSE.\nHie to your chamber. I’ll find Romeo\nTo comfort you. I wot well where he is.\nHark ye, your Romeo will be here at night.\nI’ll to him, he is hid at Lawrence’ cell.\n\nJULIET.\nO find him, give this ring to my true knight,\nAnd bid him come to take his last farewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man.\nAffliction is enanmour’d of thy parts\nAnd thou art wedded to calamity.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nFather, what news? What is the Prince’s doom?\nWhat sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,\nThat I yet know not?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nToo familiar\nIs my dear son with such sour company.\nI bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nA gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips,\nNot body’s death, but body’s banishment.\n\nROMEO.\nHa, banishment? Be merciful, say death;\nFor exile hath more terror in his look,\nMuch more than death. Do not say banishment.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHence from Verona art thou banished.\nBe patient, for the world is broad and wide.\n\nROMEO.\nThere is no world without Verona walls,\nBut purgatory, torture, hell itself.\nHence banished is banish’d from the world,\nAnd world’s exile is death. Then banished\nIs death misterm’d. Calling death banished,\nThou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe,\nAnd smilest upon the stroke that murders me.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness!\nThy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince,\nTaking thy part, hath brush’d aside the law,\nAnd turn’d that black word death to banishment.\nThis is dear mercy, and thou see’st it not.\n\nROMEO.\n’Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here\nWhere Juliet lives, and every cat and dog,\nAnd little mouse, every unworthy thing,\nLive here in heaven and may look on her,\nBut Romeo may not. More validity,\nMore honourable state, more courtship lives\nIn carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize\nOn the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand,\nAnd steal immortal blessing from her lips,\nWho, even in pure and vestal modesty\nStill blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.\nBut Romeo may not, he is banished.\nThis may flies do, when I from this must fly.\nThey are free men but I am banished.\nAnd say’st thou yet that exile is not death?\nHadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife,\nNo sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean,\nBut banished to kill me? Banished?\nO Friar, the damned use that word in hell.\nHowlings attends it. How hast thou the heart,\nBeing a divine, a ghostly confessor,\nA sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d,\nTo mangle me with that word banished?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThou fond mad man, hear me speak a little,\n\nROMEO.\nO, thou wilt speak again of banishment.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI’ll give thee armour to keep off that word,\nAdversity’s sweet milk, philosophy,\nTo comfort thee, though thou art banished.\n\nROMEO.\nYet banished? Hang up philosophy.\nUnless philosophy can make a Juliet,\nDisplant a town, reverse a Prince’s doom,\nIt helps not, it prevails not, talk no more.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO, then I see that mad men have no ears." -- "ROMEO.\nHow should they, when that wise men have no eyes?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nLet me dispute with thee of thy estate.\n\nROMEO.\nThou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel.\nWert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,\nAn hour but married, Tybalt murdered,\nDoting like me, and like me banished,\nThen mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,\nAnd fall upon the ground as I do now,\nTaking the measure of an unmade grave.\n\n [_Knocking within._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nArise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.\n\nROMEO.\nNot I, unless the breath of heartsick groans\nMist-like infold me from the search of eyes.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHark, how they knock!—Who’s there?—Romeo, arise,\nThou wilt be taken.—Stay awhile.—Stand up.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nRun to my study.—By-and-by.—God’s will,\nWhat simpleness is this.—I come, I come.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nWho knocks so hard? Whence come you, what’s your will?\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand.\nI come from Lady Juliet.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWelcome then.\n\n Enter Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nO holy Friar, O, tell me, holy Friar,\nWhere is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThere on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.\n\nNURSE.\nO, he is even in my mistress’ case.\nJust in her case! O woeful sympathy!\nPiteous predicament. Even so lies she,\nBlubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.\nStand up, stand up; stand, and you be a man.\nFor Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand.\nWhy should you fall into so deep an O?\n\nROMEO.\nNurse.\n\nNURSE.\nAh sir, ah sir, death’s the end of all.\n\nROMEO.\nSpakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her?\nDoth not she think me an old murderer,\nNow I have stain’d the childhood of our joy\nWith blood remov’d but little from her own?\nWhere is she? And how doth she? And what says\nMy conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love?\n\nNURSE.\nO, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;\nAnd now falls on her bed, and then starts up,\nAnd Tybalt calls, and then on Romeo cries,\nAnd then down falls again.\n\nROMEO.\nAs if that name,\nShot from the deadly level of a gun,\nDid murder her, as that name’s cursed hand\nMurder’d her kinsman. O, tell me, Friar, tell me,\nIn what vile part of this anatomy\nDoth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack\nThe hateful mansion.\n\n [_Drawing his sword._]" +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThese violent delights have violent ends,\nAnd in their triumph die; like fire and powder,\nWhich as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey\nIs loathsome in his own deliciousness,\nAnd in the taste confounds the appetite.\nTherefore love moderately: long love doth so;\nToo swift arrives as tardy as too slow.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nHere comes the lady. O, so light a foot\nWill ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.\nA lover may bestride the gossamers\nThat idles in the wanton summer air\nAnd yet not fall; so light is vanity.\n\nJULIET.\nGood even to my ghostly confessor.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.\n\nJULIET.\nAs much to him, else is his thanks too much.\n\nROMEO.\nAh, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy\nBe heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue\nUnfold the imagin’d happiness that both\nReceive in either by this dear encounter.\n\nJULIET.\nConceit more rich in matter than in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of ornament.\nThey are but beggars that can count their worth;\nBut my true love is grown to such excess,\nI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would\nkill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a\nhair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel\nwith a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou\nhast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?\nThy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy\nhead hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast\nquarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath\nwakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall\nout with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with\nanother for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt\ntutor me from quarrelling!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee\nsimple of my life for an hour and a quarter.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThe fee simple! O simple!\n\n Enter Tybalt and others.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy my head, here comes the Capulets.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBy my heel, I care not.\n\nTYBALT.\nFollow me close, for I will speak to them.\nGentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a\nword and a blow.\n\nTYBALT.\nYou shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me\noccasion.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCould you not take some occasion without giving?\n\nTYBALT.\nMercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nConsort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of\nus, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick, here’s\nthat shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWe talk here in the public haunt of men.\nEither withdraw unto some private place,\nAnd reason coldly of your grievances,\nOr else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nMen’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.\nI will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nTYBALT.\nWell, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBut I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery.\nMarry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower;\nYour worship in that sense may call him man.\n\nTYBALT.\nRomeo, the love I bear thee can afford\nNo better term than this: Thou art a villain.\n\nROMEO.\nTybalt, the reason that I have to love thee\nDoth much excuse the appertaining rage\nTo such a greeting. Villain am I none;\nTherefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.\n\nTYBALT.\nBoy, this shall not excuse the injuries\nThat thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw.\n\nROMEO.\nI do protest I never injur’d thee,\nBut love thee better than thou canst devise\nTill thou shalt know the reason of my love.\nAnd so good Capulet, which name I tender\nAs dearly as mine own, be satisfied." +- "MERCUTIO.\nO calm, dishonourable, vile submission!\n[_Draws._] Alla stoccata carries it away.\nTybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat wouldst thou have with me?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nGood King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to\nmake bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest\nof the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears?\nMake haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.\n\nTYBALT.\n[_Drawing._] I am for you.\n\nROMEO.\nGentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, sir, your passado.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nROMEO.\nDraw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.\nGentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage,\nTybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath\nForbid this bandying in Verona streets.\nHold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!\n\n [_Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans._]\n\nMERCUTIO.\nI am hurt.\nA plague o’ both your houses. I am sped.\nIs he gone, and hath nothing?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhat, art thou hurt?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAy, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough.\nWhere is my page? Go villain, fetch a surgeon.\n\n [_Exit Page._]\n\nROMEO.\nCourage, man; the hurt cannot be much.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNo, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis\nenough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a\ngrave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both\nyour houses. Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to\ndeath. A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of\narithmetic!—Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your\narm.\n\nROMEO.\nI thought all for the best.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHelp me into some house, Benvolio,\nOr I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses.\nThey have made worms’ meat of me.\nI have it, and soundly too. Your houses!\n\n [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._]\n\nROMEO.\nThis gentleman, the Prince’s near ally,\nMy very friend, hath got his mortal hurt\nIn my behalf; my reputation stain’d\nWith Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour\nHath been my cousin. O sweet Juliet,\nThy beauty hath made me effeminate\nAnd in my temper soften’d valour’s steel.\n\n Re-enter Benvolio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead,\nThat gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds,\nWhich too untimely here did scorn the earth.\n\nROMEO.\nThis day’s black fate on mo days doth depend;\nThis but begins the woe others must end.\n\n Re-enter Tybalt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere comes the furious Tybalt back again.\n\nROMEO.\nAgain in triumph, and Mercutio slain?\nAway to heaven respective lenity,\nAnd fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now!\nNow, Tybalt, take the ‘villain’ back again\nThat late thou gav’st me, for Mercutio’s soul\nIs but a little way above our heads,\nStaying for thine to keep him company.\nEither thou or I, or both, must go with him.\n\nTYBALT.\nThou wretched boy, that didst consort him here,\nShalt with him hence.\n\nROMEO.\nThis shall determine that.\n\n [_They fight; Tybalt falls._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo, away, be gone!\nThe citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.\nStand not amaz’d. The Prince will doom thee death\nIf thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away!\n\nROMEO.\nO, I am fortune’s fool!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy dost thou stay?\n\n [_Exit Romeo._]\n\n Enter Citizens." +- "FIRST CITIZEN.\nWhich way ran he that kill’d Mercutio?\nTybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThere lies that Tybalt.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nUp, sir, go with me.\nI charge thee in the Prince’s name obey.\n\n Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives and others.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhere are the vile beginners of this fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO noble Prince, I can discover all\nThe unlucky manage of this fatal brawl.\nThere lies the man, slain by young Romeo,\nThat slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child!\nO Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill’d\nOf my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true,\nFor blood of ours shed blood of Montague.\nO cousin, cousin.\n\nPRINCE.\nBenvolio, who began this bloody fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay;\nRomeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink\nHow nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal\nYour high displeasure. All this uttered\nWith gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d\nCould not take truce with the unruly spleen\nOf Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts\nWith piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast,\nWho, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,\nAnd, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats\nCold death aside, and with the other sends\nIt back to Tybalt, whose dexterity\nRetorts it. Romeo he cries aloud,\n‘Hold, friends! Friends, part!’ and swifter than his tongue,\nHis agile arm beats down their fatal points,\nAnd ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm\nAn envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life\nOf stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled.\nBut by and by comes back to Romeo,\nWho had but newly entertain’d revenge,\nAnd to’t they go like lightning; for, ere I\nCould draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain;\nAnd as he fell did Romeo turn and fly.\nThis is the truth, or let Benvolio die.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nHe is a kinsman to the Montague.\nAffection makes him false, he speaks not true.\nSome twenty of them fought in this black strife,\nAnd all those twenty could but kill one life.\nI beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give;\nRomeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.\n\nPRINCE.\nRomeo slew him, he slew Mercutio.\nWho now the price of his dear blood doth owe?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nNot Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio’s friend;\nHis fault concludes but what the law should end,\nThe life of Tybalt.\n\nPRINCE.\nAnd for that offence\nImmediately we do exile him hence.\nI have an interest in your hate’s proceeding,\nMy blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding.\nBut I’ll amerce you with so strong a fine\nThat you shall all repent the loss of mine.\nI will be deaf to pleading and excuses;\nNor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses.\nTherefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste,\nElse, when he is found, that hour is his last.\nBear hence this body, and attend our will.\nMercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Juliet." +- "JULIET.\nGallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,\nTowards Phoebus’ lodging. Such a waggoner\nAs Phaeton would whip you to the west\nAnd bring in cloudy night immediately.\nSpread thy close curtain, love-performing night,\nThat runaway’s eyes may wink, and Romeo\nLeap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen.\nLovers can see to do their amorous rites\nBy their own beauties: or, if love be blind,\nIt best agrees with night. Come, civil night,\nThou sober-suited matron, all in black,\nAnd learn me how to lose a winning match,\nPlay’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.\nHood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,\nWith thy black mantle, till strange love, grow bold,\nThink true love acted simple modesty.\nCome, night, come Romeo; come, thou day in night;\nFor thou wilt lie upon the wings of night\nWhiter than new snow upon a raven’s back.\nCome gentle night, come loving black-brow’d night,\nGive me my Romeo, and when I shall die,\nTake him and cut him out in little stars,\nAnd he will make the face of heaven so fine\nThat all the world will be in love with night,\nAnd pay no worship to the garish sun.\nO, I have bought the mansion of a love,\nBut not possess’d it; and though I am sold,\nNot yet enjoy’d. So tedious is this day\nAs is the night before some festival\nTo an impatient child that hath new robes\nAnd may not wear them. O, here comes my Nurse,\nAnd she brings news, and every tongue that speaks\nBut Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence.\n\n Enter Nurse, with cords.\n\nNow, Nurse, what news? What hast thou there?\nThe cords that Romeo bid thee fetch?\n\nNURSE.\nAy, ay, the cords.\n\n [_Throws them down._]\n\nJULIET.\nAy me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands?\n\nNURSE.\nAh, well-a-day, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!\nWe are undone, lady, we are undone.\nAlack the day, he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead.\n\nJULIET.\nCan heaven be so envious?\n\nNURSE.\nRomeo can,\nThough heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo.\nWho ever would have thought it? Romeo!\n\nJULIET.\nWhat devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?\nThis torture should be roar’d in dismal hell.\nHath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but Ay,\nAnd that bare vowel I shall poison more\nThan the death-darting eye of cockatrice.\nI am not I if there be such an I;\nOr those eyes shut that make thee answer Ay.\nIf he be slain, say Ay; or if not, No.\nBrief sounds determine of my weal or woe.\n\nNURSE.\nI saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,\nGod save the mark!—here on his manly breast.\nA piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;\nPale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood,\nAll in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight.\n\nJULIET.\nO, break, my heart. Poor bankrout, break at once.\nTo prison, eyes; ne’er look on liberty.\nVile earth to earth resign; end motion here,\nAnd thou and Romeo press one heavy bier.\n\nNURSE.\nO Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had.\nO courteous Tybalt, honest gentleman!\nThat ever I should live to see thee dead.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat storm is this that blows so contrary?\nIs Romeo slaughter’d and is Tybalt dead?\nMy dearest cousin, and my dearer lord?\nThen dreadful trumpet sound the general doom,\nFor who is living, if those two are gone?\n\nNURSE.\nTybalt is gone, and Romeo banished,\nRomeo that kill’d him, he is banished.\n\nJULIET.\nO God! Did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?\n\nNURSE.\nIt did, it did; alas the day, it did." +- "JULIET.\nO serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!\nDid ever dragon keep so fair a cave?\nBeautiful tyrant, fiend angelical,\nDove-feather’d raven, wolvish-ravening lamb!\nDespised substance of divinest show!\nJust opposite to what thou justly seem’st,\nA damned saint, an honourable villain!\nO nature, what hadst thou to do in hell\nWhen thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend\nIn mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?\nWas ever book containing such vile matter\nSo fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell\nIn such a gorgeous palace.\n\nNURSE.\nThere’s no trust,\nNo faith, no honesty in men. All perjur’d,\nAll forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.\nAh, where’s my man? Give me some aqua vitae.\nThese griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.\nShame come to Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nBlister’d be thy tongue\nFor such a wish! He was not born to shame.\nUpon his brow shame is asham’d to sit;\nFor ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d\nSole monarch of the universal earth.\nO, what a beast was I to chide at him!\n\nNURSE.\nWill you speak well of him that kill’d your cousin?\n\nJULIET.\nShall I speak ill of him that is my husband?\nAh, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,\nWhen I thy three-hours’ wife have mangled it?\nBut wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?\nThat villain cousin would have kill’d my husband.\nBack, foolish tears, back to your native spring,\nYour tributary drops belong to woe,\nWhich you mistaking offer up to joy.\nMy husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain,\nAnd Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband.\nAll this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?\nSome word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,\nThat murder’d me. I would forget it fain,\nBut O, it presses to my memory\nLike damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds.\nTybalt is dead, and Romeo banished.\nThat ‘banished,’ that one word ‘banished,’\nHath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death\nWas woe enough, if it had ended there.\nOr if sour woe delights in fellowship,\nAnd needly will be rank’d with other griefs,\nWhy follow’d not, when she said Tybalt’s dead,\nThy father or thy mother, nay or both,\nWhich modern lamentation might have mov’d?\nBut with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death,\n‘Romeo is banished’—to speak that word\nIs father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,\nAll slain, all dead. Romeo is banished,\nThere is no end, no limit, measure, bound,\nIn that word’s death, no words can that woe sound.\nWhere is my father and my mother, Nurse?\n\nNURSE.\nWeeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse.\nWill you go to them? I will bring you thither.\n\nJULIET.\nWash they his wounds with tears. Mine shall be spent,\nWhen theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment.\nTake up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil’d,\nBoth you and I; for Romeo is exil’d.\nHe made you for a highway to my bed,\nBut I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.\nCome cords, come Nurse, I’ll to my wedding bed,\nAnd death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead.\n\nNURSE.\nHie to your chamber. I’ll find Romeo\nTo comfort you. I wot well where he is.\nHark ye, your Romeo will be here at night.\nI’ll to him, he is hid at Lawrence’ cell.\n\nJULIET.\nO find him, give this ring to my true knight,\nAnd bid him come to take his last farewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man.\nAffliction is enanmour’d of thy parts\nAnd thou art wedded to calamity.\n\n Enter Romeo." +- "ROMEO.\nFather, what news? What is the Prince’s doom?\nWhat sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,\nThat I yet know not?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nToo familiar\nIs my dear son with such sour company.\nI bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nA gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips,\nNot body’s death, but body’s banishment.\n\nROMEO.\nHa, banishment? Be merciful, say death;\nFor exile hath more terror in his look,\nMuch more than death. Do not say banishment.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHence from Verona art thou banished.\nBe patient, for the world is broad and wide.\n\nROMEO.\nThere is no world without Verona walls,\nBut purgatory, torture, hell itself.\nHence banished is banish’d from the world,\nAnd world’s exile is death. Then banished\nIs death misterm’d. Calling death banished,\nThou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe,\nAnd smilest upon the stroke that murders me.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness!\nThy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince,\nTaking thy part, hath brush’d aside the law,\nAnd turn’d that black word death to banishment.\nThis is dear mercy, and thou see’st it not.\n\nROMEO.\n’Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here\nWhere Juliet lives, and every cat and dog,\nAnd little mouse, every unworthy thing,\nLive here in heaven and may look on her,\nBut Romeo may not. More validity,\nMore honourable state, more courtship lives\nIn carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize\nOn the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand,\nAnd steal immortal blessing from her lips,\nWho, even in pure and vestal modesty\nStill blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.\nBut Romeo may not, he is banished.\nThis may flies do, when I from this must fly.\nThey are free men but I am banished.\nAnd say’st thou yet that exile is not death?\nHadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife,\nNo sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean,\nBut banished to kill me? Banished?\nO Friar, the damned use that word in hell.\nHowlings attends it. How hast thou the heart,\nBeing a divine, a ghostly confessor,\nA sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d,\nTo mangle me with that word banished?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThou fond mad man, hear me speak a little,\n\nROMEO.\nO, thou wilt speak again of banishment.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI’ll give thee armour to keep off that word,\nAdversity’s sweet milk, philosophy,\nTo comfort thee, though thou art banished.\n\nROMEO.\nYet banished? Hang up philosophy.\nUnless philosophy can make a Juliet,\nDisplant a town, reverse a Prince’s doom,\nIt helps not, it prevails not, talk no more.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO, then I see that mad men have no ears.\n\nROMEO.\nHow should they, when that wise men have no eyes?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nLet me dispute with thee of thy estate.\n\nROMEO.\nThou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel.\nWert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,\nAn hour but married, Tybalt murdered,\nDoting like me, and like me banished,\nThen mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,\nAnd fall upon the ground as I do now,\nTaking the measure of an unmade grave.\n\n [_Knocking within._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nArise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.\n\nROMEO.\nNot I, unless the breath of heartsick groans\nMist-like infold me from the search of eyes.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHark, how they knock!—Who’s there?—Romeo, arise,\nThou wilt be taken.—Stay awhile.—Stand up.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nRun to my study.—By-and-by.—God’s will,\nWhat simpleness is this.—I come, I come.\n\n [_Knocking._]" +- "Who knocks so hard? Whence come you, what’s your will?\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand.\nI come from Lady Juliet.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWelcome then.\n\n Enter Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nO holy Friar, O, tell me, holy Friar,\nWhere is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThere on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.\n\nNURSE.\nO, he is even in my mistress’ case.\nJust in her case! O woeful sympathy!\nPiteous predicament. Even so lies she,\nBlubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.\nStand up, stand up; stand, and you be a man.\nFor Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand.\nWhy should you fall into so deep an O?\n\nROMEO.\nNurse.\n\nNURSE.\nAh sir, ah sir, death’s the end of all.\n\nROMEO.\nSpakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her?\nDoth not she think me an old murderer,\nNow I have stain’d the childhood of our joy\nWith blood remov’d but little from her own?\nWhere is she? And how doth she? And what says\nMy conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love?\n\nNURSE.\nO, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;\nAnd now falls on her bed, and then starts up,\nAnd Tybalt calls, and then on Romeo cries,\nAnd then down falls again.\n\nROMEO.\nAs if that name,\nShot from the deadly level of a gun,\nDid murder her, as that name’s cursed hand\nMurder’d her kinsman. O, tell me, Friar, tell me,\nIn what vile part of this anatomy\nDoth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack\nThe hateful mansion.\n\n [_Drawing his sword._]" - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold thy desperate hand.\nArt thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art.\nThy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote\nThe unreasonable fury of a beast.\nUnseemly woman in a seeming man,\nAnd ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!\nThou hast amaz’d me. By my holy order,\nI thought thy disposition better temper’d.\nHast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself?\nAnd slay thy lady, that in thy life lives,\nBy doing damned hate upon thyself?\nWhy rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven and earth?\nSince birth, and heaven and earth, all three do meet\nIn thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose.\nFie, fie, thou sham’st thy shape, thy love, thy wit,\nWhich, like a usurer, abound’st in all,\nAnd usest none in that true use indeed\nWhich should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit.\nThy noble shape is but a form of wax,\nDigressing from the valour of a man;\nThy dear love sworn but hollow perjury,\nKilling that love which thou hast vow’d to cherish;\nThy wit, that ornament to shape and love,\nMisshapen in the conduct of them both,\nLike powder in a skilless soldier’s flask,\nIs set afire by thine own ignorance,\nAnd thou dismember’d with thine own defence.\nWhat, rouse thee, man. Thy Juliet is alive,\nFor whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead.\nThere art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee,\nBut thou slew’st Tybalt; there art thou happy.\nThe law that threaten’d death becomes thy friend,\nAnd turns it to exile; there art thou happy.\nA pack of blessings light upon thy back;\nHappiness courts thee in her best array;\nBut like a misshaped and sullen wench,\nThou putt’st up thy Fortune and thy love.\nTake heed, take heed, for such die miserable.\nGo, get thee to thy love as was decreed,\nAscend her chamber, hence and comfort her.\nBut look thou stay not till the watch be set,\nFor then thou canst not pass to Mantua;\nWhere thou shalt live till we can find a time\nTo blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,\nBeg pardon of the Prince, and call thee back\nWith twenty hundred thousand times more joy\nThan thou went’st forth in lamentation.\nGo before, Nurse. Commend me to thy lady,\nAnd bid her hasten all the house to bed,\nWhich heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.\nRomeo is coming.\n\nNURSE.\nO Lord, I could have stay’d here all the night\nTo hear good counsel. O, what learning is!\nMy lord, I’ll tell my lady you will come.\n\nROMEO.\nDo so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.\n\nNURSE.\nHere sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir.\nHie you, make haste, for it grows very late.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nHow well my comfort is reviv’d by this.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nGo hence, good night, and here stands all your state:\nEither be gone before the watch be set,\nOr by the break of day disguis’d from hence.\nSojourn in Mantua. I’ll find out your man,\nAnd he shall signify from time to time\nEvery good hap to you that chances here.\nGive me thy hand; ’tis late; farewell; good night.\n\nROMEO.\nBut that a joy past joy calls out on me,\nIt were a grief so brief to part with thee.\nFarewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and Paris.\n\nCAPULET.\nThings have fallen out, sir, so unluckily\nThat we have had no time to move our daughter.\nLook you, she lov’d her kinsman Tybalt dearly,\nAnd so did I. Well, we were born to die.\n’Tis very late; she’ll not come down tonight.\nI promise you, but for your company,\nI would have been abed an hour ago.\n\nPARIS.\nThese times of woe afford no tune to woo.\nMadam, good night. Commend me to your daughter." - "LADY CAPULET.\nI will, and know her mind early tomorrow;\nTonight she’s mew’d up to her heaviness.\n\nCAPULET.\nSir Paris, I will make a desperate tender\nOf my child’s love. I think she will be rul’d\nIn all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.\nWife, go you to her ere you go to bed,\nAcquaint her here of my son Paris’ love,\nAnd bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next,\nBut, soft, what day is this?\n\nPARIS.\nMonday, my lord.\n\nCAPULET.\nMonday! Ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,\nA Thursday let it be; a Thursday, tell her,\nShe shall be married to this noble earl.\nWill you be ready? Do you like this haste?\nWe’ll keep no great ado,—a friend or two,\nFor, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,\nIt may be thought we held him carelessly,\nBeing our kinsman, if we revel much.\nTherefore we’ll have some half a dozen friends,\nAnd there an end. But what say you to Thursday?\n\nPARIS.\nMy lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow.\n\nCAPULET.\nWell, get you gone. A Thursday be it then.\nGo you to Juliet ere you go to bed,\nPrepare her, wife, against this wedding day.\nFarewell, my lord.—Light to my chamber, ho!\nAfore me, it is so very very late that we\nMay call it early by and by. Good night.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo and Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nWilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.\nIt was the nightingale, and not the lark,\nThat pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear;\nNightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree.\nBelieve me, love, it was the nightingale.\n\nROMEO.\nIt was the lark, the herald of the morn,\nNo nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks\nDo lace the severing clouds in yonder east.\nNight’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day\nStands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.\nI must be gone and live, or stay and die.\n\nJULIET.\nYond light is not daylight, I know it, I.\nIt is some meteor that the sun exhales\nTo be to thee this night a torchbearer\nAnd light thee on thy way to Mantua.\nTherefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone.\n\nROMEO.\nLet me be ta’en, let me be put to death,\nI am content, so thou wilt have it so.\nI’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye,\n’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow.\nNor that is not the lark whose notes do beat\nThe vaulty heaven so high above our heads.\nI have more care to stay than will to go.\nCome, death, and welcome. Juliet wills it so.\nHow is’t, my soul? Let’s talk. It is not day.\n\nJULIET.\nIt is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away.\nIt is the lark that sings so out of tune,\nStraining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.\nSome say the lark makes sweet division;\nThis doth not so, for she divideth us.\nSome say the lark and loathed toad change eyes.\nO, now I would they had chang’d voices too,\nSince arm from arm that voice doth us affray,\nHunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day.\nO now be gone, more light and light it grows.\n\nROMEO.\nMore light and light, more dark and dark our woes.\n\n Enter Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nMadam.\n\nJULIET.\nNurse?\n\nNURSE.\nYour lady mother is coming to your chamber.\nThe day is broke, be wary, look about.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nThen, window, let day in, and let life out.\n\nROMEO.\nFarewell, farewell, one kiss, and I’ll descend.\n\n [_Descends._]" - "JULIET.\nArt thou gone so? Love, lord, ay husband, friend,\nI must hear from thee every day in the hour,\nFor in a minute there are many days.\nO, by this count I shall be much in years\nEre I again behold my Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nFarewell!\nI will omit no opportunity\nThat may convey my greetings, love, to thee.\n\nJULIET.\nO thinkest thou we shall ever meet again?\n\nROMEO.\nI doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve\nFor sweet discourses in our time to come.\n\nJULIET.\nO God! I have an ill-divining soul!\nMethinks I see thee, now thou art so low,\nAs one dead in the bottom of a tomb.\nEither my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd trust me, love, in my eye so do you.\nDry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu.\n\n [_Exit below._]\n\nJULIET.\nO Fortune, Fortune! All men call thee fickle,\nIf thou art fickle, what dost thou with him\nThat is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, Fortune;\nFor then, I hope thou wilt not keep him long\nBut send him back.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\n[_Within._] Ho, daughter, are you up?\n\nJULIET.\nWho is’t that calls? Is it my lady mother?\nIs she not down so late, or up so early?\nWhat unaccustom’d cause procures her hither?\n\n Enter Lady Capulet.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhy, how now, Juliet?\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, I am not well.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nEvermore weeping for your cousin’s death?\nWhat, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?\nAnd if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live.\nTherefore have done: some grief shows much of love,\nBut much of grief shows still some want of wit.\n\nJULIET.\nYet let me weep for such a feeling loss.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nSo shall you feel the loss, but not the friend\nWhich you weep for.\n\nJULIET.\nFeeling so the loss,\nI cannot choose but ever weep the friend.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death\nAs that the villain lives which slaughter’d him.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat villain, madam?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThat same villain Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nVillain and he be many miles asunder.\nGod pardon him. I do, with all my heart.\nAnd yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThat is because the traitor murderer lives.\n\nJULIET.\nAy madam, from the reach of these my hands.\nWould none but I might venge my cousin’s death.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe will have vengeance for it, fear thou not.\nThen weep no more. I’ll send to one in Mantua,\nWhere that same banish’d runagate doth live,\nShall give him such an unaccustom’d dram\nThat he shall soon keep Tybalt company:\nAnd then I hope thou wilt be satisfied.\n\nJULIET.\nIndeed I never shall be satisfied\nWith Romeo till I behold him—dead—\nIs my poor heart so for a kinsman vex’d.\nMadam, if you could find out but a man\nTo bear a poison, I would temper it,\nThat Romeo should upon receipt thereof,\nSoon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors\nTo hear him nam’d, and cannot come to him,\nTo wreak the love I bore my cousin\nUpon his body that hath slaughter’d him.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nFind thou the means, and I’ll find such a man.\nBut now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.\n\nJULIET.\nAnd joy comes well in such a needy time.\nWhat are they, I beseech your ladyship?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, well, thou hast a careful father, child;\nOne who to put thee from thy heaviness,\nHath sorted out a sudden day of joy,\nThat thou expects not, nor I look’d not for." - "JULIET.\nMadam, in happy time, what day is that?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nMarry, my child, early next Thursday morn\nThe gallant, young, and noble gentleman,\nThe County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church,\nShall happily make thee there a joyful bride.\n\nJULIET.\nNow by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too,\nHe shall not make me there a joyful bride.\nI wonder at this haste, that I must wed\nEre he that should be husband comes to woo.\nI pray you tell my lord and father, madam,\nI will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear\nIt shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,\nRather than Paris. These are news indeed.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nHere comes your father, tell him so yourself,\nAnd see how he will take it at your hands.\n\n Enter Capulet and Nurse.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhen the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;\nBut for the sunset of my brother’s son\nIt rains downright.\nHow now? A conduit, girl? What, still in tears?\nEvermore showering? In one little body\nThou counterfeits a bark, a sea, a wind.\nFor still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,\nDo ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,\nSailing in this salt flood, the winds, thy sighs,\nWho raging with thy tears and they with them,\nWithout a sudden calm will overset\nThy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife?\nHave you deliver’d to her our decree?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAy, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.\nI would the fool were married to her grave.\n\nCAPULET.\nSoft. Take me with you, take me with you, wife.\nHow, will she none? Doth she not give us thanks?\nIs she not proud? Doth she not count her blest,\nUnworthy as she is, that we have wrought\nSo worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?\n\nJULIET.\nNot proud you have, but thankful that you have.\nProud can I never be of what I hate;\nBut thankful even for hate that is meant love.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow now, how now, chopp’d logic? What is this?\nProud, and, I thank you, and I thank you not;\nAnd yet not proud. Mistress minion you,\nThank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,\nBut fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next\nTo go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church,\nOr I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.\nOut, you green-sickness carrion! Out, you baggage!\nYou tallow-face!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nFie, fie! What, are you mad?\n\nJULIET.\nGood father, I beseech you on my knees,\nHear me with patience but to speak a word.\n\nCAPULET.\nHang thee young baggage, disobedient wretch!\nI tell thee what,—get thee to church a Thursday,\nOr never after look me in the face.\nSpeak not, reply not, do not answer me.\nMy fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest\nThat God had lent us but this only child;\nBut now I see this one is one too much,\nAnd that we have a curse in having her.\nOut on her, hilding.\n\nNURSE.\nGod in heaven bless her.\nYou are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.\n\nCAPULET.\nAnd why, my lady wisdom? Hold your tongue,\nGood prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.\n\nNURSE.\nI speak no treason.\n\nCAPULET.\nO God ye good-en!\n\nNURSE.\nMay not one speak?\n\nCAPULET.\nPeace, you mumbling fool!\nUtter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl,\nFor here we need it not.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nYou are too hot." -- "CAPULET.\nGod’s bread, it makes me mad!\nDay, night, hour, ride, time, work, play,\nAlone, in company, still my care hath been\nTo have her match’d, and having now provided\nA gentleman of noble parentage,\nOf fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly allied,\nStuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,\nProportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man,\nAnd then to have a wretched puling fool,\nA whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,\nTo answer, ‘I’ll not wed, I cannot love,\nI am too young, I pray you pardon me.’\nBut, and you will not wed, I’ll pardon you.\nGraze where you will, you shall not house with me.\nLook to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.\nThursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise.\nAnd you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;\nAnd you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,\nFor by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,\nNor what is mine shall never do thee good.\nTrust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nIs there no pity sitting in the clouds,\nThat sees into the bottom of my grief?\nO sweet my mother, cast me not away,\nDelay this marriage for a month, a week,\nOr, if you do not, make the bridal bed\nIn that dim monument where Tybalt lies.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTalk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word.\nDo as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented?\nMy husband is on earth, my faith in heaven.\nHow shall that faith return again to earth,\nUnless that husband send it me from heaven\nBy leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me.\nAlack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems\nUpon so soft a subject as myself.\nWhat say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?\nSome comfort, Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, here it is.\nRomeo is banished; and all the world to nothing\nThat he dares ne’er come back to challenge you.\nOr if he do, it needs must be by stealth.\nThen, since the case so stands as now it doth,\nI think it best you married with the County.\nO, he’s a lovely gentleman.\nRomeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,\nHath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye\nAs Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,\nI think you are happy in this second match,\nFor it excels your first: or if it did not,\nYour first is dead, or ’twere as good he were,\nAs living here and you no use of him.\n\nJULIET.\nSpeakest thou from thy heart?\n\nNURSE.\nAnd from my soul too,\nOr else beshrew them both.\n\nJULIET.\nAmen.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat?\n\nJULIET.\nWell, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\nGo in, and tell my lady I am gone,\nHaving displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,\nTo make confession and to be absolv’d.\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, I will; and this is wisely done.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\nIf all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste." -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\nPARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society.\nNow do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife.\n\nPARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nI will confess to you that I love him.\n\nPARIS.\nSo will ye, I am sure, that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf I do so, it will be of more price,\nBeing spoke behind your back than to your face.\n\nPARIS.\nPoor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.\n\nJULIET.\nThe tears have got small victory by that;\nFor it was bad enough before their spite.\n\nPARIS.\nThou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.\n\nJULIET.\nThat is no slander, sir, which is a truth,\nAnd what I spake, I spake it to my face.\n\nPARIS.\nThy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.\n\nJULIET.\nIt may be so, for it is not mine own.\nAre you at leisure, holy father, now,\nOr shall I come to you at evening mass?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nMy leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.—\nMy lord, we must entreat the time alone.\n\nPARIS.\nGod shield I should disturb devotion!—\nJuliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye,\nTill then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO shut the door, and when thou hast done so,\nCome weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO Juliet, I already know thy grief;\nIt strains me past the compass of my wits.\nI hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,\nOn Thursday next be married to this County.\n\nJULIET.\nTell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this,\nUnless thou tell me how I may prevent it.\nIf in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,\nDo thou but call my resolution wise,\nAnd with this knife I’ll help it presently.\nGod join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;\nAnd ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d,\nShall be the label to another deed,\nOr my true heart with treacherous revolt\nTurn to another, this shall slay them both.\nTherefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,\nGive me some present counsel, or behold\n’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife\nShall play the empire, arbitrating that\nWhich the commission of thy years and art\nCould to no issue of true honour bring.\nBe not so long to speak. I long to die,\nIf what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope,\nWhich craves as desperate an execution\nAs that is desperate which we would prevent.\nIf, rather than to marry County Paris\nThou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,\nThen is it likely thou wilt undertake\nA thing like death to chide away this shame,\nThat cop’st with death himself to scape from it.\nAnd if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy." -- "JULIET.\nO, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,\nFrom off the battlements of yonder tower,\nOr walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk\nWhere serpents are. Chain me with roaring bears;\nOr hide me nightly in a charnel-house,\nO’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones,\nWith reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls.\nOr bid me go into a new-made grave,\nAnd hide me with a dead man in his shroud;\nThings that, to hear them told, have made me tremble,\nAnd I will do it without fear or doubt,\nTo live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold then. Go home, be merry, give consent\nTo marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow;\nTomorrow night look that thou lie alone,\nLet not thy Nurse lie with thee in thy chamber.\nTake thou this vial, being then in bed,\nAnd this distilled liquor drink thou off,\nWhen presently through all thy veins shall run\nA cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse\nShall keep his native progress, but surcease.\nNo warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest,\nThe roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade\nTo paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall,\nLike death when he shuts up the day of life.\nEach part depriv’d of supple government,\nShall stiff and stark and cold appear like death.\nAnd in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death\nThou shalt continue two and forty hours,\nAnd then awake as from a pleasant sleep.\nNow when the bridegroom in the morning comes\nTo rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.\nThen as the manner of our country is,\nIn thy best robes, uncover’d, on the bier,\nThou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault\nWhere all the kindred of the Capulets lie.\nIn the meantime, against thou shalt awake,\nShall Romeo by my letters know our drift,\nAnd hither shall he come, and he and I\nWill watch thy waking, and that very night\nShall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.\nAnd this shall free thee from this present shame,\nIf no inconstant toy nor womanish fear\nAbate thy valour in the acting it.\n\nJULIET.\nGive me, give me! O tell not me of fear!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous\nIn this resolve. I’ll send a friar with speed\nTo Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.\n\nJULIET.\nLove give me strength, and strength shall help afford.\nFarewell, dear father.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse and Servants.\n\nCAPULET.\nSo many guests invite as here are writ.\n\n [_Exit first Servant._]\n\nSirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nYou shall have none ill, sir; for I’ll try if they can lick their\nfingers.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow canst thou try them so?\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nMarry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers;\ntherefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo, begone.\n\n [_Exit second Servant._]\n\nWe shall be much unfurnish’d for this time.\nWhat, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence?\n\nNURSE.\nAy, forsooth.\n\nCAPULET.\nWell, he may chance to do some good on her.\nA peevish self-will’d harlotry it is.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nNURSE.\nSee where she comes from shrift with merry look.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow now, my headstrong. Where have you been gadding?\n\nJULIET.\nWhere I have learnt me to repent the sin\nOf disobedient opposition\nTo you and your behests; and am enjoin’d\nBy holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here,\nTo beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you.\nHenceforward I am ever rul’d by you.\n\nCAPULET.\nSend for the County, go tell him of this.\nI’ll have this knot knit up tomorrow morning." -- "JULIET.\nI met the youthful lord at Lawrence’ cell,\nAnd gave him what becomed love I might,\nNot stepping o’er the bounds of modesty.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhy, I am glad on’t. This is well. Stand up.\nThis is as’t should be. Let me see the County.\nAy, marry. Go, I say, and fetch him hither.\nNow afore God, this reverend holy Friar,\nAll our whole city is much bound to him.\n\nJULIET.\nNurse, will you go with me into my closet,\nTo help me sort such needful ornaments\nAs you think fit to furnish me tomorrow?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNo, not till Thursday. There is time enough.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo, Nurse, go with her. We’ll to church tomorrow.\n\n [_Exeunt Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe shall be short in our provision,\n’Tis now near night.\n\nCAPULET.\nTush, I will stir about,\nAnd all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife.\nGo thou to Juliet, help to deck up her.\nI’ll not to bed tonight, let me alone.\nI’ll play the housewife for this once.—What, ho!—\nThey are all forth: well, I will walk myself\nTo County Paris, to prepare him up\nAgainst tomorrow. My heart is wondrous light\nSince this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Juliet’s Chamber.\n\n Enter Juliet and Nurse.\n\nJULIET.\nAy, those attires are best. But, gentle Nurse,\nI pray thee leave me to myself tonight;\nFor I have need of many orisons\nTo move the heavens to smile upon my state,\nWhich, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat, are you busy, ho? Need you my help?\n\nJULIET.\nNo, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries\nAs are behoveful for our state tomorrow.\nSo please you, let me now be left alone,\nAnd let the nurse this night sit up with you,\nFor I am sure you have your hands full all\nIn this so sudden business.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nGood night.\nGet thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need.\n\n [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nFarewell. God knows when we shall meet again.\nI have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins\nThat almost freezes up the heat of life.\nI’ll call them back again to comfort me.\nNurse!—What should she do here?\nMy dismal scene I needs must act alone.\nCome, vial.\nWhat if this mixture do not work at all?\nShall I be married then tomorrow morning?\nNo, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there.\n\n [_Laying down her dagger._]" +- "CAPULET.\nGod’s bread, it makes me mad!\nDay, night, hour, ride, time, work, play,\nAlone, in company, still my care hath been\nTo have her match’d, and having now provided\nA gentleman of noble parentage,\nOf fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly allied,\nStuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,\nProportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man,\nAnd then to have a wretched puling fool,\nA whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,\nTo answer, ‘I’ll not wed, I cannot love,\nI am too young, I pray you pardon me.’\nBut, and you will not wed, I’ll pardon you.\nGraze where you will, you shall not house with me.\nLook to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.\nThursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise.\nAnd you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;\nAnd you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,\nFor by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,\nNor what is mine shall never do thee good.\nTrust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nIs there no pity sitting in the clouds,\nThat sees into the bottom of my grief?\nO sweet my mother, cast me not away,\nDelay this marriage for a month, a week,\nOr, if you do not, make the bridal bed\nIn that dim monument where Tybalt lies.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTalk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word.\nDo as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented?\nMy husband is on earth, my faith in heaven.\nHow shall that faith return again to earth,\nUnless that husband send it me from heaven\nBy leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me.\nAlack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems\nUpon so soft a subject as myself.\nWhat say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?\nSome comfort, Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, here it is.\nRomeo is banished; and all the world to nothing\nThat he dares ne’er come back to challenge you.\nOr if he do, it needs must be by stealth.\nThen, since the case so stands as now it doth,\nI think it best you married with the County.\nO, he’s a lovely gentleman.\nRomeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,\nHath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye\nAs Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,\nI think you are happy in this second match,\nFor it excels your first: or if it did not,\nYour first is dead, or ’twere as good he were,\nAs living here and you no use of him.\n\nJULIET.\nSpeakest thou from thy heart?\n\nNURSE.\nAnd from my soul too,\nOr else beshrew them both.\n\nJULIET.\nAmen.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat?\n\nJULIET.\nWell, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\nGo in, and tell my lady I am gone,\nHaving displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,\nTo make confession and to be absolv’d.\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, I will; and this is wisely done.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\nIf all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]" +- "ACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\nPARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society.\nNow do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife.\n\nPARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nI will confess to you that I love him.\n\nPARIS.\nSo will ye, I am sure, that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf I do so, it will be of more price,\nBeing spoke behind your back than to your face.\n\nPARIS.\nPoor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.\n\nJULIET.\nThe tears have got small victory by that;\nFor it was bad enough before their spite.\n\nPARIS.\nThou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.\n\nJULIET.\nThat is no slander, sir, which is a truth,\nAnd what I spake, I spake it to my face.\n\nPARIS.\nThy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.\n\nJULIET.\nIt may be so, for it is not mine own.\nAre you at leisure, holy father, now,\nOr shall I come to you at evening mass?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nMy leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.—\nMy lord, we must entreat the time alone.\n\nPARIS.\nGod shield I should disturb devotion!—\nJuliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye,\nTill then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO shut the door, and when thou hast done so,\nCome weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO Juliet, I already know thy grief;\nIt strains me past the compass of my wits.\nI hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,\nOn Thursday next be married to this County.\n\nJULIET.\nTell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this,\nUnless thou tell me how I may prevent it.\nIf in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,\nDo thou but call my resolution wise,\nAnd with this knife I’ll help it presently.\nGod join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;\nAnd ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d,\nShall be the label to another deed,\nOr my true heart with treacherous revolt\nTurn to another, this shall slay them both.\nTherefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,\nGive me some present counsel, or behold\n’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife\nShall play the empire, arbitrating that\nWhich the commission of thy years and art\nCould to no issue of true honour bring.\nBe not so long to speak. I long to die,\nIf what thou speak’st speak not of remedy." +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope,\nWhich craves as desperate an execution\nAs that is desperate which we would prevent.\nIf, rather than to marry County Paris\nThou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,\nThen is it likely thou wilt undertake\nA thing like death to chide away this shame,\nThat cop’st with death himself to scape from it.\nAnd if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy.\n\nJULIET.\nO, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,\nFrom off the battlements of yonder tower,\nOr walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk\nWhere serpents are. Chain me with roaring bears;\nOr hide me nightly in a charnel-house,\nO’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones,\nWith reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls.\nOr bid me go into a new-made grave,\nAnd hide me with a dead man in his shroud;\nThings that, to hear them told, have made me tremble,\nAnd I will do it without fear or doubt,\nTo live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold then. Go home, be merry, give consent\nTo marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow;\nTomorrow night look that thou lie alone,\nLet not thy Nurse lie with thee in thy chamber.\nTake thou this vial, being then in bed,\nAnd this distilled liquor drink thou off,\nWhen presently through all thy veins shall run\nA cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse\nShall keep his native progress, but surcease.\nNo warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest,\nThe roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade\nTo paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall,\nLike death when he shuts up the day of life.\nEach part depriv’d of supple government,\nShall stiff and stark and cold appear like death.\nAnd in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death\nThou shalt continue two and forty hours,\nAnd then awake as from a pleasant sleep.\nNow when the bridegroom in the morning comes\nTo rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.\nThen as the manner of our country is,\nIn thy best robes, uncover’d, on the bier,\nThou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault\nWhere all the kindred of the Capulets lie.\nIn the meantime, against thou shalt awake,\nShall Romeo by my letters know our drift,\nAnd hither shall he come, and he and I\nWill watch thy waking, and that very night\nShall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.\nAnd this shall free thee from this present shame,\nIf no inconstant toy nor womanish fear\nAbate thy valour in the acting it.\n\nJULIET.\nGive me, give me! O tell not me of fear!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous\nIn this resolve. I’ll send a friar with speed\nTo Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.\n\nJULIET.\nLove give me strength, and strength shall help afford.\nFarewell, dear father.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse and Servants.\n\nCAPULET.\nSo many guests invite as here are writ.\n\n [_Exit first Servant._]\n\nSirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nYou shall have none ill, sir; for I’ll try if they can lick their\nfingers.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow canst thou try them so?\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nMarry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers;\ntherefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo, begone.\n\n [_Exit second Servant._]\n\nWe shall be much unfurnish’d for this time.\nWhat, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence?\n\nNURSE.\nAy, forsooth.\n\nCAPULET.\nWell, he may chance to do some good on her.\nA peevish self-will’d harlotry it is.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nNURSE.\nSee where she comes from shrift with merry look.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow now, my headstrong. Where have you been gadding?" +- "JULIET.\nWhere I have learnt me to repent the sin\nOf disobedient opposition\nTo you and your behests; and am enjoin’d\nBy holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here,\nTo beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you.\nHenceforward I am ever rul’d by you.\n\nCAPULET.\nSend for the County, go tell him of this.\nI’ll have this knot knit up tomorrow morning.\n\nJULIET.\nI met the youthful lord at Lawrence’ cell,\nAnd gave him what becomed love I might,\nNot stepping o’er the bounds of modesty.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhy, I am glad on’t. This is well. Stand up.\nThis is as’t should be. Let me see the County.\nAy, marry. Go, I say, and fetch him hither.\nNow afore God, this reverend holy Friar,\nAll our whole city is much bound to him.\n\nJULIET.\nNurse, will you go with me into my closet,\nTo help me sort such needful ornaments\nAs you think fit to furnish me tomorrow?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNo, not till Thursday. There is time enough.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo, Nurse, go with her. We’ll to church tomorrow.\n\n [_Exeunt Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe shall be short in our provision,\n’Tis now near night.\n\nCAPULET.\nTush, I will stir about,\nAnd all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife.\nGo thou to Juliet, help to deck up her.\nI’ll not to bed tonight, let me alone.\nI’ll play the housewife for this once.—What, ho!—\nThey are all forth: well, I will walk myself\nTo County Paris, to prepare him up\nAgainst tomorrow. My heart is wondrous light\nSince this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Juliet’s Chamber.\n\n Enter Juliet and Nurse.\n\nJULIET.\nAy, those attires are best. But, gentle Nurse,\nI pray thee leave me to myself tonight;\nFor I have need of many orisons\nTo move the heavens to smile upon my state,\nWhich, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat, are you busy, ho? Need you my help?\n\nJULIET.\nNo, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries\nAs are behoveful for our state tomorrow.\nSo please you, let me now be left alone,\nAnd let the nurse this night sit up with you,\nFor I am sure you have your hands full all\nIn this so sudden business.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nGood night.\nGet thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need.\n\n [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nFarewell. God knows when we shall meet again.\nI have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins\nThat almost freezes up the heat of life.\nI’ll call them back again to comfort me.\nNurse!—What should she do here?\nMy dismal scene I needs must act alone.\nCome, vial.\nWhat if this mixture do not work at all?\nShall I be married then tomorrow morning?\nNo, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there.\n\n [_Laying down her dagger._]" - "What if it be a poison, which the Friar\nSubtly hath minister’d to have me dead,\nLest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d,\nBecause he married me before to Romeo?\nI fear it is. And yet methinks it should not,\nFor he hath still been tried a holy man.\nHow if, when I am laid into the tomb,\nI wake before the time that Romeo\nCome to redeem me? There’s a fearful point!\nShall I not then be stifled in the vault,\nTo whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,\nAnd there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?\nOr, if I live, is it not very like,\nThe horrible conceit of death and night,\nTogether with the terror of the place,\nAs in a vault, an ancient receptacle,\nWhere for this many hundred years the bones\nOf all my buried ancestors are pack’d,\nWhere bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,\nLies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,\nAt some hours in the night spirits resort—\nAlack, alack, is it not like that I,\nSo early waking, what with loathsome smells,\nAnd shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,\nThat living mortals, hearing them, run mad.\nO, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,\nEnvironed with all these hideous fears,\nAnd madly play with my forefathers’ joints?\nAnd pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?\nAnd, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone,\nAs with a club, dash out my desperate brains?\nO look, methinks I see my cousin’s ghost\nSeeking out Romeo that did spit his body\nUpon a rapier’s point. Stay, Tybalt, stay!\nRomeo, Romeo, Romeo, here’s drink! I drink to thee.\n\n [_Throws herself on the bed._]\n\nSCENE IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nHold, take these keys and fetch more spices, Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nThey call for dates and quinces in the pastry.\n\n Enter Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nCome, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow’d,\nThe curfew bell hath rung, ’tis three o’clock.\nLook to the bak’d meats, good Angelica;\nSpare not for cost.\n\nNURSE.\nGo, you cot-quean, go,\nGet you to bed; faith, you’ll be sick tomorrow\nFor this night’s watching.\n\nCAPULET.\nNo, not a whit. What! I have watch’d ere now\nAll night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAy, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time;\nBut I will watch you from such watching now.\n\n [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._]\n\nCAPULET.\nA jealous-hood, a jealous-hood!\n\n Enter Servants, with spits, logs and baskets.\n\nNow, fellow, what’s there?\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nThings for the cook, sir; but I know not what.\n\nCAPULET.\nMake haste, make haste.\n\n [_Exit First Servant._]\n\n—Sirrah, fetch drier logs.\nCall Peter, he will show thee where they are.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nI have a head, sir, that will find out logs\nAnd never trouble Peter for the matter.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nCAPULET.\nMass and well said; a merry whoreson, ha.\nThou shalt be loggerhead.—Good faith, ’tis day.\nThe County will be here with music straight,\nFor so he said he would. I hear him near.\n\n [_Play music._]\n\nNurse! Wife! What, ho! What, Nurse, I say!\n\n Re-enter Nurse.\n\nGo waken Juliet, go and trim her up.\nI’ll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste,\nMake haste; the bridegroom he is come already.\nMake haste I say.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n Enter Nurse." - "NURSE.\nMistress! What, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she.\nWhy, lamb, why, lady, fie, you slug-abed!\nWhy, love, I say! Madam! Sweetheart! Why, bride!\nWhat, not a word? You take your pennyworths now.\nSleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,\nThe County Paris hath set up his rest\nThat you shall rest but little. God forgive me!\nMarry and amen. How sound is she asleep!\nI needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam!\nAy, let the County take you in your bed,\nHe’ll fright you up, i’faith. Will it not be?\nWhat, dress’d, and in your clothes, and down again?\nI must needs wake you. Lady! Lady! Lady!\nAlas, alas! Help, help! My lady’s dead!\nO, well-a-day that ever I was born.\nSome aqua vitae, ho! My lord! My lady!\n\n Enter Lady Capulet.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat noise is here?\n\nNURSE.\nO lamentable day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat is the matter?\n\nNURSE.\nLook, look! O heavy day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO me, O me! My child, my only life.\nRevive, look up, or I will die with thee.\nHelp, help! Call help.\n\n Enter Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nFor shame, bring Juliet forth, her lord is come.\n\nNURSE.\nShe’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead; alack the day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAlack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead!\n\nCAPULET.\nHa! Let me see her. Out alas! She’s cold,\nHer blood is settled and her joints are stiff.\nLife and these lips have long been separated.\nDeath lies on her like an untimely frost\nUpon the sweetest flower of all the field.\n\nNURSE.\nO lamentable day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO woful time!\n\nCAPULET.\nDeath, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail,\nTies up my tongue and will not let me speak.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris with Musicians.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, is the bride ready to go to church?\n\nCAPULET.\nReady to go, but never to return.\nO son, the night before thy wedding day\nHath death lain with thy bride. There she lies,\nFlower as she was, deflowered by him.\nDeath is my son-in-law, death is my heir;\nMy daughter he hath wedded. I will die.\nAnd leave him all; life, living, all is death’s.\n\nPARIS.\nHave I thought long to see this morning’s face,\nAnd doth it give me such a sight as this?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAccurs’d, unhappy, wretched, hateful day.\nMost miserable hour that e’er time saw\nIn lasting labour of his pilgrimage.\nBut one, poor one, one poor and loving child,\nBut one thing to rejoice and solace in,\nAnd cruel death hath catch’d it from my sight.\n\nNURSE.\nO woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day.\nMost lamentable day, most woeful day\nThat ever, ever, I did yet behold!\nO day, O day, O day, O hateful day.\nNever was seen so black a day as this.\nO woeful day, O woeful day.\n\nPARIS.\nBeguil’d, divorced, wronged, spited, slain.\nMost detestable death, by thee beguil’d,\nBy cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown.\nO love! O life! Not life, but love in death!\n\nCAPULET.\nDespis’d, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d.\nUncomfortable time, why cam’st thou now\nTo murder, murder our solemnity?\nO child! O child! My soul, and not my child,\nDead art thou. Alack, my child is dead,\nAnd with my child my joys are buried." - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nPeace, ho, for shame. Confusion’s cure lives not\nIn these confusions. Heaven and yourself\nHad part in this fair maid, now heaven hath all,\nAnd all the better is it for the maid.\nYour part in her you could not keep from death,\nBut heaven keeps his part in eternal life.\nThe most you sought was her promotion,\nFor ’twas your heaven she should be advanc’d,\nAnd weep ye now, seeing she is advanc’d\nAbove the clouds, as high as heaven itself?\nO, in this love, you love your child so ill\nThat you run mad, seeing that she is well.\nShe’s not well married that lives married long,\nBut she’s best married that dies married young.\nDry up your tears, and stick your rosemary\nOn this fair corse, and, as the custom is,\nAnd in her best array bear her to church;\nFor though fond nature bids us all lament,\nYet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment.\n\nCAPULET.\nAll things that we ordained festival\nTurn from their office to black funeral:\nOur instruments to melancholy bells,\nOur wedding cheer to a sad burial feast;\nOur solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;\nOur bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,\nAnd all things change them to the contrary.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSir, go you in, and, madam, go with him,\nAnd go, Sir Paris, everyone prepare\nTo follow this fair corse unto her grave.\nThe heavens do lower upon you for some ill;\nMove them no more by crossing their high will.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris and Friar._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nFaith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.\n\nNURSE.\nHonest good fellows, ah, put up, put up,\nFor well you know this is a pitiful case.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nAy, by my troth, the case may be amended.\n\n [_Exit Nurse._]\n\n Enter Peter.\n\nPETER.\nMusicians, O, musicians, ‘Heart’s ease,’ ‘Heart’s ease’, O, and you\nwill have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhy ‘Heart’s ease’?\n\nPETER.\nO musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full’. O play\nme some merry dump to comfort me.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nNot a dump we, ’tis no time to play now.\n\nPETER.\nYou will not then?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nNo.\n\nPETER.\nI will then give it you soundly.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat will you give us?\n\nPETER.\nNo money, on my faith, but the gleek! I will give you the minstrel.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nThen will I give you the serving-creature.\n\nPETER.\nThen will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate. I will\ncarry no crotchets. I’ll re you, I’ll fa you. Do you note me?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nAnd you re us and fa us, you note us.\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nPray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.\n\nPETER.\nThen have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and\nput up my iron dagger. Answer me like men.\n ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound,\n And doleful dumps the mind oppress,\n Then music with her silver sound’—\nWhy ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you,\nSimon Catling?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nMarry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.\n\nPETER.\nPrates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck?\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nI say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.\n\nPETER.\nPrates too! What say you, James Soundpost?\n\nTHIRD MUSICIAN.\nFaith, I know not what to say.\n\nPETER.\nO, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is\n‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for\nsounding.\n ‘Then music with her silver sound\n With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n [_Exit._]" -- "FIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,\nThat I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nThen she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleeps in Capel’s monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you.\nO pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nIs it even so? Then I defy you, stars!\nThou know’st my lodging. Get me ink and paper,\nAnd hire post-horses. I will hence tonight.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI do beseech you sir, have patience.\nYour looks are pale and wild, and do import\nSome misadventure.\n\nROMEO.\nTush, thou art deceiv’d.\nLeave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.\nHast thou no letters to me from the Friar?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nNo, my good lord.\n\nROMEO.\nNo matter. Get thee gone,\nAnd hire those horses. I’ll be with thee straight.\n\n [_Exit Balthasar._]\n\nWell, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight.\nLet’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift\nTo enter in the thoughts of desperate men.\nI do remember an apothecary,—\nAnd hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted\nIn tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,\nCulling of simples, meagre were his looks,\nSharp misery had worn him to the bones;\nAnd in his needy shop a tortoise hung,\nAn alligator stuff’d, and other skins\nOf ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves\nA beggarly account of empty boxes,\nGreen earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,\nRemnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses\nWere thinly scatter’d, to make up a show.\nNoting this penury, to myself I said,\nAnd if a man did need a poison now,\nWhose sale is present death in Mantua,\nHere lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.\nO, this same thought did but forerun my need,\nAnd this same needy man must sell it me.\nAs I remember, this should be the house.\nBeing holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.\nWhat, ho! Apothecary!\n\n Enter Apothecary.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nWho calls so loud?\n\nROMEO.\nCome hither, man. I see that thou art poor.\nHold, there is forty ducats. Let me have\nA dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear\nAs will disperse itself through all the veins,\nThat the life-weary taker may fall dead,\nAnd that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath\nAs violently as hasty powder fir’d\nDoth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nSuch mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law\nIs death to any he that utters them." -- "ROMEO.\nArt thou so bare and full of wretchedness,\nAnd fear’st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks,\nNeed and oppression starveth in thine eyes,\nContempt and beggary hangs upon thy back.\nThe world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law;\nThe world affords no law to make thee rich;\nThen be not poor, but break it and take this.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nMy poverty, but not my will consents.\n\nROMEO.\nI pay thy poverty, and not thy will.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nPut this in any liquid thing you will\nAnd drink it off; and, if you had the strength\nOf twenty men, it would despatch you straight.\n\nROMEO.\nThere is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls,\nDoing more murder in this loathsome world\nThan these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.\nI sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.\nFarewell, buy food, and get thyself in flesh.\nCome, cordial and not poison, go with me\nTo Juliet’s grave, for there must I use thee.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar John.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nHoly Franciscan Friar! Brother, ho!\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThis same should be the voice of Friar John.\nWelcome from Mantua. What says Romeo?\nOr, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nGoing to find a barefoot brother out,\nOne of our order, to associate me,\nHere in this city visiting the sick,\nAnd finding him, the searchers of the town,\nSuspecting that we both were in a house\nWhere the infectious pestilence did reign,\nSeal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth,\nSo that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWho bare my letter then to Romeo?\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nI could not send it,—here it is again,—\nNor get a messenger to bring it thee,\nSo fearful were they of infection.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nUnhappy fortune! By my brotherhood,\nThe letter was not nice, but full of charge,\nOf dear import, and the neglecting it\nMay do much danger. Friar John, go hence,\nGet me an iron crow and bring it straight\nUnto my cell.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nBrother, I’ll go and bring it thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNow must I to the monument alone.\nWithin this three hours will fair Juliet wake.\nShe will beshrew me much that Romeo\nHath had no notice of these accidents;\nBut I will write again to Mantua,\nAnd keep her at my cell till Romeo come.\nPoor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch.\n\nPARIS.\nGive me thy torch, boy. Hence and stand aloof.\nYet put it out, for I would not be seen.\nUnder yond yew tree lay thee all along,\nHolding thy ear close to the hollow ground;\nSo shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,\nBeing loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,\nBut thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me,\nAs signal that thou hear’st something approach.\nGive me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.\n\nPAGE.\n[_Aside._] I am almost afraid to stand alone\nHere in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\nPARIS.\nSweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew.\nO woe, thy canopy is dust and stones,\nWhich with sweet water nightly I will dew,\nOr wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans.\nThe obsequies that I for thee will keep,\nNightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.\n\n [_The Page whistles._]\n\nThe boy gives warning something doth approach.\nWhat cursed foot wanders this way tonight,\nTo cross my obsequies and true love’s rite?\nWhat, with a torch! Muffle me, night, awhile.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\n Enter Romeo and Balthasar with a torch, mattock, &c." +- "FIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,\nThat I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nThen she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleeps in Capel’s monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you.\nO pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nIs it even so? Then I defy you, stars!\nThou know’st my lodging. Get me ink and paper,\nAnd hire post-horses. I will hence tonight.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI do beseech you sir, have patience.\nYour looks are pale and wild, and do import\nSome misadventure.\n\nROMEO.\nTush, thou art deceiv’d.\nLeave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.\nHast thou no letters to me from the Friar?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nNo, my good lord.\n\nROMEO.\nNo matter. Get thee gone,\nAnd hire those horses. I’ll be with thee straight.\n\n [_Exit Balthasar._]\n\nWell, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight.\nLet’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift\nTo enter in the thoughts of desperate men.\nI do remember an apothecary,—\nAnd hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted\nIn tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,\nCulling of simples, meagre were his looks,\nSharp misery had worn him to the bones;\nAnd in his needy shop a tortoise hung,\nAn alligator stuff’d, and other skins\nOf ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves\nA beggarly account of empty boxes,\nGreen earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,\nRemnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses\nWere thinly scatter’d, to make up a show.\nNoting this penury, to myself I said,\nAnd if a man did need a poison now,\nWhose sale is present death in Mantua,\nHere lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.\nO, this same thought did but forerun my need,\nAnd this same needy man must sell it me.\nAs I remember, this should be the house.\nBeing holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.\nWhat, ho! Apothecary!\n\n Enter Apothecary.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nWho calls so loud?\n\nROMEO.\nCome hither, man. I see that thou art poor.\nHold, there is forty ducats. Let me have\nA dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear\nAs will disperse itself through all the veins,\nThat the life-weary taker may fall dead,\nAnd that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath\nAs violently as hasty powder fir’d\nDoth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nSuch mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law\nIs death to any he that utters them.\n\nROMEO.\nArt thou so bare and full of wretchedness,\nAnd fear’st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks,\nNeed and oppression starveth in thine eyes,\nContempt and beggary hangs upon thy back.\nThe world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law;\nThe world affords no law to make thee rich;\nThen be not poor, but break it and take this.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nMy poverty, but not my will consents.\n\nROMEO.\nI pay thy poverty, and not thy will." +- "APOTHECARY.\nPut this in any liquid thing you will\nAnd drink it off; and, if you had the strength\nOf twenty men, it would despatch you straight.\n\nROMEO.\nThere is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls,\nDoing more murder in this loathsome world\nThan these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.\nI sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.\nFarewell, buy food, and get thyself in flesh.\nCome, cordial and not poison, go with me\nTo Juliet’s grave, for there must I use thee.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar John.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nHoly Franciscan Friar! Brother, ho!\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThis same should be the voice of Friar John.\nWelcome from Mantua. What says Romeo?\nOr, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nGoing to find a barefoot brother out,\nOne of our order, to associate me,\nHere in this city visiting the sick,\nAnd finding him, the searchers of the town,\nSuspecting that we both were in a house\nWhere the infectious pestilence did reign,\nSeal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth,\nSo that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWho bare my letter then to Romeo?\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nI could not send it,—here it is again,—\nNor get a messenger to bring it thee,\nSo fearful were they of infection.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nUnhappy fortune! By my brotherhood,\nThe letter was not nice, but full of charge,\nOf dear import, and the neglecting it\nMay do much danger. Friar John, go hence,\nGet me an iron crow and bring it straight\nUnto my cell.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nBrother, I’ll go and bring it thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNow must I to the monument alone.\nWithin this three hours will fair Juliet wake.\nShe will beshrew me much that Romeo\nHath had no notice of these accidents;\nBut I will write again to Mantua,\nAnd keep her at my cell till Romeo come.\nPoor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch.\n\nPARIS.\nGive me thy torch, boy. Hence and stand aloof.\nYet put it out, for I would not be seen.\nUnder yond yew tree lay thee all along,\nHolding thy ear close to the hollow ground;\nSo shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,\nBeing loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,\nBut thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me,\nAs signal that thou hear’st something approach.\nGive me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.\n\nPAGE.\n[_Aside._] I am almost afraid to stand alone\nHere in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\nPARIS.\nSweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew.\nO woe, thy canopy is dust and stones,\nWhich with sweet water nightly I will dew,\nOr wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans.\nThe obsequies that I for thee will keep,\nNightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.\n\n [_The Page whistles._]\n\nThe boy gives warning something doth approach.\nWhat cursed foot wanders this way tonight,\nTo cross my obsequies and true love’s rite?\nWhat, with a torch! Muffle me, night, awhile.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\n Enter Romeo and Balthasar with a torch, mattock, &c." - "ROMEO.\nGive me that mattock and the wrenching iron.\nHold, take this letter; early in the morning\nSee thou deliver it to my lord and father.\nGive me the light; upon thy life I charge thee,\nWhate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof\nAnd do not interrupt me in my course.\nWhy I descend into this bed of death\nIs partly to behold my lady’s face,\nBut chiefly to take thence from her dead finger\nA precious ring, a ring that I must use\nIn dear employment. Therefore hence, be gone.\nBut if thou jealous dost return to pry\nIn what I further shall intend to do,\nBy heaven I will tear thee joint by joint,\nAnd strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs.\nThe time and my intents are savage-wild;\nMore fierce and more inexorable far\nThan empty tigers or the roaring sea.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.\n\nROMEO.\nSo shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that.\nLive, and be prosperous, and farewell, good fellow.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nFor all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout.\nHis looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.\n\n [_Retires_]\n\nROMEO.\nThou detestable maw, thou womb of death,\nGorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth,\nThus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,\n\n [_Breaking open the door of the monument._]\n\nAnd in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food.\n\nPARIS.\nThis is that banish’d haughty Montague\nThat murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief,\nIt is supposed, the fair creature died,—\nAnd here is come to do some villanous shame\nTo the dead bodies. I will apprehend him.\n\n [_Advances._]\n\nStop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague.\nCan vengeance be pursu’d further than death?\nCondemned villain, I do apprehend thee.\nObey, and go with me, for thou must die.\n\nROMEO.\nI must indeed; and therefore came I hither.\nGood gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man.\nFly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone;\nLet them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,\nPut not another sin upon my head\nBy urging me to fury. O be gone.\nBy heaven I love thee better than myself;\nFor I come hither arm’d against myself.\nStay not, be gone, live, and hereafter say,\nA madman’s mercy bid thee run away.\n\nPARIS.\nI do defy thy conjuration,\nAnd apprehend thee for a felon here.\n\nROMEO.\nWilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy!\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nPAGE.\nO lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nPARIS.\nO, I am slain! [_Falls._] If thou be merciful,\nOpen the tomb, lay me with Juliet.\n\n [_Dies._]\n\nROMEO.\nIn faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.\nMercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris!\nWhat said my man, when my betossed soul\nDid not attend him as we rode? I think\nHe told me Paris should have married Juliet.\nSaid he not so? Or did I dream it so?\nOr am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,\nTo think it was so? O, give me thy hand,\nOne writ with me in sour misfortune’s book.\nI’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave.\nA grave? O no, a lantern, slaught’red youth,\nFor here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes\nThis vault a feasting presence full of light.\nDeath, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d.\n\n [_Laying Paris in the monument._]" - "How oft when men are at the point of death\nHave they been merry! Which their keepers call\nA lightning before death. O, how may I\nCall this a lightning? O my love, my wife,\nDeath that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath,\nHath had no power yet upon thy beauty.\nThou art not conquer’d. Beauty’s ensign yet\nIs crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,\nAnd death’s pale flag is not advanced there.\nTybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?\nO, what more favour can I do to thee\nThan with that hand that cut thy youth in twain\nTo sunder his that was thine enemy?\nForgive me, cousin. Ah, dear Juliet,\nWhy art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe\nThat unsubstantial death is amorous;\nAnd that the lean abhorred monster keeps\nThee here in dark to be his paramour?\nFor fear of that I still will stay with thee,\nAnd never from this palace of dim night\nDepart again. Here, here will I remain\nWith worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here\nWill I set up my everlasting rest;\nAnd shake the yoke of inauspicious stars\nFrom this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last.\nArms, take your last embrace! And, lips, O you\nThe doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss\nA dateless bargain to engrossing death.\nCome, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide.\nThou desperate pilot, now at once run on\nThe dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark.\nHere’s to my love! [_Drinks._] O true apothecary!\nThy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.\n\n [_Dies._]\n\n Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, Friar Lawrence, with a\n lantern, crow, and spade.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSaint Francis be my speed. How oft tonight\nHave my old feet stumbled at graves? Who’s there?\nWho is it that consorts, so late, the dead?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nHere’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nBliss be upon you. Tell me, good my friend,\nWhat torch is yond that vainly lends his light\nTo grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern,\nIt burneth in the Capels’ monument.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nIt doth so, holy sir, and there’s my master,\nOne that you love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWho is it?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nRomeo.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHow long hath he been there?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nFull half an hour.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nGo with me to the vault.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI dare not, sir;\nMy master knows not but I am gone hence,\nAnd fearfully did menace me with death\nIf I did stay to look on his intents.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nStay then, I’ll go alone. Fear comes upon me.\nO, much I fear some ill unlucky thing.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nAs I did sleep under this yew tree here,\nI dreamt my master and another fought,\nAnd that my master slew him.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo! [_Advances._]\nAlack, alack, what blood is this which stains\nThe stony entrance of this sepulchre?\nWhat mean these masterless and gory swords\nTo lie discolour’d by this place of peace?\n\n [_Enters the monument._]\n\nRomeo! O, pale! Who else? What, Paris too?\nAnd steep’d in blood? Ah what an unkind hour\nIs guilty of this lamentable chance?\nThe lady stirs.\n\n [_Juliet wakes and stirs._]\n\nJULIET.\nO comfortable Friar, where is my lord?\nI do remember well where I should be,\nAnd there I am. Where is my Romeo?\n\n [_Noise within._]" - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest\nOf death, contagion, and unnatural sleep.\nA greater power than we can contradict\nHath thwarted our intents. Come, come away.\nThy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;\nAnd Paris too. Come, I’ll dispose of thee\nAmong a sisterhood of holy nuns.\nStay not to question, for the watch is coming.\nCome, go, good Juliet. I dare no longer stay.\n\nJULIET.\nGo, get thee hence, for I will not away.\n\n [_Exit Friar Lawrence._]\n\nWhat’s here? A cup clos’d in my true love’s hand?\nPoison, I see, hath been his timeless end.\nO churl. Drink all, and left no friendly drop\nTo help me after? I will kiss thy lips.\nHaply some poison yet doth hang on them,\nTo make me die with a restorative.\n\n [_Kisses him._]\n\nThy lips are warm!\n\nFIRST WATCH.\n[_Within._] Lead, boy. Which way?\n\nJULIET.\nYea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger.\n\n [_Snatching Romeo’s dagger._]\n\nThis is thy sheath. [_stabs herself_] There rest, and let me die.\n\n [_Falls on Romeo’s body and dies._]\n\n Enter Watch with the Page of Paris.\n\nPAGE.\nThis is the place. There, where the torch doth burn.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nThe ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard.\nGo, some of you, whoe’er you find attach.\n\n [_Exeunt some of the Watch._]\n\nPitiful sight! Here lies the County slain,\nAnd Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,\nWho here hath lain this two days buried.\nGo tell the Prince; run to the Capulets.\nRaise up the Montagues, some others search.\n\n [_Exeunt others of the Watch._]\n\nWe see the ground whereon these woes do lie,\nBut the true ground of all these piteous woes\nWe cannot without circumstance descry.\n\n Re-enter some of the Watch with Balthasar.\n\nSECOND WATCH.\nHere’s Romeo’s man. We found him in the churchyard.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nHold him in safety till the Prince come hither.\n\n Re-enter others of the Watch with Friar Lawrence.\n\nTHIRD WATCH. Here is a Friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps.\nWe took this mattock and this spade from him\nAs he was coming from this churchyard side.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nA great suspicion. Stay the Friar too.\n\n Enter the Prince and Attendants.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhat misadventure is so early up,\nThat calls our person from our morning’s rest?\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and others.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat should it be that they so shriek abroad?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO the people in the street cry Romeo,\nSome Juliet, and some Paris, and all run\nWith open outcry toward our monument.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhat fear is this which startles in our ears?\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nSovereign, here lies the County Paris slain,\nAnd Romeo dead, and Juliet, dead before,\nWarm and new kill’d.\n\nPRINCE.\nSearch, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nHere is a Friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man,\nWith instruments upon them fit to open\nThese dead men’s tombs.\n\nCAPULET.\nO heaven! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!\nThis dagger hath mista’en, for lo, his house\nIs empty on the back of Montague,\nAnd it mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO me! This sight of death is as a bell\nThat warns my old age to a sepulchre.\n\n Enter Montague and others.\n\nPRINCE.\nCome, Montague, for thou art early up,\nTo see thy son and heir more early down.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nAlas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight.\nGrief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath.\nWhat further woe conspires against mine age?\n\nPRINCE.\nLook, and thou shalt see." - "MONTAGUE.\nO thou untaught! What manners is in this,\nTo press before thy father to a grave?\n\nPRINCE.\nSeal up the mouth of outrage for a while,\nTill we can clear these ambiguities,\nAnd know their spring, their head, their true descent,\nAnd then will I be general of your woes,\nAnd lead you even to death. Meantime forbear,\nAnd let mischance be slave to patience.\nBring forth the parties of suspicion.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI am the greatest, able to do least,\nYet most suspected, as the time and place\nDoth make against me, of this direful murder.\nAnd here I stand, both to impeach and purge\nMyself condemned and myself excus’d.\n\nPRINCE.\nThen say at once what thou dost know in this.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI will be brief, for my short date of breath\nIs not so long as is a tedious tale.\nRomeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet,\nAnd she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife.\nI married them; and their stol’n marriage day\nWas Tybalt’s doomsday, whose untimely death\nBanish’d the new-made bridegroom from this city;\nFor whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin’d.\nYou, to remove that siege of grief from her,\nBetroth’d, and would have married her perforce\nTo County Paris. Then comes she to me,\nAnd with wild looks, bid me devise some means\nTo rid her from this second marriage,\nOr in my cell there would she kill herself.\nThen gave I her, so tutored by my art,\nA sleeping potion, which so took effect\nAs I intended, for it wrought on her\nThe form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo\nThat he should hither come as this dire night\nTo help to take her from her borrow’d grave,\nBeing the time the potion’s force should cease.\nBut he which bore my letter, Friar John,\nWas stay’d by accident; and yesternight\nReturn’d my letter back. Then all alone\nAt the prefixed hour of her waking\nCame I to take her from her kindred’s vault,\nMeaning to keep her closely at my cell\nTill I conveniently could send to Romeo.\nBut when I came, some minute ere the time\nOf her awaking, here untimely lay\nThe noble Paris and true Romeo dead.\nShe wakes; and I entreated her come forth\nAnd bear this work of heaven with patience.\nBut then a noise did scare me from the tomb;\nAnd she, too desperate, would not go with me,\nBut, as it seems, did violence on herself.\nAll this I know; and to the marriage\nHer Nurse is privy. And if ought in this\nMiscarried by my fault, let my old life\nBe sacrific’d, some hour before his time,\nUnto the rigour of severest law.\n\nPRINCE.\nWe still have known thee for a holy man.\nWhere’s Romeo’s man? What can he say to this?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI brought my master news of Juliet’s death,\nAnd then in post he came from Mantua\nTo this same place, to this same monument.\nThis letter he early bid me give his father,\nAnd threaten’d me with death, going in the vault,\nIf I departed not, and left him there.\n\nPRINCE.\nGive me the letter, I will look on it.\nWhere is the County’s Page that rais’d the watch?\nSirrah, what made your master in this place?\n\nPAGE.\nHe came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave,\nAnd bid me stand aloof, and so I did.\nAnon comes one with light to ope the tomb,\nAnd by and by my master drew on him,\nAnd then I ran away to call the watch.\n\nPRINCE.\nThis letter doth make good the Friar’s words,\nTheir course of love, the tidings of her death.\nAnd here he writes that he did buy a poison\nOf a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal\nCame to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.\nWhere be these enemies? Capulet, Montague,\nSee what a scourge is laid upon your hate,\nThat heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!\nAnd I, for winking at your discords too,\nHave lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d.\n\nCAPULET.\nO brother Montague, give me thy hand.\nThis is my daughter’s jointure, for no more\nCan I demand." -- "MONTAGUE.\nBut I can give thee more,\nFor I will raise her statue in pure gold,\nThat whiles Verona by that name is known,\nThere shall no figure at such rate be set\nAs that of true and faithful Juliet.\n\nCAPULET.\nAs rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie,\nPoor sacrifices of our enmity.\n\nPRINCE.\nA glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun for sorrow will not show his head.\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things.\nSome shall be pardon’d, and some punished,\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the\nUnited States without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. 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Thus, we do not\nnecessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper\nedition.\n\nMost people start at our website which has the main PG search\nfacility: www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks." diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap index dfe84529..9ff605fb 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap @@ -32,7 +32,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - ROMEO AND JULIET * - "**" - THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO -- "AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare" +- AND JULIET +- by William Shakespeare - "Contents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE." - "ACT I\nScene I. A public place." - Scene II. A Street. @@ -72,7 +73,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - Scene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. - Scene III. - A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the -- "Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ" +- Capulets. +- Dramatis Personæ - "ESCALUS, Prince of Verona." - "MERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince" - ", and friend to Romeo." @@ -143,7 +145,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "The which, if you with patient ears attend," - "What here shall miss, our toil shall" - strive to mend. -- "[_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I" +- "[_Exit._]" +- ACT I - SCENE I. A public place. - Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and - bucklers. @@ -2804,7 +2807,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "short work," - "For, by your leaves, you shall not stay" - "alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one." -- "[_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT III" +- "[_Exeunt._]" +- ACT III - SCENE I. A public Place. - "Enter Mercutio, Benvolio" - ", Page and Servants." @@ -4374,7 +4378,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - I’ll to the Friar to know his - remedy. - "If all else fail, myself have power to die" -- ".\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT IV" +- ".\n\n [_Exit._]" +- ACT IV - SCENE I. - Friar Lawrence’s Cell. - Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris. @@ -5170,7 +5175,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Hang him, Jack." - "Come, we’ll in here, tarry" - "for the mourners, and stay\ndinner." -- "[_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V" +- "[_Exeunt._]" +- ACT V - SCENE I. Mantua. - "A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo." - ROMEO. diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap index cccae20d..6795672c 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap @@ -6,11 +6,13 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster" - "This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org." - "If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English" -- "*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS" +- "*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster" +- CONTENTS - "Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing" - "Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return" - "Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil" -- "Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\nChapter I The Bertolini" +- "Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE" +- Chapter I The Bertolini - "“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”" - "“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.”" - "She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.)," @@ -83,7 +85,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,\nand the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon." - "Miss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more." - "“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so," -- "since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker" +- "since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed." +- Chapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker - "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." @@ -177,7 +180,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”" - "“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe 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_.\nThere’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.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”" +- "yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin." +- "Chapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”" - "It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave." - "The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. The commonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without effort, whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, and thinking how we could worship him and love him, would he but translate his visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions." - "Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never." @@ -238,7 +242,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "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 façade 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.”\n\n“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.”\n\nHer 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?”\n\n“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan.\n\n“Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!”\n\nBut 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.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV Fourth Chapter" +- "“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.”" +- Chapter IV Fourth 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.\nIndirectly, 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." @@ -277,7 +282,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "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.\n\n“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”" -- "“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing" +- "“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears." +- Chapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing - "It was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also." - "They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one." - "For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure," @@ -351,7 +357,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity." - "Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something,\nand though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god." - "“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:" -- "“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them." +- "“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion." +- "Chapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them." - "It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab." - "And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guard against imposition." - "But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god." @@ -418,7 +425,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Eccolo!” he exclaimed.\n\nAt the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end.\n\n“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above.\n“Courage and love.”" - "She did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view,\nand violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth." - "Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.\nBut he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.\n\nGeorge had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her." -- "Before she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII They Return" +- "Before she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view." +- Chapter VII They Return - "Some complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye." - "Charlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment." - "Pan had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George." @@ -483,7 +491,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,\nthough she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her." - "To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.\n\nWhether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:\n\n“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”" - "Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”" -- "In the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval" +- "In the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO" +- Chapter VIII Medieval - "The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,”" - "or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;\nwithin, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man." - "Two pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written." @@ -574,7 +583,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present." - "So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne," - "putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped." -- "Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art" +- "Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy." +- Chapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art - "A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\nfor naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man." - "Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers." - "At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been." @@ -601,7 +611,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything." - "The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.\nHoneychurch?”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil,\nwho was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again." - "Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”" -- "“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\nLet us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself." +- "“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’" +- "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself." - The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. - "Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees." - "The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil." @@ -651,7 +662,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "At that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.\nAs he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them." - "Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene." - "Lucy was standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.\n\nThey left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity." -- "“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X Cecil as a Humourist" +- "“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had." +- Chapter X Cecil as a Humourist - "The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,\nand, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter." - "Other houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility." - "“I cannot think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr." @@ -706,7 +718,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "He bore her down.\n\n“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time.\nNo, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—”" - "“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”\n\nHe stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”\n\nHer face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago." - "“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”\n\nShe left him.\n\n“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows." -- "No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat" +- "No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner." +- Chapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat - "The Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement," - "met Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr." - "Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die." @@ -739,7 +752,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to London." - "I don’t believe in these London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”\n\n“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed." - "As she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek.\n\n“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”" -- "The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII Twelfth Chapter" +- "The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat." +- Chapter XII Twelfth Chapter - "It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn." - "All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”" - "“M’m.”\n\n“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in." @@ -794,7 +808,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”" - "“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”\n\n“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”\n\n“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped." - "He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed." -- "That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome" +- "That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth." +- Chapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome - "How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr." - "Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these.\nBut she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star." - "Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. “I will bow,” she had thought." @@ -841,7 +856,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”\n\n“From your own account, you told her as much.”" - "“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—”\n\nThe ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real." - "“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”" -- "Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely" +- "Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”" +- Chapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely - "Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week." - "Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night." - "When she talked to George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.”" @@ -878,7 +894,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him," - "and has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden.”" - "She took hold of her guest by the arm. “Suppose we don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.”" -- "Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV The Disaster Within" +- "Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain." +- Chapter XV The Disaster Within - "The Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable." - "Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells." - "The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her," @@ -923,8 +940,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here." - "The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning," - "would never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland." -- "Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***" -- Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. +- "Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument." +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed." - "Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works," - "so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark," - "and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research." diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap index 5788226c..07289d05 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap @@ -3,77 +3,99 @@ source: tests/text_splitter_snapshots.rs expression: chunks input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt --- -- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return\n\n Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\nChapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”\n\n“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\nthat was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”\n\n“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.\n\n“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!”\n\n“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a view.”\n\nLucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me:\nof course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—” “You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.\n\n“No, no. You must have it.”\n\n“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”\n\n“She would never forgive _me_.”" -- "The ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:\n\n“I have a view, I have a view.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would “do” till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility.\nWhat exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”\n\n“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view too.”\n\n“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.\n\n“What I mean,” he continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll have yours. We’ll change.”\n\nThe better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said “Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question.”\n\n“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the table.\n\n“Because it is quite out of the question, thank you.”\n\n“You see, we don’t like to take—” began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.\n\n“But why?” he persisted. “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son,\nsaying, “George, persuade them!”\n\n“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” said the son. “There’s nothing else to say.”\n\nHe did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as “quite a scene,” and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with—well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour.\n\nMiss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, “Are you all like this?” And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating “We are not; we are genteel.”\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear,” she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured.\n\nLucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite.\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will make a change.”\n\nHardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table,\ncheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: “Oh, oh! Why, it’s Mr.\nBeebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now,\nhowever bad the rooms are. Oh!”\n\nMiss Bartlett said, with more restraint:\n\n“How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter’s that very cold Easter.”" -- "The clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by Lucy.\n\n“I _am_ so glad to see you,” said the girl, who was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her cousin had permitted it. “Just fancy how small the world is. Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny.”\n\n“Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street,” said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, “and she happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the living—”\n\n“Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn’t know that I knew you at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: ‘Mr. Beebe is—’”\n\n“Quite right,” said the clergyman. “I move into the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood.”\n\n“Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner.” Mr. Beebe bowed.\n\n“There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it’s not often we get him to ch—— The church is rather far off, I mean.”\n\n“Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.”\n\n“I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it.”\n\nHe preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and he was first in the field. “Don’t neglect the country round,” his advice concluded. “The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort.”\n\n“No!” cried a voice from the top of the table. “Mr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato.”\n\n“That lady looks so clever,” whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. “We are in luck.”\n\nAnd, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams,\nhow to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter,\nhow much the place would grow upon them. The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusiastically, that they would do. Whichever way they looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of the clever lady, crying: “Prato! They must go to Prato.\nThat place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know.”\n\nThe young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do.\nLucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.\n\nThe father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow,\nbut by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across something.\n\nShe hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains—curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and supported by ’Enery, her little boy,\nand Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South.\nAnd even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really Italy?\n\nMiss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr.\nBeebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. “We are most grateful to you,” she was saying. “The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly _mauvais quart d’heure_.”\n\nHe expressed his regret." -- "“Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?”\n\n“Emerson.”\n\n“Is he a friend of yours?”\n\n“We are friendly—as one is in pensions.”\n\n“Then I will say no more.”\n\nHe pressed her very slightly, and she said more.\n\n“I am, as it were,” she concluded, “the chaperon of my young cousin,\nLucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate.\nI hope I acted for the best.”\n\n“You acted very naturally,” said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: “All the same, I don’t think much harm would have come of accepting.”\n\n“No _harm_, of course. But we could not be under an obligation.”\n\n“He is rather a peculiar man.” Again he hesitated, and then said gently: “I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit—if it is one—of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult—at least, I find it difficult—to understand people who speak the truth.”\n\nLucy was pleased, and said: “I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice.”\n\n“I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect—I may say I hope—you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people’s backs up. He has no tact and no manners—I don’t mean by that that he has bad manners—and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it.”\n\n“Am I to conclude,” said Miss Bartlett, “that he is a Socialist?”\n\nMr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips.\n\n“And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?”\n\n“I hardly know George, for he hasn’t learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father’s mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist.”\n\n“Oh, you relieve me,” said Miss Bartlett. “So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?”\n\n“Not at all,” he answered; “I never suggested that.”\n\n“But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?”\n\nHe replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary,\nand got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room.\n\n“Was I a bore?” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. “Why didn’t you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I’m sure. I do hope I haven’t monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time.”\n\n“He is nice,” exclaimed Lucy. “Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman.”\n\n“My dear Lucia—”\n\n“Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man.”\n\n“Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe.”\n\n“I’m sure she will; and so will Freddy.”\n\n“I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times.”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy despondently.\n\nThere was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added “I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion.”" -- "And the girl again thought: “I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor.”\n\nFortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister’s health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea,\nthough one better than something else.\n\n“But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English.”\n\n“Yet our rooms smell,” said poor Lucy. “We dread going to bed.”\n\n“Ah, then you look into the court.” She sighed. “If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner.”\n\n“I think he was meaning to be kind.”\n\n“Undoubtedly he was,” said Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin’s account.”\n\n“Of course,” said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl.\n\nLucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it.\n\n“About old Mr. Emerson—I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time—beautiful?”\n\n“Beautiful?” said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. “Are not beauty and delicacy the same?”\n\n“So one would have thought,” said the other helplessly. “But things are so difficult, I sometimes think.”\n\nShe proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant.\n\n“Miss Bartlett,” he cried, “it’s all right about the rooms. I’m so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased.”\n\n“Oh, Charlotte,” cried Lucy to her cousin, “we must have the rooms now.\nThe old man is just as nice and kind as he can be.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent.\n\n“I fear,” said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, “that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference.”\n\nGravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: “My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then,\nMr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?”\n\nShe raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message.\n\n“Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events.”\n\nMr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously:\n\n“Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead.”\n\nThe young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs.\n\n“My father,” he said, “is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out.”" -- "Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy.\n\n“Poor young man!” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.\n\n“How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite.”\n\n“In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready,” said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary.\n\n“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. “Gentlemen sometimes do not realize—” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy,\nshe committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History.\nFor she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said:\n\n“I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move.”\n\n“How you do do everything,” said Lucy.\n\n“Naturally, dear. It is my affair.”\n\n“But I would like to help you.”\n\n“No, dear.”\n\nCharlotte’s energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet—there was a rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.\n\n“I want to explain,” said Miss Bartlett, “why it is that I have taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you;\nbut I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it.”\n\nLucy was bewildered.\n\n“If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this.”\n\n“Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure,” said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues.\n\nMiss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,\nand the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.\n\nMiss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more.\n\n“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,\nsince it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker" +- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return\n\n Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE" +- Chapter I The Bertolini +- "“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”\n\n“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\nthat was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”\n\n“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.\n\n“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!”\n\n“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a view.”\n\nLucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me:\nof course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—” “You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.\n\n“No, no. You must have it.”\n\n“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”\n\n“She would never forgive _me_.”\n\nThe ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:\n\n“I have a view, I have a view.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would “do” till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility.\nWhat exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”\n\n“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view too.”\n\n“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.\n\n“What I mean,” he continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll have yours. We’ll change.”\n\nThe better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said “Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question.”\n\n“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the table.\n\n“Because it is quite out of the question, thank you.”\n\n“You see, we don’t like to take—” began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.\n\n“But why?” he persisted. “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son,\nsaying, “George, persuade them!”\n\n“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” said the son. “There’s nothing else to say.”" +- "He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as “quite a scene,” and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with—well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour.\n\nMiss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, “Are you all like this?” And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating “We are not; we are genteel.”\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear,” she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured.\n\nLucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite.\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will make a change.”\n\nHardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table,\ncheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: “Oh, oh! Why, it’s Mr.\nBeebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now,\nhowever bad the rooms are. Oh!”\n\nMiss Bartlett said, with more restraint:\n\n“How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter’s that very cold Easter.”\n\nThe clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by Lucy.\n\n“I _am_ so glad to see you,” said the girl, who was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her cousin had permitted it. “Just fancy how small the world is. Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny.”\n\n“Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street,” said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, “and she happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the living—”\n\n“Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn’t know that I knew you at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: ‘Mr. Beebe is—’”\n\n“Quite right,” said the clergyman. “I move into the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood.”\n\n“Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner.” Mr. Beebe bowed.\n\n“There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it’s not often we get him to ch—— The church is rather far off, I mean.”\n\n“Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.”\n\n“I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it.”\n\nHe preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and he was first in the field. “Don’t neglect the country round,” his advice concluded. “The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort.”\n\n“No!” cried a voice from the top of the table. “Mr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato.”\n\n“That lady looks so clever,” whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. “We are in luck.”" +- "And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams,\nhow to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter,\nhow much the place would grow upon them. The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusiastically, that they would do. Whichever way they looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of the clever lady, crying: “Prato! They must go to Prato.\nThat place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know.”\n\nThe young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do.\nLucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.\n\nThe father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow,\nbut by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across something.\n\nShe hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains—curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and supported by ’Enery, her little boy,\nand Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South.\nAnd even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really Italy?\n\nMiss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr.\nBeebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. “We are most grateful to you,” she was saying. “The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly _mauvais quart d’heure_.”\n\nHe expressed his regret.\n\n“Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?”\n\n“Emerson.”\n\n“Is he a friend of yours?”\n\n“We are friendly—as one is in pensions.”\n\n“Then I will say no more.”\n\nHe pressed her very slightly, and she said more.\n\n“I am, as it were,” she concluded, “the chaperon of my young cousin,\nLucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate.\nI hope I acted for the best.”\n\n“You acted very naturally,” said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: “All the same, I don’t think much harm would have come of accepting.”\n\n“No _harm_, of course. But we could not be under an obligation.”\n\n“He is rather a peculiar man.” Again he hesitated, and then said gently: “I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit—if it is one—of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult—at least, I find it difficult—to understand people who speak the truth.”\n\nLucy was pleased, and said: “I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice.”\n\n“I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect—I may say I hope—you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people’s backs up. He has no tact and no manners—I don’t mean by that that he has bad manners—and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it.”\n\n“Am I to conclude,” said Miss Bartlett, “that he is a Socialist?”\n\nMr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips." +- "“And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?”\n\n“I hardly know George, for he hasn’t learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father’s mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist.”\n\n“Oh, you relieve me,” said Miss Bartlett. “So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?”\n\n“Not at all,” he answered; “I never suggested that.”\n\n“But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?”\n\nHe replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary,\nand got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room.\n\n“Was I a bore?” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. “Why didn’t you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I’m sure. I do hope I haven’t monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time.”\n\n“He is nice,” exclaimed Lucy. “Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman.”\n\n“My dear Lucia—”\n\n“Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man.”\n\n“Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe.”\n\n“I’m sure she will; and so will Freddy.”\n\n“I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times.”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy despondently.\n\nThere was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added “I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion.”\n\nAnd the girl again thought: “I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor.”\n\nFortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister’s health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea,\nthough one better than something else.\n\n“But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English.”\n\n“Yet our rooms smell,” said poor Lucy. “We dread going to bed.”\n\n“Ah, then you look into the court.” She sighed. “If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner.”\n\n“I think he was meaning to be kind.”\n\n“Undoubtedly he was,” said Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin’s account.”\n\n“Of course,” said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl.\n\nLucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it.\n\n“About old Mr. Emerson—I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time—beautiful?”\n\n“Beautiful?” said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. “Are not beauty and delicacy the same?”" +- "“So one would have thought,” said the other helplessly. “But things are so difficult, I sometimes think.”\n\nShe proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant.\n\n“Miss Bartlett,” he cried, “it’s all right about the rooms. I’m so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased.”\n\n“Oh, Charlotte,” cried Lucy to her cousin, “we must have the rooms now.\nThe old man is just as nice and kind as he can be.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent.\n\n“I fear,” said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, “that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference.”\n\nGravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: “My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then,\nMr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?”\n\nShe raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message.\n\n“Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events.”\n\nMr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously:\n\n“Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead.”\n\nThe young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs.\n\n“My father,” he said, “is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy.\n\n“Poor young man!” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.\n\n“How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite.”\n\n“In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready,” said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary.\n\n“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. “Gentlemen sometimes do not realize—” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy,\nshe committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History.\nFor she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said:\n\n“I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move.”\n\n“How you do do everything,” said Lucy.\n\n“Naturally, dear. It is my affair.”\n\n“But I would like to help you.”\n\n“No, dear.”\n\nCharlotte’s energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet—there was a rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.\n\n“I want to explain,” said Miss Bartlett, “why it is that I have taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you;\nbut I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it.”\n\nLucy was bewildered." +- "“If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this.”\n\n“Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure,” said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues.\n\nMiss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,\nand the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.\n\nMiss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more.\n\n“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,\nsince it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed." +- Chapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker - "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,\nto 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.\n\nOver 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,\nundersized 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.\n\nOver 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.\n\nA conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar lines. Miss Bartlett was,\nafter 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,\nof 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!\n\nAt this point the clever lady broke in.\n\n“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.”\n\nMiss 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.\n\n“I will take you by a dear dirty back way, Miss Honeychurch, and if you bring me luck, we shall have an adventure.”\n\nLucy said that this was most kind, and at once opened the Baedeker, to see where Santa Croce was.\n\n“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.”\n\nThis sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried over her breakfast, and started with her new friend in high spirits. Italy was coming at last.\nThe 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:\n\n“A smell! a true Florentine smell! Every city, let me teach you, has its own smell.”\n\n“Is it a very nice smell?” said Lucy, who had inherited from her mother a distaste to dirt.\n\n“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!”\n\nSo Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of the city of Florence,\nshort, 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,\nonly increased the sense of festivity.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Indeed, I’m not!” exclaimed Lucy. “We are Radicals, too, out and out.\nMy father always voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he was so dreadful about Ireland.”\n\n“I see, I see. And now you have gone over to the enemy.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“Shameful! A manufacturing district, I suppose?”\n\n“No—in the Surrey hills. About five miles from Dorking, looking over the Weald.”\n\nMiss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened her trot.\n\n“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?”\n\n“Very well indeed.”\n\n“And old Mrs. Butterworth the philanthropist?”\n\n“Why, she rents a field of us! How funny!”\n\nMiss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky, and murmured: “Oh, you have property in Surrey?”\n\n“Hardly any,” said Lucy, fearful of being thought a snob. “Only thirty acres—just the garden, all downhill, and some fields.”\n\nMiss 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:\n\n“Bless us! Bless us and save us! We’ve lost the way.”\n\nCertainly 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.\n\n“Lost! lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we have taken a wrong turning. How those horrid Conservatives would jeer at us!\nWhat are we to do? Two lone females in an unknown town. Now, this is what _I_ call an adventure.”\n\nLucy, who wanted to see Santa Croce, suggested, as a possible solution,\nthat 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.”\n\nAccordingly they drifted through a series of those grey-brown streets,\nneither commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of the city abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent of Lady Louisa,\nand 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.\n\nThe 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,\nlarge and dusty, on the farther side of which rose a black-and-white façade of surpassing ugliness. Miss Lavish spoke to it dramatically. It was Santa Croce. The adventure was over.\n\n“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!”\n\n“We sat opposite them at dinner last night. They have given us their rooms. They were so very kind.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“What would you ask us?”\n\nMiss 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:\n\n“There goes my local-colour box! I must have a word with him!”\n\nAnd 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.\n\nLucy 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,\ntalking 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,\nnot 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.\nRuskin, and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop.\nProtestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the prelate’s upturned toes.\n\n“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!”\n\nThe 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.\n\n“Look at him!” said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. “Here’s a mess: a baby hurt,\ncold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?”\n\nThe child’s legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr.\nEmerson 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.\n\n“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—”\n\nHe paused for a phrase.\n\n“Niente,” said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers.\n\n“I’m not sure she understands English,” suggested Lucy.\n\nIn her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and,\nif possible, to erase Miss Bartlett’s civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms.\n\n“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?”\n\n“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.”\n\n“Why shouldn’t you?” said Mr. Emerson.\n\n“Yes, why shouldn’t you come by yourself?” said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time.\n\n“But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker.”\n\n“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.”\n\nLucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her.\n\n“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.\nI hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience.”\n\n“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;\nbut 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.”\n\nNow, 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.\nEmerson 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.\n\n“I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which they are.”\n\nThe 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.\n\nThe 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.\n\n“Remember,” he was saying, “the facts about this church of Santa Croce;\nhow 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,\nmore pathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!”\n\n“No!” exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church.\n“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.”\n\nHe was referring to the fresco of the “Ascension of St. John.” Inside,\nthe 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.\n\n“Now, did this happen, or didn’t it? Yes or no?”\n\nGeorge replied:\n\n“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.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint,\nwhoever he is, going up. It did happen like that, if it happened at all.”\n\n“Pardon me,” said a frigid voice. “The chapel is somewhat small for two parties. We will incommode you no longer.”\n\nThe lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock,\nfor 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.\n\n“Stop!” cried Mr. Emerson. “There’s plenty of room for us all. Stop!”\n\nThe procession disappeared without a word.\n\nSoon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It’s that Mr.\nEager. 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.”\n\n“He will not come back,” said George.\n\nBut 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.\n\n“My father has that effect on nearly everyone,” he informed her. “He will try to be kind.”\n\n“I hope we all try,” said she, smiling nervously.\n\n“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.”\n\n“How silly of them!” said Lucy, though in her heart she sympathized; “I think that a kind action done tactfully—”\n\n“Tact!”\n\nHe threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wrong answer. She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel.\nFor 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,\nof 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,\nand she could re-enter the world of rapid talk, which was alone familiar to her.\n\n“Were you snubbed?” asked his son tranquilly.\n\n“But we have spoilt the pleasure of I don’t know how many people. They won’t come back.”\n\n“...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.\n\n“Don’t let us spoil yours,” he continued to Lucy. “Have you looked at those saints?”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy. “They are lovely. Do you know which is the tombstone that is praised in Ruskin?”\n\nHe did not know, and suggested that they should try to guess it.\nGeorge, 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.\n\n“Why will he look at that fresco?” he said uneasily. “I saw nothing in it.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“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.”\n\nLucy again felt that this did not do.\n\n“In Hell,” he repeated. “He’s unhappy.”\n\n“Oh, dear!” said Lucy.\n\n“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.”\n\nShe 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?”\n\nLucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said:\n\n“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.\nYou might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time.\nYou 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,\nand 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.”\n\nTo this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer.\n\n“I only know what it is that’s wrong with him; not why it is.”\n\n“And what is it?” asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.\n\n“The old trouble; things won’t fit.”\n\n“What things?”\n\n“The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?”\n\nIn his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:\n\n“‘From far, from eve and morning,\n And yon twelve-winded sky,\nThe stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I’\n\n\nGeorge 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.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch assented.\n\n“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.”\n\nSuddenly 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,\nor a Yes, or something!\n\n“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.”\n\nThe old man’s face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand.\nThis 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,\nbefore she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.\n\n“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_.\nThere’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,\nyes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”" +- "“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?”\n\nLucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said:\n\n“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.\nYou might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time.\nYou 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,\nand 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.”\n\nTo this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer.\n\n“I only know what it is that’s wrong with him; not why it is.”\n\n“And what is it?” asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.\n\n“The old trouble; things won’t fit.”\n\n“What things?”\n\n“The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?”\n\nIn his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:\n\n“‘From far, from eve and morning,\n And yon twelve-winded sky,\nThe stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I’\n\n\nGeorge 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.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch assented.\n\n“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.”\n\nSuddenly 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,\nor a Yes, or something!\n\n“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.”\n\nThe old man’s face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand.\nThis 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,\nbefore she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.\n\n“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_.\nThere’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,\nyes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin." +- "Chapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”" - "It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave.\nThe 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.\nPerhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never.\n\nShe was no dazzling _exécutante;_ 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.\nPassion 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.\nBut 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.\n\nA 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.\n\nMr. 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,\nunder 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.\nBeebe who started the stamping; it was all that one could do.\n\n“Who is she?” he asked the vicar afterwards.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Introduce me.”\n\n“She will be delighted. She and Miss Bartlett are full of the praises of your sermon.”\n\n“My sermon?” cried Mr. Beebe. “Why ever did she listen to it?”\n\nWhen he was introduced he understood why, for Miss Honeychurch,\ndisjoined 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.”\n\nLucy at once re-entered daily life.\n\n“Oh, what a funny thing! Some one said just the same to mother, and she said she trusted I should never live a duet.”\n\n“Doesn’t Mrs. Honeychurch like music?”\n\n“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.\nOnce, 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—”\n\n“Of course,” said he, wondering why she bothered to explain.\n\n“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.\n\nThe street and the river were dirty yellow, the bridge was dirty grey,\nand 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.\n\n“What about music?” said Mr. Beebe.\n\n“Poor Charlotte will be sopped,” was Lucy’s reply.\n\nThe expedition was typical of Miss Bartlett, who would return cold,\ntired, 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.\n\n“Miss Lavish has led your cousin astray. She hopes to find the true Italy in the wet I believe.”\n\n“Miss Lavish is so original,” murmured Lucy. This was a stock remark,\nthe 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.\n\n“Is it true,” continued Lucy in awe-struck tone, “that Miss Lavish is writing a book?”\n\n“They do say so.”\n\n“What is it about?”\n\n“It will be a novel,” replied Mr. Beebe, “dealing with modern Italy.\nLet me refer you for an account to Miss Catharine Alan, who uses words herself more admirably than any one I know.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“The two ladies, at all events, have made it up.”\n\nHe 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,\nbut Mr. Beebe was, from rather profound reasons, somewhat chilly in his attitude towards the other sex, and preferred to be interested rather than enthralled.\n\nLucy, 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.\n\n“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.\n\n“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.”\n\nLucy 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,\nand 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.\nYet in their heart of hearts they are—how superficial! They have no conception of the intellectual life. How right is Signora Bertolini,\nwho 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!’”\n\nMiss Alan did not follow, but gathered that she was being mocked in an agreeable way. Her sister was a little disappointed in Mr. Beebe,\nhaving 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?\n\nIn 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.”\n\n“That belongs to Lavish.” said the clergyman. “A good fellow, Lavish,\nbut I wish she’d start a pipe.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Beebe,” said Miss Alan, divided between awe and mirth.\n“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.”\n\n“What was that?” asked Lucy.\n\nMr. 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,\nthen 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.”\n\nMiss 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.\n\n“All the same, she is a little too—I hardly like to say unwomanly, but she behaved most strangely when the Emersons arrived.”\n\nMr. 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,\nthe lady who has so much yellow hair, takes lemonade. That old Mr.\nEmerson, who puts things very strangely—”\n\nHer 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:\n\n“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;\nit 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!\nI 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.\nCome, too.’ Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation,\nand she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas,\nand 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.”\n\n“Let me finish the story,” said Mr. Beebe, who had returned.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Whatever happened?” cried Lucy.\n\n“No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe—old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know.”\n\nMr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself.\n\n“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?”\n\nThe little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr.\nBeebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:\n\n“I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets.”\n\n“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,\nwho stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett,\nsmarting 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,\nhe knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner.\n\nLucy, 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.\n\n“But aren’t they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?” said the little lady inquisitively.\n\n“Only once. Charlotte didn’t like it, and said something—quite politely, of course.”\n\n“Most right of her. They don’t understand our ways. They must find their level.”\n\nMr. 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.\n\nEvening 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 façade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun.\n\n“Too late to go out,” said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. “All the galleries are shut.”\n\n“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.”\n\nHer two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:\n\n“I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won’t you be better on your feet?”\n\n“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan.\n\n“Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!”\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\nMr. 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?\nCharlotte 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.\nIndirectly, 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.\nBut 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.\n\nLucy 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.\n\nThere she bought a photograph of Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.” Venus,\nbeing 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.\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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,\nhalf 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.\n\nShe 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,\nstill dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home.\n\nThen something did happen.\n\nTwo 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,\nfell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.\n\nShe thought: “Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“Oh, what have I done?” she murmured, and opened her eyes.\n\nGeorge 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.\n\nThey 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:\n\n“Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“You fainted.”\n\n“I—I am very sorry.”\n\n“How are you now?”\n\n“Perfectly well—absolutely well.” And she began to nod and smile.\n\n“Then let us come home. There’s no point in our stopping.”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you.”\n\nHis hand was still extended.\n\n“Oh, my photographs!” she exclaimed suddenly.\n\n“What photographs?”\n\n“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?”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“Miss Honeychurch!”\n\nShe stopped with her hand on her heart.\n\n“You sit still; you aren’t fit to go home alone.”\n\n“Yes, I am, thank you so very much.”\n\n“No, you aren’t. You’d go openly if you were.”\n\n“But I had rather—”\n\n“Then I don’t fetch your photographs.”\n\n“I had rather be alone.”\n\nHe 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.”\n\nIn the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day,\nand joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,\n“Oh, what have I done?”—the thought that she, as well as the dying man,\nhad crossed some spiritual boundary.\n\nHe 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,\nshe walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.\n\n“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?”\n\nHe had thrown something into the stream.\n\n“What did you throw in?”\n\n“Things I didn’t want,” he said crossly.\n\n“Mr. Emerson!”\n\n“Well?”\n\n“Where are the photographs?”\n\nHe was silent.\n\n“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.\n“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.”\n\nSomething warned Lucy that she must stop him.\n\n“It has happened,” he repeated, “and I mean to find out what it is.”\n\n“Mr. Emerson—”\n\nHe turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.\n\n“I want to ask you something before we go in.”\n\nThey 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:\n\n“I have behaved ridiculously.”\n\nHe was following his own thoughts.\n\n“I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me.”\n\n“I nearly fainted myself,” he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.\n\n“Well, I owe you a thousand apologies.”\n\n“Oh, all right.”\n\n“And—this is the real point—you know how silly people are gossiping—ladies especially, I am afraid—you understand what I mean?”\n\n“I’m afraid I don’t.”\n\n“I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?”\n\n“Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right—all right.”\n\n“Thank you so much. And would you—”\n\nShe 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;\nhis 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.\n\n“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”\n\n“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n\n\nIt was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one." -- "For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure,\nnot that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events,\ncontradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.\n\nAt breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties—all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.\n\n“No, Charlotte!” cried the girl, with real warmth. “It’s very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather.”\n\n“Very well, dear,” said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her.\n\nShe slipped her arm into her cousin’s, and they started off along the Lung’ Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was “How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!”\n\nLucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.\n\n“Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice.”\n\nSerious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle—queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper—but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett’s insinuations.\n\nBut though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones,\na Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts.\n\nThe exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.\n\n“Oh, let me congratulate you!” said Miss Bartlett. “After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!”\n\n“Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning.” Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.\n\n“But perhaps you would rather not?”\n\n“I’m sorry—if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not.”\n\nThe elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.\n\n“It is I who am sorry,” said Miss Lavish “literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there’s no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn’t pry.”\n\nShe marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o’clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.\n\n“What is the heroine’s name?” asked Miss Bartlett." -- "“Leonora,” said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.\n\n“I do hope she’s nice.”\n\nThat desideratum would not be omitted.\n\n“And what is the plot?”\n\nLove, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.\n\n“I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,” Miss Lavish concluded. “It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist.”\n\n“Oh, you wicked woman,” cried Miss Bartlett. “I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons.”\n\nMiss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile.\n\n“I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen.\nIt is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday’s is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life.”\n\nThere was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square.\n\n“She is my idea of a really clever woman,” said Miss Bartlett. “That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel.”\n\nLucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an _ingenué_.\n\n“She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word,”\ncontinued Miss Bartlett slowly. “None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman—Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!”\n\n“Ah, not for me,” said the chaplain blandly, “for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time.”\n\n“We were chatting to Miss Lavish.”\n\nHis brow contracted.\n\n“So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!” The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. “I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week—a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano.\nThere is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour’s ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful—far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures.\nThat man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us.”\n\nMiss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of,\nand saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them.\nLiving in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole’s slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook.\n\nTherefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of.\nBetween the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that—how Lucy would enjoy it!" -- "A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett—even if culminating in a residential tea-party—was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere.\n\n“So we shall be a _partie carrée_,” said the chaplain. “In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town! Beautiful as it is, it is the town.”\n\nThey assented.\n\n“This very square—so I am told—witnessed yesterday the most sordid of tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola there is something portentous in such desecration—portentous and humiliating.”\n\n“Humiliating indeed,” said Miss Bartlett. “Miss Honeychurch happened to be passing through as it happened. She can hardly bear to speak of it.”\nShe glanced at Lucy proudly.\n\n“And how came we to have you here?” asked the chaplain paternally.\n\nMiss Bartlett’s recent liberalism oozed away at the question. “Do not blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The fault is mine: I left her unchaperoned.”\n\n“So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?” His voice suggested sympathetic reproof but at the same time indicated that a few harrowing details would not be unacceptable. His dark, handsome face drooped mournfully towards her to catch her reply.\n\n“Practically.”\n\n“One of our pension acquaintances kindly brought her home,” said Miss Bartlett, adroitly concealing the sex of the preserver.\n\n“For her also it must have been a terrible experience. I trust that neither of you was at all—that it was not in your immediate proximity?”\n\nOf the many things Lucy was noticing to-day, not the least remarkable was this: the ghoulish fashion in which respectable people will nibble after blood. George Emerson had kept the subject strangely pure.\n\n“He died by the fountain, I believe,” was her reply.\n\n“And you and your friend—”\n\n“Were over at the Loggia.”\n\n“That must have saved you much. You have not, of course, seen the disgraceful illustrations which the gutter Press—This man is a public nuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly well, and yet he goes on worrying me to buy his vulgar views.”\n\nSurely the vendor of photographs was in league with Lucy—in the eternal league of Italy with youth. He had suddenly extended his book before Miss Bartlett and Mr. Eager, binding their hands together by a long glossy ribbon of churches, pictures, and views.\n\n“This is too much!” cried the chaplain, striking petulantly at one of Fra Angelico’s angels. She tore. A shrill cry rose from the vendor. The book it seemed, was more valuable than one would have supposed.\n\n“Willingly would I purchase—” began Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Ignore him,” said Mr. Eager sharply, and they all walked rapidly away from the square.\n\nBut an Italian can never be ignored, least of all when he has a grievance. His mysterious persecution of Mr. Eager became relentless;\nthe air rang with his threats and lamentations. He appealed to Lucy;\nwould not she intercede? He was poor—he sheltered a family—the tax on bread. He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed, he was dissatisfied,\nhe did not leave them until he had swept their minds clean of all thoughts whether pleasant or unpleasant.\n\nShopping was the topic that now ensued. Under the chaplain’s guidance they selected many hideous presents and mementoes—florid little picture-frames that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other little frames, more severe, that stood on little easels, and were carven out of oak; a blotting book of vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheap mosaic brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, would never tell from real; pins, pots, heraldic saucers, brown art-photographs; Eros and Psyche in alabaster; St. Peter to match—all of which would have cost less in London." -- "This successful morning left no pleasant impressions on Lucy. She had been a little frightened, both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she knew not why. And as they frightened her, she had, strangely enough,\nceased to respect them. She doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist. She doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality and culture as she had been led to suppose. They were tried by some new test, and they were found wanting. As for Charlotte—as for Charlotte she was exactly the same. It might be possible to be nice to her; it was impossible to love her.\n\n“The son of a labourer; I happen to know it for a fact. A mechanic of some sort himself when he was young; then he took to writing for the Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton.”\n\nThey were talking about the Emersons.\n\n“How wonderfully people rise in these days!” sighed Miss Bartlett,\nfingering a model of the leaning Tower of Pisa.\n\n“Generally,” replied Mr. Eager, “one has only sympathy for their success. The desire for education and for social advance—in these things there is something not wholly vile. There are some working men whom one would be very willing to see out here in Florence—little as they would make of it.”\n\n“Is he a journalist now?” Miss Bartlett asked.\n\n“He is not; he made an advantageous marriage.”\n\nHe uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning, and ended with a sigh.\n\n“Oh, so he has a wife.”\n\n“Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder—yes I wonder how he has the effrontery to look me in the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with me. He was in my London parish long ago. The other day in Santa Croce,\nwhen he was with Miss Honeychurch, I snubbed him. Let him beware that he does not get more than a snub.”\n\n“What?” cried Lucy, flushing.\n\n“Exposure!” hissed Mr. Eager.\n\nHe tried to change the subject; but in scoring a dramatic point he had interested his audience more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett was full of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she wished never to see the Emersons again, was not disposed to condemn them on a single word.\n\n“Do you mean,” she asked, “that he is an irreligious man? We know that already.”\n\n“Lucy, dear—” said Miss Bartlett, gently reproving her cousin’s penetration.\n\n“I should be astonished if you knew all. The boy—an innocent child at the time—I will exclude. God knows what his education and his inherited qualities may have made him.”\n\n“Perhaps,” said Miss Bartlett, “it is something that we had better not hear.”\n\n“To speak plainly,” said Mr. Eager, “it is. I will say no more.” For the first time Lucy’s rebellious thoughts swept out in words—for the first time in her life.\n\n“You have said very little.”\n\n“It was my intention to say very little,” was his frigid reply.\n\nHe gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal indignation.\nShe turned towards him from the shop counter; her breast heaved quickly. He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of her lips. It was intolerable that she should disbelieve him.\n\n“Murder, if you want to know,” he cried angrily. “That man murdered his wife!”\n\n“How?” she retorted.\n\n“To all intents and purposes he murdered her. That day in Santa Croce—did they say anything against me?”\n\n“Not a word, Mr. Eager—not a single word.”\n\n“Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to you. But I suppose it is only their personal charms that makes you defend them.”\n\n“I’m not defending them,” said Lucy, losing her courage, and relapsing into the old chaotic methods. “They’re nothing to me.”\n\n“How could you think she was defending them?” said Miss Bartlett, much discomfited by the unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly listening.\n\n“She will find it difficult. For that man has murdered his wife in the sight of God.”\n\nThe addition of God was striking. But the chaplain was really trying to qualify a rash remark. A silence followed which might have been impressive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bartlett hastily purchased the Leaning Tower, and led the way into the street.\n\n“I must be going,” said he, shutting his eyes and taking out his watch." -- "Miss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, and spoke with enthusiasm of the approaching drive.\n\n“Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off?”\n\nLucy was recalled to her manners, and after a little exertion the complacency of Mr. Eager was restored.\n\n“Bother the drive!” exclaimed the girl, as soon as he had departed. “It is just the drive we had arranged with Mr. Beebe without any fuss at all. Why should he invite us in that absurd manner? We might as well invite him. We are each paying for ourselves.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, was launched by this remark into unexpected thoughts.\n\n“If that is so, dear—if the drive we and Mr. Beebe are going with Mr.\nEager is really the same as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then I foresee a sad kettle of fish.”\n\n“How?”\n\n“Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish to come, too.”\n\n“That will mean another carriage.”\n\n“Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it herself. The truth must be told; she is too unconventional for him.”\n\nThey were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank. Lucy stood by the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to answer,\nor at all events to formulate the questions rioting in her brain. The well-known world had broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic city where people thought and did the most extraordinary things.\nMurder, accusations of murder, a lady clinging to one man and being rude to another—were these the daily incidents of her streets? Was there more in her frank beauty than met the eye—the power, perhaps, to evoke passions, good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment?\n\nHappy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture with admirable delicacy “where things might lead to,” but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: “Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr.\nEager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor out altogether—which they could scarcely do—but in any case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!”\n\n“It is indeed,” replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic.\n\n“What do you think about it?” asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress.\n\n“I don’t know what I think, nor what I want.”\n\n“Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn’t boring you. Speak the word,\nand, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow.”\n\n“Thank you, Charlotte,” said Lucy, and pondered over the offer.\n\nThere were letters for her at the bureau—one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother’s letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald—all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveller returns.\n\n“And the news?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome,” said Lucy, giving the news that interested her least. “Do you know the Vyses?”" -- "“Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Piazza Signoria.”\n\n“They’re nice people, the Vyses. So clever—my idea of what’s really clever. Don’t you long to be in Rome?”\n\n“I die for it!”\n\nThe Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something,\nand though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god.\n\n“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them.\n\n\nIt was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guard against imposition. But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god.\n\nPhaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus enabling himself to drive with his arm round her waist. She did not mind. Mr.\nEager, who sat with his back to the horses, saw nothing of the indecorous proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy. The other two occupants of the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and Miss Lavish. For a dreadful thing had happened: Mr. Beebe, without consulting Mr. Eager, had doubled the size of the party. And though Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how the people were to sit, at the critical moment when the carriages came round they lost their heads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while Miss Bartlett, with George Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind.\n\nIt was hard on the poor chaplain to have his _partie carrée_ thus transformed. Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated it,\nwas now impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain style about them, and Mr. Beebe, though unreliable, was a man of parts. But a shoddy lady writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife in the sight of God—they should enter no villa at his introduction.\n\nLucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and nervous amid these explosive ingredients, attentive to Mr. Eager, repressive towards Miss Lavish, watchful of old Mr. Emerson, hitherto fortunately asleep,\nthanks to a heavy lunch and the drowsy atmosphere of Spring. She looked on the expedition as the work of Fate. But for it she would have avoided George Emerson successfully. In an open manner he had shown that he wished to continue their intimacy. She had refused, not because she disliked him, but because she did not know what had happened, and suspected that he did know. And this frightened her." -- "For the real event—whatever it was—had taken place, not in the Loggia,\nbut by the river. To behave wildly at the sight of death is pardonable.\nBut to discuss it afterwards, to pass from discussion into silence, and through silence into sympathy, that is an error, not of a startled emotion, but of the whole fabric. There was really something blameworthy (she thought) in their joint contemplation of the shadowy stream, in the common impulse which had turned them to the house without the passing of a look or word. This sense of wickedness had been slight at first. She had nearly joined the party to the Torre del Gallo. But each time that she avoided George it became more imperative that she should avoid him again. And now celestial irony, working through her cousin and two clergymen, did not suffer her to leave Florence till she had made this expedition with him through the hills.\n\nMeanwhile Mr. Eager held her in civil converse; their little tiff was over.\n\n“So, Miss Honeychurch, you are travelling? As a student of art?”\n\n“Oh, dear me, no—oh, no!”\n\n“Perhaps as a student of human nature,” interposed Miss Lavish, “like myself?”\n\n“Oh, no. I am here as a tourist.”\n\n“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Eager. “Are you indeed? If you will not think me rude, we residents sometimes pity you poor tourists not a little—handed about like a parcel of goods from Venice to Florence, from Florence to Rome, living herded together in pensions or hotels, quite unconscious of anything that is outside Baedeker, their one anxiety to get ‘done’\nor ‘through’ and go on somewhere else. The result is, they mix up towns, rivers, palaces in one inextricable whirl. You know the American girl in Punch who says: ‘Say, poppa, what did we see at Rome?’ And the father replies: ‘Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the yaller dog.’ There’s travelling for you. Ha! ha! ha!”\n\n“I quite agree,” said Miss Lavish, who had several times tried to interrupt his mordant wit. “The narrowness and superficiality of the Anglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace.”\n\n“Quite so. Now, the English colony at Florence, Miss Honeychurch—and it is of considerable size, though, of course, not all equally—a few are here for trade, for example. But the greater part are students. Lady Helen Laverstock is at present busy over Fra Angelico. I mention her name because we are passing her villa on the left. No, you can only see it if you stand—no, do not stand; you will fall. She is very proud of that thick hedge. Inside, perfect seclusion. One might have gone back six hundred years. Some critics believe that her garden was the scene of The Decameron, which lends it an additional interest, does it not?”\n\n“It does indeed!” cried Miss Lavish. “Tell me, where do they place the scene of that wonderful seventh day?”\n\nBut Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honeychurch that on the right lived Mr. Someone Something, an American of the best type—so rare!—and that the Somebody Elses were farther down the hill. “Doubtless you know her monographs in the series of ‘Mediæval Byways’? He is working at Gemistus Pletho. Sometimes as I take tea in their beautiful grounds I hear, over the wall, the electric tram squealing up the new road with its loads of hot, dusty, unintelligent tourists who are going to ‘do’\nFiesole in an hour in order that they may say they have been there, and I think—think—I think how little they think what lies so near them.”\n\nDuring this speech the two figures on the box were sporting with each other disgracefully. Lucy had a spasm of envy. Granted that they wished to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to do so. They were probably the only people enjoying the expedition. The carriage swept with agonizing jolts up through the Piazza of Fiesole and into the Settignano road.\n\n“Piano! piano!” said Mr. Eager, elegantly waving his hand over his head.\n\n“Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene,” crooned the driver, and whipped his horses up again." -- "Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on the subject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or was he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind.\nAs the pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr.\nEmerson was thrown against the chaplain with the regularity of a machine.\n\n“Piano! piano!” said he, with a martyred look at Lucy.\n\nAn extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. Phaethon, who for some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded.\n\nA little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was most unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered to disentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his _pourboire_, the girl was immediately to get down.\n\n“She is my sister,” said he, turning round on them with piteous eyes.\n\nMr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar.\n\nPhaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation, but at its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated,\nand patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish,\nthough unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism.\n\n“Most certainly I would let them be,” she cried. “But I dare say I shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the conventions all my life. This is what _I_ call an adventure.”\n\n“We must not submit,” said Mr. Eager. “I knew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook’s tourists.”\n\n“Surely no!” said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing.\n\nThe other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly.\n\n“Leave them alone,” Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. “Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers—A king might envy us, and if we part them it’s more like sacrilege than anything I know.”\n\nHere the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect.\n\nMr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream,\nwith unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager’s mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker,\nand more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.\n\n“Signorina!” said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy?\n\n“Signorina!” echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why?\n\nFor a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box.\n\n“Victory at last!” said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again.\n\n“It is not victory,” said Mr. Emerson. “It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy.”\n\nMr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son.\n\n“We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul.”\n\nMiss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character.\n\n“He was not driving us well,” she said. “He jolted us.”\n\n“That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now.\nCan you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I’d be frightened of the girl,\ntoo. It doesn’t do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?”" -- "Miss Lavish bristled.\n\n“Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?”\n\n“The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line—so I heard yesterday—which runs like this: ‘Don’t go fighting against the Spring.’”\n\nMr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition.\n\n“Non fate guerra al Maggio,” he murmured. “‘War not with the May’ would render a correct meaning.”\n\n“The point is, we have warred with it. Look.” He pointed to the Val d’Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.\n“Fifty miles of Spring, and we’ve come up to admire them. Do you suppose there’s any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both.”\n\nNo one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated,\nwet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d’Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become equally enthusiastic.\n\nBut it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting.\nAnd the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest.\n\nThe party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in common, were left to each other.\n\nThe two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered “the railway.” She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not very much hurt at her asking him.\n\n“The railway!” gasped Miss Lavish. “Oh, but I shall die! Of course it was the railway!” She could not control her mirth. “He is the image of a porter—on, on the South-Eastern.”\n\n“Eleanor, be quiet,” plucking at her vivacious companion. “Hush!\nThey’ll hear—the Emersons—”\n\n“I can’t stop. Let me go my wicked way. A porter—”\n\n“Eleanor!”\n\n“I’m sure it’s all right,” put in Lucy. “The Emersons won’t hear, and they wouldn’t mind if they did.”\n\nMiss Lavish did not seem pleased at this.\n\n“Miss Honeychurch listening!” she said rather crossly. “Pouf! Wouf! You naughty girl! Go away!”\n\n“Oh, Lucy, you ought to be with Mr. Eager, I’m sure.”\n\n“I can’t find them now, and I don’t want to either.”\n\n“Mr. Eager will be offended. It is your party.”\n\n“Please, I’d rather stop here with you.”" -- "“No, I agree,” said Miss Lavish. “It’s like a school feast; the boys have got separated from the girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish to converse on high topics unsuited for your ear.”\n\nThe girl was stubborn. As her time at Florence drew to its close she was only at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent. Such a one was Miss Lavish, and such for the moment was Charlotte. She wished she had not called attention to herself; they were both annoyed at her remark and seemed determined to get rid of her.\n\n“How tired one gets,” said Miss Bartlett. “Oh, I do wish Freddy and your mother could be here.”\n\nUnselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely usurped the functions of enthusiasm. Lucy did not look at the view either. She would not enjoy anything till she was safe at Rome.\n\n“Then sit you down,” said Miss Lavish. “Observe my foresight.”\n\nWith many a smile she produced two of those mackintosh squares that protect the frame of the tourist from damp grass or cold marble steps.\nShe sat on one; who was to sit on the other?\n\n“Lucy; without a moment’s doubt, Lucy. The ground will do for me.\nReally I have not had rheumatism for years. If I do feel it coming on I shall stand. Imagine your mother’s feelings if I let you sit in the wet in your white linen.” She sat down heavily where the ground looked particularly moist. “Here we are, all settled delightfully. Even if my dress is thinner it will not show so much, being brown. Sit down, dear;\nyou are too unselfish; you don’t assert yourself enough.” She cleared her throat. “Now don’t be alarmed; this isn’t a cold. It’s the tiniest cough, and I have had it three days. It’s nothing to do with sitting here at all.”\n\nThere was only one way of treating the situation. At the end of five minutes Lucy departed in search of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager, vanquished by the mackintosh square.\n\nShe addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in the carriages, perfuming the cushions with cigars. The miscreant, a bony young man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with the courtesy of a host and the assurance of a relative.\n\n“Dove?” said Lucy, after much anxious thought.\n\nHis face lit up. Of course he knew where. Not so far either. His arm swept three-fourths of the horizon. He should just think he did know where. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead and then pushed them towards her, as if oozing with visible extract of knowledge.\n\nMore seemed necessary. What was the Italian for “clergyman”?\n\n“Dove buoni uomini?” said she at last.\n\nGood? Scarcely the adjective for those noble beings! He showed her his cigar.\n\n“Uno—piu—piccolo,” was her next remark, implying “Has the cigar been given to you by Mr. Beebe, the smaller of the two good men?”\n\nShe was correct as usual. He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it to make it stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded his hat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than a quarter of a minute was ready to conduct her. Italians are born knowing the way.\nIt would seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but as a chess-board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces as well as the squares. Any one can find places, but the finding of people is a gift from God.\n\nHe only stopped once, to pick her some great blue violets. She thanked him with real pleasure. In the company of this common man the world was beautiful and direct. For the first time she felt the influence of Spring. His arm swept the horizon gracefully; violets, like other things, existed in great profusion there; “would she like to see them?”\n\n“Ma buoni uomini.”" -- "He bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceeded briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. They were nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing round them, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into countless pieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the pliant boughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not a twig, was unimportant to her.\n\n“What is that?”\n\nThere was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The voice of Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian’s ignorance is sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She could not make him understand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view was forming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, other hills.\n\n“Eccolo!” he exclaimed.\n\nAt the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end.\n\n“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above.\n“Courage and love.”\n\nShe did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view,\nand violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth.\n\nStanding at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.\nBut he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.\n\nGeorge had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.\n\nBefore she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII They Return\n\n\nSome complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye.\nCharlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon had lost the game.\n\nThat last fact was undeniable. He climbed on to the box shivering, with his collar up, prophesying the swift approach of bad weather. “Let us go immediately,” he told them. “The signorino will walk.”\n\n“All the way? He will be hours,” said Mr. Beebe.\n\n“Apparently. I told him it was unwise.” He would look no one in the face; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him. He alone had played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the others had used scraps of their intelligence. He alone had divined what things were, and what he wished them to be. He alone had interpreted the message that Lucy had received five days before from the lips of a dying man. Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave—she could interpret it also. Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly,\nand perhaps too late." -- "The thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, seldom affect the lives of his employers. He was the most competent of Miss Bartlett’s opponents,\nbut infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the town, he and his insight and his knowledge would trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in the bushes; he might make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what have we to do with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed downwards towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious. They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.\n\nRain and darkness came on together. The two ladies huddled together under an inadequate parasol. There was a lightning flash, and Miss Lavish who was nervous, screamed from the carriage in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally:\n\n“Courage, Miss Honeychurch, courage and faith. If I might say so, there is something almost blasphemous in this horror of the elements. Are we seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all this immense electrical display, is simply called into existence to extinguish you or me?”\n\n“No—of course—”\n\n“Even from the scientific standpoint the chances against our being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage—courage and faith.”\n\nUnder the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin’s hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles,\ngained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination.\n\nShe renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence.\n\n“Mr. Eager!” called Mr. Beebe. “We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?”\n\n“George!” cried Mr. Emerson. “Ask your driver which way George went.\nThe boy may lose his way. He may be killed.”\n\n“Go, Mr. Eager,” said Miss Bartlett, “don’t ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe—, he is nearly demented.”\n\n“He may be killed!” cried the old man. “He may be killed!”\n\n“Typical behaviour,” said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. “In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down.”\n\n“What does he know?” whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone.\n“Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?”\n\n“Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But—” she pointed at the driver—“_he_ knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?” She took out her purse. “It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all.” Tapping Phaethon’s back with her guide-book,\nshe said, “Silenzio!” and offered him a franc.\n\n“Va bene,” he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him.\n\nThere was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity,\nwhich fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good.\n\nThe older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that,\neven if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers,\nthrough miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin.\n\n“Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I—I thought I was developing.”" -- "“Do not cry, dearest. Take your time.”\n\n“I have been obstinate and silly—worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river—Oh, but he isn’t killed—he wouldn’t be killed, would he?”\n\nThe thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone.\n\n“I trust not. One would always pray against that.”\n\n“He is really—I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before.\nBut this time I’m not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book.”\n\n“In a book?”\n\n“Heroes—gods—the nonsense of schoolgirls.”\n\n“And then?”\n\n“But, Charlotte, you know what happened then.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy’s body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.\n\n“I want to be truthful,” she whispered. “It is so hard to be absolutely truthful.”\n\n“Don’t be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room.”\n\nSo they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased,\nand Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of—Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love.\n\nThe luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.\n\n“At last,” thought she, “I shall understand myself. I shan’t again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don’t know what.”\n\nMiss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage.\nWhen it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:\n\n“Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair.”\n\nWith some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said “So what is to be done?”\n\nShe was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.\n\n“What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle.”\n\nThe rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett’s toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.\n\n“It has been raining for nearly four hours,” she said at last.\n\nMiss Bartlett ignored the remark.\n\n“How do you propose to silence him?”\n\n“The driver?”\n\n“My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson.”\n\nLucy began to pace up and down the room.\n\n“I don’t understand,” she said at last.\n\nShe understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.\n\n“How are you going to stop him talking about it?”" -- "“I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do.”\n\n“I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves.”\n\n“Exploits?” cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.\n\n“My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.\n\n“Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man,\nbut obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?”\n\nAn idea rushed across Lucy’s brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.\n\n“I propose to speak to him,” said she.\n\nMiss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.\n\n“You see, Charlotte, your kindness—I shall never forget it. But—as you said—it is my affair. Mine and his.”\n\n“And you are going to _implore_ him, to _beg_ him to keep silence?”\n\n“Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit.”\n\n“But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be—how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy gravely.\n\nSomething in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.\n\n“What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy again.\n\n“When he insulted you, how would you have replied?”\n\n“I hadn’t time to think. You came.”\n\n“Yes, but won’t you tell me now what you would have done?”\n\n“I should have—” She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness.\nShe could not think what she would have done.\n\n“Come away from the window, dear,” said Miss Bartlett. “You will be seen from the road.”\n\nLucy obeyed. She was in her cousin’s power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him.\n\nMiss Bartlett became plaintive.\n\n“Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister’s insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman.”\n\nAs she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:\n\n“It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try.”\n\n“What train?”\n\n“The train to Rome.” She looked at her gloves critically.\n\nThe girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.\n\n“When does the train to Rome go?”\n\n“At eight.”\n\n“Signora Bertolini would be upset.”\n\n“We must face that,” said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.\n\n“She will make us pay for a whole week’s pension.”\n\n“I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses’ hotel. Isn’t afternoon tea given there for nothing?”\n\n“Yes, but they pay extra for wine.” After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream." -- "They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished,\nbegan to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte,\nwho was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk,\nvainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old.\nThe girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause.\nShe only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier,\nthe world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love.\nThe impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin’s side and took her in her arms.\n\nMiss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:\n\n“Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?”\n\nLucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:\n\n“Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!”\n\n“You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself,\ntoo. I know well how much I vex you at every turn.”\n\n“But no—”\n\nMiss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.\n\n“Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned—only fit to pack and unpack your things.”\n\n“Please—”\n\n“My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events.”\n\n“You mustn’t say these things,” said Lucy softly.\n\nShe still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other,\nheart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.\n\n“I have been a failure,” said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy’s trunk instead of strapping her own. “Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster.”\n\n“But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn’t a disaster either.”\n\n“It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?”\n\n“Every right.”\n\n“When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her.”\n\nLucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:\n\n“Why need mother hear of it?”\n\n“But you tell her everything?”\n\n“I suppose I do generally.”\n\n“I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it.\nUnless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her.”\n\nThe girl would not be degraded to this.\n\n“Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one.”\n\nHer promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room." -- "For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin’s voice had intervened, and, ever since,\nit was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now,\ncould be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time—indeed,\nfor years—she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better—a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most.\n\nLucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity,\nof her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul.\n\nThe door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,\nthough she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her.\n\nTo reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.\n\nWhether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:\n\n“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”\n\nSoon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\nIn the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval\n\n\nThe drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,”\nor might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;\nwithin, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man.\n\nTwo pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.\n\n“Where aren’t they?” said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy’s brother. “I tell you I’m getting fairly sick.”\n\n“For goodness’ sake go out of my drawing-room, then?” cried Mrs.\nHoneychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally.\n\nFreddy did not move or reply.\n\n“I think things are coming to a head,” she observed, rather wanting her son’s opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.\n\n“Time they did.”\n\n“I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more.”\n\n“It’s his third go, isn’t it?”\n\n“Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind.”" -- "“I didn’t mean to be unkind.” Then he added: “But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don’t know how girls manage things, but she can’t have said ‘No’ properly before, or she wouldn’t have to say it again now. Over the whole thing—I can’t explain—I do feel so uncomfortable.”\n\n“Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!”\n\n“I feel—never mind.”\n\nHe returned to his work.\n\n“Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: ‘Dear Mrs.\nVyse.’”\n\n“Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter.”\n\n“I said: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it,\nand I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But—’” She stopped reading, “I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can’t get on without me.”\n\n“Nor me.”\n\n“You?”\n\nFreddy nodded.\n\n“What do you mean?”\n\n“He asked me for my permission also.”\n\nShe exclaimed: “How very odd of him!”\n\n“Why so?” asked the son and heir. “Why shouldn’t my permission be asked?”\n\n“What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?”\n\n“I said to Cecil, ‘Take her or leave her; it’s no business of mine!’”\n\n“What a helpful answer!” But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.\n\n“The bother is this,” began Freddy.\n\nThen he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was.\nMrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.\n\n“Freddy, you must come. There they still are!”\n\n“I don’t see you ought to go peeping like that.”\n\n“Peeping like that! Can’t I look out of my own window?”\n\nBut she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, “Still page 322?” Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased.\n\n“The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully.”\nHe gave a nervous gulp. “Not content with ‘permission’, which I did give—that is to say, I said, ‘I don’t mind’—well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn’t off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn’t it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer—he said it would strengthen his hand.”\n\n“I hope you gave a careful answer, dear.”\n\n“I answered ‘No’” said the boy, grinding his teeth. “There! Fly into a stew! I can’t help it—had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me.”\n\n“Ridiculous child!” cried his mother. “You think you’re so holy and truthful, but really it’s only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?”\n\n“Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn’t say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn’t mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot’s in it.\nOh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work.”\n\n“No,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, “I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house.”\n\n“Not a bit!” he pleaded. “I only let out I didn’t like him. I don’t hate him, but I don’t like him. What I mind is that he’ll tell Lucy.”\n\nHe glanced at the curtains dismally." -- "“Well, _I_ like him,” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “I know his mother; he’s good, he’s clever, he’s rich, he’s well connected—Oh, you needn’t kick the piano! He’s well connected—I’ll say it again if you like: he’s well connected.” She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: “And he has beautiful manners.”\n\n“I liked him till just now. I suppose it’s having him spoiling Lucy’s first week at home; and it’s also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe?” said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. “I don’t see how Mr. Beebe comes in.”\n\n“You know Mr. Beebe’s funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said: ‘Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.’ I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said ‘Oh, he’s like me—better detached.’ I couldn’t make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn’t been so pleasant, at least—I can’t explain.”\n\n“You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties.”\n\nThe explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one’s own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow’s cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.\n\n“Will this do?” called his mother. “‘Dear Mrs. Vyse,—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.’ Then I put in at the top, ‘and I have told Lucy so.’ I must write the letter out again—‘and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.’\nI said that because I didn’t want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned.\nShe goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid’s dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably—”\n\n“Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?”\n\n“Don’t interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes—‘Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.’ No, I’ll cross that last bit out—it looks patronizing. I’ll stop at ‘because she tells me everything.’ Or shall I cross that out,\ntoo?”\n\n“Cross it out, too,” said Freddy.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left it in.\n\n“Then the whole thing runs: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse.—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know—’”\n\n“Look out!” cried Freddy.\n\nThe curtains parted.\n\nCecil’s first movement was one of irritation. He couldn’t bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture.\nInstinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world.\n\nCecil entered." -- "Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral.\nWell educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision,\nworshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow’s cap.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!” she exclaimed—“oh, Cecil, do tell me!”\n\n“I promessi sposi,” said he.\n\nThey stared at him anxiously.\n\n“She has accepted me,” he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human.\n\n“I am so glad,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences.\n\n“Welcome as one of the family!” said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. “This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy.”\n\n“I hope so,” replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling.\n\n“We mothers—” simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic—all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room;\nlooking very cross and almost handsome?\n\n“I say, Lucy!” called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag.\n\nLucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother’s face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, “Steady on!”\n\n“Not a kiss for me?” asked her mother.\n\nLucy kissed her also.\n\n“Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?” Cecil suggested. “And I’d stop here and tell my mother.”\n\n“We go with Lucy?” said Freddy, as if taking orders.\n\n“Yes, you go with Lucy.”\n\nThey passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace,\nand descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend—he knew their ways—past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed,\nuntil they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed.\n\nSmiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that had led to such a happy conclusion.\n\nHe had known Lucy for several years, but only as a commonplace girl who happened to be musical. He could still remember his depression that afternoon at Rome, when she and her terrible cousin fell on him out of the blue, and demanded to be taken to St. Peter’s. That day she had seemed a typical tourist—shrill, crude, and gaunt with travel. But Italy worked some marvel in her. It gave her light, and—which he held more precious—it gave her shadow. Soon he detected in her a wonderful reticence. She was like a woman of Leonardo da Vinci’s, whom we love not so much for herself as for the things that she will not tell us.\nThe things are assuredly not of this life; no woman of Leonardo’s could have anything so vulgar as a “story.” She did develop most wonderfully day by day." -- "So it happened that from patronizing civility he had slowly passed if not to passion, at least to a profound uneasiness. Already at Rome he had hinted to her that they might be suitable for each other. It had touched him greatly that she had not broken away at the suggestion. Her refusal had been clear and gentle; after it—as the horrid phrase went—she had been exactly the same to him as before. Three months later, on the margin of Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked her again in bald, traditional language. She reminded him of a Leonardo more than ever; her sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic rock;\nat his words she had turned and stood between him and the light with immeasurable plains behind her. He walked home with her unashamed,\nfeeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things that really mattered were unshaken.\n\nSo now he had asked her once more, and, clear and gentle as ever, she had accepted him, giving no coy reasons for her delay, but simply saying that she loved him and would do her best to make him happy. His mother, too, would be pleased; she had counselled the step; he must write her a long account.\n\nGlancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy’s chemicals had come off on it, he moved to the writing table. There he saw “Dear Mrs. Vyse,”\nfollowed by many erasures. He recoiled without reading any more, and after a little hesitation sat down elsewhere, and pencilled a note on his knee.\n\nThen he lit another cigarette, which did not seem quite as divine as the first, and considered what might be done to make Windy Corner drawing-room more distinctive. With that outlook it should have been a successful room, but the trail of Tottenham Court Road was upon it; he could almost visualize the motor-vans of Messrs. Shoolbred and Messrs.\nMaple arriving at the door and depositing this chair, those varnished book-cases, that writing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch’s letter. He did not want to read that letter—his temptations never lay in that direction; but he worried about it none the less. It was his own fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and so he had asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for Freddy—“He is only a boy,” he reflected. “I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?”\n\nThe Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps—he did not put it very definitely—he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible.\n\n“Mr. Beebe!” said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy’s praise of him in her letters from Florence.\n\nCecil greeted him rather critically.\n\n“I’ve come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?”\n\n“I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here—Don’t sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it.”\n\n“Pfui!”\n\n“I know,” said Cecil. “I know. I can’t think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it.”\n\nFor Cecil considered the bone and the Maples’ furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired.\n\n“I’ve come for tea and for gossip. Isn’t this news?”\n\n“News? I don’t understand you,” said Cecil. “News?”\n\nMr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward.\n\n“I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!”\n\n“Has he indeed?” said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder." -- "“Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I’ll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you.”\n\n“I’m shockingly stupid over local affairs,” said the young man languidly. “I can’t even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference,\nor perhaps those aren’t the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don’t feel to exist on sufferance.”\n\nMr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert,\ndetermined to shift the subject.\n\n“Let me see, Mr. Vyse—I forget—what is your profession?”\n\n“I have no profession,” said Cecil. “It is another example of my decadence. My attitude—quite an indefensible one—is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don’t care a straw about, but somehow, I’ve not been able to begin.”\n\n“You are very fortunate,” said Mr. Beebe. “It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure.”\n\nHis voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also.\n\n“I am glad that you approve. I daren’t face the healthy person—for example, Freddy Honeychurch.”\n\n“Oh, Freddy’s a good sort, isn’t he?”\n\n“Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is.”\n\nCecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe’s mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science.\n\n“Where are the others?” said Mr. Beebe at last, “I insist on extracting tea before evening service.”\n\n“I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary—I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?”\n\n“I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs.”\n\n“The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small.”\n\nThey both laughed, and things began to go better.\n\n“The faults of Freddy—” Cecil continued.\n\n“Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable.”\n\n“She has none,” said the young man, with grave sincerity.\n\n“I quite agree. At present she has none.”\n\n“At present?”\n\n“I’m not cynical. I’m only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down,\nand music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good,\nheroically bad—too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad.”\n\nCecil found his companion interesting.\n\n“And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?”\n\n“Well, I must say I’ve only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn’t you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn’t wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be.”\n\n“In what way?”\n\nConversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace." -- "“I could as easily tell you what tune she’ll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks.”\n\nThe sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself.\n\n“But the string never broke?”\n\n“No. I mightn’t have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall.”\n\n“It has broken now,” said the young man in low, vibrating tones.\n\nImmediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous,\ncontemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him?\n\n“Broken? What do you mean?”\n\n“I meant,” said Cecil stiffly, “that she is going to marry me.”\n\nThe clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice.\n\n“I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way.\nMr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me.” And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed.\n\nCecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered.\n\nOccasionally he could be quite crude.\n\n“I am sorry I have given you a shock,” he said dryly. “I fear that Lucy’s choice does not meet with your approval.”\n\n“Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. I know Miss Honeychurch only a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have discussed her so freely with any one; certainly not with you.”\n\n“You are conscious of having said something indiscreet?”\n\nMr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really, Mr. Vyse had the art of placing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to use the prerogatives of his profession.\n\n“No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it.\nShe has learnt—you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely—she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides.” It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. “She has learnt through you,” and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; “let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her.”\n\n“Grazie tante!” said Cecil, who did not like parsons.\n\n“Have you heard?” shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden. “Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?”\n\nFreddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact.\n\n“Indeed I have!” he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer—at all events not without apology. “Mrs.\nHoneychurch, I’m going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I’m too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them,\ngrave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my tea.”\n\n“You only asked for it just in time,” the lady retorted. “How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?”\n\nHe took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be serious any more." -- "An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present.\n\nSo it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne,\nputting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped.\nFreddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art\n\n\nA few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\nfor naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man.\n\nCecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers.\n\nAt tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been.\n\n“Do you go to much of this sort of thing?” he asked when they were driving home.\n\n“Oh, now and then,” said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself.\n\n“Is it typical of country society?”\n\n“I suppose so. Mother, would it be?”\n\n“Plenty of society,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses.\n\nSeeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said:\n\n“To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous.”\n\n“I am so sorry that you were stranded.”\n\n“Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property—a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!”\n\n“One has to go through it, I suppose. They won’t notice us so much next time.”\n\n“But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement—horrid word in the first place—is a private matter, and should be treated as such.”\n\nYet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them,\nrejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different—personal love. Hence Cecil’s irritation and Lucy’s belief that his irritation was just.\n\n“How tiresome!” she said. “Couldn’t you have escaped to tennis?”\n\n“I don’t play tennis—at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato.”\n\n“Inglese Italianato?”\n\n“E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?”" -- "She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement,\nhad taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing.\n\n“Well,” said he, “I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them.”\n\n“We all have our limitations, I suppose,” said wise Lucy.\n\n“Sometimes they are forced on us, though,” said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.\n\n“How?”\n\n“It makes a difference doesn’t it, whether we fully fence ourselves in,\nor whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?”\n\nShe thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference.\n\n“Difference?” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. “I don’t see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place.”\n\n“We were speaking of motives,” said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred.\n\n“My dear Cecil, look here.” She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. “This is me. That’s Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here.”\n\n“We weren’t talking of real fences,” said Lucy, laughing.\n\n“Oh, I see, dear—poetry.”\n\nShe leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused.\n\n“I tell you who has no ‘fences,’ as you call them,” she said, “and that’s Mr. Beebe.”\n\n“A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless.”\n\nLucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil’s epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it.\n\n“Don’t you like Mr. Beebe?” she asked thoughtfully.\n\n“I never said so!” he cried. “I consider him far above the average. I only denied—” And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant.\n\n“Now, a clergyman that I do hate,” said she wanting to say something sympathetic, “a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere—not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things.”\n\n“What sort of things?”\n\n“There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife.”\n\n“Perhaps he had.”\n\n“No!”\n\n“Why ‘no’?”\n\n“He was such a nice old man, I’m sure.”\n\nCecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence.\n\n“Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague—said the old man had ‘practically’ murdered his wife—had murdered her in the sight of God.”\n\n“Hush, dear!” said Mrs. Honeychurch absently.\n\n“But isn’t it intolerable that a person whom we’re told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn’t that.”\n\n“Poor old man! What was his name?”\n\n“Harris,” said Lucy glibly.\n\n“Let’s hope that Mrs. Harris there warn’t no sich person,” said her mother.\n\nCecil nodded intelligently.\n\n“Isn’t Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?” he asked.\n\n“I don’t know. I hate him. I’ve heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I _hate_ him.”\n\n“My goodness gracious me, child!” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “You’ll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen.”" -- "He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy’s moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman’s power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, he thought—lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch’s mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.\n\n“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.\nHoneychurch?”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil,\nwho was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again.\n\nLucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\nLet us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\nThe woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.\nPretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil.\n\n“Cissie” was the name of one of these villas, “Albert” of the other.\nThese titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. “Albert”\nwas inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. “Cissie” was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions.\n\n“The place is ruined!” said the ladies mechanically. “Summer Street will never be the same again.”\n\nAs the carriage passed, “Cissie’s” door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.\n\n“Stop!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.\n“Here’s Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!”" -- "Sir Harry Otway—who need not be described—came to the carriage and said “Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can’t, I really can’t turn out Miss Flack.”\n\n“Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew’s time?”\n\n“But what can I do?” He lowered his voice. “An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden.”\n\n“Turn her out,” said Cecil bravely.\n\nSir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack’s intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm.\nHe called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,—a most reasonable and respectful man—who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ,\nhowever, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the façade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative.\n\nMr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, “and all the capitals different—one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack’s initials—every one different.” For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy.\n\nThis futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch’s carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well.\nHe had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever.\nAll he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for “Cissie”—someone really desirable.\n\n“The rent is absurdly low,” he told them, “and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves.”\n\nCecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.\n\n“You ought to find a tenant at once,” he said maliciously. “It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk.”\n\n“Exactly!” said Sir Harry excitedly. “That is exactly what I fear, Mr.\nVyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved—a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?”\n\n“Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,” said Lucy.\n\nCecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.\n\n“Sir Harry!” she exclaimed, “I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?”\n\n“My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?”\n\n“Yes; I met them abroad.”\n\n“Gentlewomen?” he asked tentatively.\n\n“Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week—Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I’m really not joking.\nThey are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?”" -- "“Indeed you may!” he cried. “Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities—please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents’ fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote—a tactful letter, you know—asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory—people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!”\n\nShe nodded.\n\n“My advice,” put in Mrs. Honeychurch, “is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It’s a sad thing, but I’d far rather let to some one who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down.”\n\n“I think I follow you,” said Sir Harry; “but it is, as you say, a very sad thing.”\n\n“The Misses Alan aren’t that!” cried Lucy.\n\n“Yes, they are,” said Cecil. “I haven’t met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood.”\n\n“Don’t listen to him, Sir Harry—he’s tiresome.”\n\n“It’s I who am tiresome,” he replied. “I oughtn’t to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help.”\n\n“Then may I write to my Misses Alan?”\n\n“Please!”\n\nBut his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:\n\n“Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man.”\n\n“Really—” he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.\n\n“Men don’t gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there’s an end of them—they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they’re vulgar,\nthey somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn’t spread so. Give me a man—of course, provided he’s clean.”\n\nSir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time,\nshould descend from the carriage and inspect “Cissie” for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale.\n\nCecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.\n\n“Mrs. Honeychurch,” he said, “what if we two walk home and leave you?”\n\n“Certainly!” was her cordial reply.\n\nSir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, “Aha! young people, young people!” and then hastened to unlock the house.\n\n“Hopeless vulgarian!” exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!”\n\n“I can’t help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man.”\n\n“He isn’t clever, but really he is nice.”\n\n“No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and every one—even your mother—is taken in.”\n\n“All that you say is quite true,” said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. “I wonder whether—whether it matters so very much.”" -- "“It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party.\nOh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he’ll get some vulgar tenant in that villa—some woman so really vulgar that he’ll notice it.\n_Gentlefolks!_ Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let’s forget him.”\n\nThis Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever,\nnor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, “It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy”? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps,\nduring the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.\n\n“Which way shall we go?” she asked him.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, she thought—was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad.\n\n“Are there two ways?”\n\n“Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we’re got up smart.”\n\n“I’d rather go through the wood,” said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. “Why is it,\nLucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?”\n\n“Haven’t I? The wood, then,” said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning.\n\nShe led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards.\n\n“I had got an idea—I dare say wrongly—that you feel more at home with me in a room.”\n\n“A room?” she echoed, hopelessly bewildered.\n\n“Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this.”\n\n“Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person.”\n\n“I don’t know that you aren’t. I connect you with a view—a certain type of view. Why shouldn’t you connect me with a room?”\n\nShe reflected a moment, and then said, laughing:\n\n“Do you know that you’re right? I do. I must be a poetess after all.\nWhen I think of you it’s always as in a room. How funny!”\n\nTo her surprise, he seemed annoyed.\n\n“A drawing-room, pray? With no view?”\n\n“Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?”\n\n“I’d rather,” he said reproachfully, “that you connected me with the open air.”\n\nShe said again, “Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?”\n\nAs no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm.\n\nPresently they came to a little clearing among the pines—another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool.\n\nShe exclaimed, “The Sacred Lake!”\n\n“Why do you call it that?”\n\n“I can’t remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It’s only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can’t get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it.”\n\n“And you?”\n\nHe meant, “Are you fond of it?” But she answered dreamily, “I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row.”" -- "At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool’s edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it,\nand she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green.\n\n“Who found you out?”\n\n“Charlotte,” she murmured. “She was stopping with us.\nCharlotte—Charlotte.”\n\n“Poor girl!”\n\nShe smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk, now appeared practical.\n\n“Lucy!”\n\n“Yes, I suppose we ought to be going,” was her reply.\n\n“Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before.”\n\nAt the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards him.\n\n“What, Cecil?”\n\n“Hitherto never—not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry me—”\n\nHe became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were observed. His courage had gone.\n\n“Yes?”\n\n“Up to now I have never kissed you.”\n\nShe was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately.\n\n“No—more you have,” she stammered.\n\n“Then I ask you—may I now?”\n\n“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can’t run at you, you know.”\n\nAt that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.\nAs he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them.\n\nSuch was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. Lucy was standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.\n\nThey left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.\n\n“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X Cecil as a Humourist\n\n\nThe society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,\nand, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter.\nOther houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility. “I cannot think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction—which few honest solicitors despise—of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable." -- "The best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were rather dull,\nand Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy.\nHitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning—their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags,\norange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to speak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and identical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the London fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished.\nHer senses expanded; she felt that there was no one whom she might not get to like, that social barriers were irremovable, doubtless, but not particularly high. You jump over them just as you jump into a peasant’s olive-yard in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returned with new eyes.\n\nSo did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not to tolerance, but to irritation. He saw that the local society was narrow, but, instead of saying, “Does that very much matter?” he rebelled, and tried to substitute for it the society he called broad. He did not realize that Lucy had consecrated her environment by the thousand little civilities that create a tenderness in time, and that though her eyes saw its defects, her heart refused to despise it entirely. Nor did he realize a more important point—that if she was too great for this society, she was too great for all society, and had reached the stage where personal intercourse would alone satisfy her. A rebel she was, but not of the kind he understood—a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling-room, but equality beside the man she loved. For Italy was offering her the most priceless of all possessions—her own soul.\n\nPlaying bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece to the rector, and aged thirteen—an ancient and most honourable game, which consists in striking tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over the net and immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs. Honeychurch; others are lost.\nThe sentence is confused, but the better illustrates Lucy’s state of mind, for she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the same time.\n\n“Oh, it has been such a nuisance—first he, then they—no one knowing what they wanted, and everyone so tiresome.”\n\n“But they really are coming now,” said Mr. Beebe. “I wrote to Miss Teresa a few days ago—she was wondering how often the butcher called,\nand my reply of once a month must have impressed her favourably. They are coming. I heard from them this morning.\n\n“I shall hate those Miss Alans!” Mrs. Honeychurch cried. “Just because they’re old and silly one’s expected to say ‘How sweet!’ I hate their ‘if’-ing and ‘but’-ing and ‘and’-ing. And poor Lucy—serve her right—worn to a shadow.”\n\nMr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and shouting over the tennis-court. Cecil was absent—one did not play bumble-puppy when he was there.\n\n“Well, if they are coming—No, Minnie, not Saturn.” Saturn was a tennis-ball whose skin was partially unsewn. When in motion his orb was encircled by a ring. “If they are coming, Sir Harry will let them move in before the twenty-ninth, and he will cross out the clause about whitewashing the ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in the fair wear and tear one.—That doesn’t count. I told you not Saturn.”\n\n“Saturn’s all right for bumble-puppy,” cried Freddy, joining them.\n“Minnie, don’t you listen to her.”\n\n“Saturn doesn’t bounce.”\n\n“Saturn bounces enough.”\n\n“No, he doesn’t.”\n\n“Well; he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil.”\n\n“Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Honeychurch." -- "“But look at Lucy—complaining of Saturn, and all the time’s got the Beautiful White Devil in her hand, ready to plug it in. That’s right,\nMinnie, go for her—get her over the shins with the racquet—get her over the shins!”\n\nLucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand.\n\nMr. Beebe picked it up, and said: “The name of this ball is Vittoria Corombona, please.” But his correction passed unheeded.\n\nFreddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little girls to fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie from a well-mannered child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house Cecil heard them, and, though he was full of entertaining news, he did not come down to impart it, in case he got hurt. He was not a coward and bore necessary pain as well as any man. But he hated the physical violence of the young. How right it was! Sure enough it ended in a cry.\n\n“I wish the Miss Alans could see this,” observed Mr. Beebe, just as Lucy, who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted off her feet by her brother.\n\n“Who are the Miss Alans?” Freddy panted.\n\n“They have taken Cissie Villa.”\n\n“That wasn’t the name—”\n\nHere his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the grass. An interval elapses.\n\n“Wasn’t what name?” asked Lucy, with her brother’s head in her lap.\n\n“Alan wasn’t the name of the people Sir Harry’s let to.”\n\n“Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it.”\n\n“Nonsense yourself! I’ve this minute seen him. He said to me: ‘Ahem!\nHoneychurch,’”—Freddy was an indifferent mimic—“‘ahem! ahem! I have at last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.’ I said, ‘ooray, old boy!’\nand slapped him on the back.”\n\n“Exactly. The Miss Alans?”\n\n“Rather not. More like Anderson.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious, there isn’t going to be another muddle!” Mrs.\nHoneychurch exclaimed. “Do you notice, Lucy, I’m always right? I _said_ don’t interfere with Cissie Villa. I’m always right. I’m quite uneasy at being always right so often.”\n\n“It’s only another muddle of Freddy’s. Freddy doesn’t even know the name of the people he pretends have taken it instead.”\n\n“Yes, I do. I’ve got it. Emerson.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“Emerson. I’ll bet you anything you like.”\n\n“What a weathercock Sir Harry is,” said Lucy quietly. “I wish I had never bothered over it at all.”\n\nThen she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe,\nwhose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that _that_ was the proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong.\n\nMeanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch from the contemplation of her own abilities.\n\n“Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?”\n\n“I don’t know whether they’re any Emersons,” retorted Freddy, who was democratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he was naturally attracted by the idea of equality, and the undeniable fact that there are different kinds of Emersons annoyed him beyond measure.\n\n“I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy”—she was sitting up again—“I see you looking down your nose and thinking your mother’s a snob. But there is a right sort and a wrong sort, and it’s affectation to pretend there isn’t.”\n\n“Emerson’s a common enough name,” Lucy remarked.\n\nShe was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she could see the pine-clad promontories descending one beyond another into the Weald. The further one descended the garden, the more glorious was this lateral view.\n\n“I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were no relations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray, does that satisfy you?”\n\n“Oh, yes,” he grumbled. “And you will be satisfied, too, for they’re friends of Cecil; so”—elaborate irony—“you and the other country families will be able to call in perfect safety.”" -- "“_Cecil?_” exclaimed Lucy.\n\n“Don’t be rude, dear,” said his mother placidly. “Lucy, don’t screech.\nIt’s a new bad habit you’re getting into.”\n\n“But has Cecil—”\n\n“Friends of Cecil’s,” he repeated, “‘and so really dee-sire-rebel.\nAhem! Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.’”\n\nShe got up from the grass.\n\nIt was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized with her very much. While she believed that her snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She might well “screech” when she heard that it came partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was a tease—something worse than a tease: he took a malicious pleasure in thwarting people. The clergyman, knowing this, looked at Miss Honeychurch with more than his usual kindness.\n\nWhen she exclaimed, “But Cecil’s Emersons—they can’t possibly be the same ones—there is that—” he did not consider that the exclamation was strange, but saw in it an opportunity of diverting the conversation while she recovered her composure. He diverted it as follows:\n\n“The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don’t suppose it will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friends of Mr. Vyse’s. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerest people! For our part we liked them, didn’t we?” He appealed to Lucy.\n“There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets and filled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who have failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine’s great stories. ‘My dear sister loves flowers,’ it began. They found the whole room a mass of blue—vases and jugs—and the story ends with ‘So ungentlemanly and yet so beautiful.’ It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect those Florentine Emersons with violets.”\n\n“Fiasco’s done you this time,” remarked Freddy, not seeing that his sister’s face was very red. She could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe saw it, and continued to divert the conversation.\n\n“These particular Emersons consisted of a father and a son—the son a goodly, if not a good young man; not a fool, I fancy, but very immature—pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the father—such a sentimental darling, and people declared he had murdered his wife.”\n\nIn his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have repeated such gossip,\nbut he was trying to shelter Lucy in her little trouble. He repeated any rubbish that came into his head.\n\n“Murdered his wife?” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “Lucy, don’t desert us—go on playing bumble-puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have been the oddest place. That’s the second murderer I’ve heard of as being there. Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop? By-the-by, we really must ask Charlotte here some time.”\n\nMr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He suggested that his hostess was mistaken. At the hint of opposition she warmed. She was perfectly sure that there had been a second tourist of whom the same story had been told. The name escaped her. What was the name? Oh, what was the name? She clasped her knees for the name. Something in Thackeray. She struck her matronly forehead.\n\nLucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in.\n\n“Oh, don’t go!” he cried, and tried to catch her by the ankles.\n\n“I must go,” she said gravely. “Don’t be silly. You always overdo it when you play.”" -- "As she left them her mother’s shout of “Harris!” shivered the tranquil air, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had never put it right. Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves and made her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil’s, with a pair of nondescript tourists. Hitherto truth had come to her naturally. She saw that for the future she must be more vigilant, and be—absolutely truthful? Well, at all events, she must not tell lies. She hurried up the garden, still flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would soothe her, she was sure.\n\n“Cecil!”\n\n“Hullo!” he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed in high spirits. “I was hoping you’d come. I heard you all bear-gardening, but there’s better fun up here. I, even I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith’s right—the cause of Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don’t be angry! Don’t be angry! You’ll forgive me when you hear it all.”\n\nHe looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings at once.\n\n“I have heard,” she said. “Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing!\nCertainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I’d rather have nice friends of yours. But you oughtn’t to tease one so.”\n\n“Friends of mine?” he laughed. “But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come!\nCome here.” But she remained standing where she was. “Do you know where I met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up to see my mother last week.”\n\n“What an odd place to meet people!” she said nervously. “I don’t quite understand.”\n\n“In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca Signorelli—of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy.”\n\n“But, Cecil—” proceeded hilariously.\n\n“In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country cottage—the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends. I thought, ‘What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!’ and I took their address and a London reference, found they weren’t actual blackguards—it was great sport—and wrote to him, making out—”\n\n“Cecil! No, it’s not fair. I’ve probably met them before—”\n\nHe bore her down.\n\n“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time.\nNo, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—”\n\n“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”\n\nHe stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”\n\nHer face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago.\n\n“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”\n\nShe left him.\n\n“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows.\n\nNo, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat" -- "The Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,\nmet Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die.\n\nLucy—to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows because there are hills—Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least.\nNow that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little thinking, and—so illogical are girls—the event remained rather greater and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa while she was safe in the London flat.\n\n“Cecil—Cecil darling,” she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept into his arms.\n\nCecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should,\nand looked up to him because he was a man.\n\n“So you do love me, little thing?” he murmured.\n\n“Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don’t know what I should do without you.”\n\nSeveral days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what Charlotte would call “the flight to Rome,” and in Rome it had increased amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy’s, and once, in the Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses—Mrs. Vyse was an acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.\n\n“TUNBRIDGE WELLS,\n“_September_.\n\n\n“DEAREST LUCIA,\n\n\n“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house. He _said_ he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune,\nand I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\nLucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n“DEAR CHARLOTTE," -- "“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,\nand cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,\nthey would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.\nAs for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January.\n\n“Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do not put ‘Private’ outside your envelope again. No one opens my letters.\n\n\n“Yours affectionately,\n“L. M. HONEYCHURCH.”\n\n\nSecrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil’s life if he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.\n“Emerson, not Harris”; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she stopped.\n\nShe and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool,\nand it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the past.\n\nThe grandchildren asked her to play the piano.\n\nShe played Schumann. “Now some Beethoven” called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete—the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art—throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and “Too much Schumann” was not the remark that Mr.\nBeebe had passed to himself when she returned.\n\nWhen the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son.\nMrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another’s,\nhad been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd.\n\n“Make Lucy one of us,” she said, looking round intelligently at the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again.\n“Lucy is becoming wonderful—wonderful.”\n\n“Her music always was wonderful.”" -- "“Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made.”\n\n“Italy has done it.”\n\n“Perhaps,” she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. “It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January.\nShe is one of us already.”\n\n“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to London. I don’t believe in these London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”\n\n“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.\n\nAs she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek.\n\n“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”\n\nThe elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII Twelfth Chapter\n\n\nIt was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.\nAll that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n“M’m.”\n\n“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in.\n\n“I suggested we should hinder them,” said Mr. Beebe. “They are worth it.” Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. “Hullo!” he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible.\n\nA grave voice replied, “Hullo!”\n\n“I’ve brought someone to see you.”\n\n“I’ll be down in a minute.”\n\nThe passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books.\n\n“Are these people great readers?” Freddy whispered. “Are they that sort?”\n\n“I fancy they know how to read—a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German.\nUm—um—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, look at that,” said Freddy in awestruck tones.\n\nOn the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: “Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.”\n\n“I know. Isn’t it jolly? I like that. I’m certain that’s the old man’s doing.”\n\n“How very odd of him!”\n\n“Surely you agree?”\n\nBut Freddy was his mother’s son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture." -- "“Pictures!” the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.\n“Giotto—they got that at Florence, I’ll be bound.”\n\n“The same as Lucy’s got.”\n\n“Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?”\n\n“She came back yesterday.”\n\n“I suppose she had a good time?”\n\n“Yes, very,” said Freddy, taking up a book. “She and Cecil are thicker than ever.”\n\n“That’s good hearing.”\n\n“I wish I wasn’t such a fool, Mr. Beebe.”\n\nMr. Beebe ignored the remark.\n\n“Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it’ll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books.”\n\n“So will you.”\n\n“Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards.\nCecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful.\nThere are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says—”\n\n“What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson—we think we’ll come another time.”\n\nGeorge ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking.\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour.”\n\nThen Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George’s face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, “How d’ye do? Come and have a bathe.”\n\n“Oh, all right,” said George, impassive.\n\nMr. Beebe was highly entertained.\n\n“‘How d’ye do? how d’ye do? Come and have a bathe,’” he chuckled.\n“That’s the best conversational opening I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with ‘How do you do? Come and have a bathe’? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal.”\n\n“I tell you that they shall be,” said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same.”\n\n“We are to raise ladies to our level?” the clergyman inquired.\n\n“The Garden of Eden,” pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, “which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies.”\n\nMr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.\n\n“In this—not in other things—we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden.”\n\n“I say, what about this bathe?” murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him.\n\n“I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage.”\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence.”\n\n“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry.\nMarriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr.\nVyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”\n\n“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. “I must—that is to say, I have to—have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope.”\n\n“_Call_, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country.”\n\nMr. Beebe came to the rescue." -- "“Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days’ interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon.”\n\n“Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can’t believe he’s well.”\n\nGeorge bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture.\n\n“Do you really want this bathe?” Freddy asked him. “It is only a pond,\ndon’t you know. I dare say you are used to something better.”\n\n“Yes—I have said ‘Yes’ already.”\n\nMr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads.\n\n“And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?”\n\n“I did not. Miss Lavish told me.”\n\n“When I was a young man, I always meant to write a ‘History of Coincidence.’”\n\nNo enthusiasm.\n\n“Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn’t purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect.”\n\nTo his relief, George began to talk.\n\n“It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate—flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us—we settle nothing—”\n\n“You have not reflected at all,” rapped the clergyman. “Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don’t say, ‘I didn’t do this,’ for you did it, ten to one. Now I’ll cross-question you.\nWhere did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?”\n\n“Italy.”\n\n“And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?”\n\n“National Gallery.”\n\n“Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it.”\n\n“It is Fate that I am here,” persisted George. “But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy.”\n\nMr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George.\n\n“And so for this and for other reasons my ‘History of Coincidence’ is still to write.”\n\nSilence.\n\nWishing to round off the episode, he added; “We are all so glad that you have come.”\n\nSilence.\n\n“Here we are!” called Freddy.\n\n“Oh, good!” exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow.\n\n“In there’s the pond. I wish it was bigger,” he added apologetically.\n\nThey climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond,\nset in its little alp of green—only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool.\n\n“It’s distinctly successful, as ponds go,” said Mr. Beebe. “No apologies are necessary for the pond.”\n\nGeorge sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots." -- "“Aren’t those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What’s the name of this aromatic plant?”\n\nNo one knew, or seemed to care.\n\n“These abrupt changes of vegetation—this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle—heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, aren’t you bathing?” called Freddy, as he stripped himself.\n\nMr. Beebe thought he was not.\n\n“Water’s wonderful!” cried Freddy, prancing in.\n\n“Water’s water,” murmured George. Wetting his hair first—a sure sign of apathy—he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.\n\n“Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,” went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud.\n\n“Is it worth it?” asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin.\n\nThe bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly.\n\n“Hee-poof—I’ve swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water’s wonderful,\nwater’s simply ripping.”\n\n“Water’s not so bad,” said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun.\n\n“Water’s wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do.”\n\n“Apooshoo, kouf.”\n\nMr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible,\nlooked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind—these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man?\n\n“I may as well wash too”; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water.\n\nIt was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Götterdämmerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit—for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out.\nHe smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool.\n\n“Race you round it, then,” cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run—a memorable sight.\n\nThey ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the sward, proclaiming:\n\n“No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in the end.”\n\n“A try! A try!” yelled Freddy, snatching up George’s bundle and placing it beside an imaginary goal-post.\n\n“Socker rules,” George retorted, scattering Freddy’s bundle with a kick.\n\n“Goal!”\n\n“Goal!”\n\n“Pass!”\n\n“Take care my watch!” cried Mr. Beebe.\n\nClothes flew in all directions.\n\n“Take care my hat! No, that’s enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!”" -- "But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair.\n\n“That’ll do!” shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. “Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!”\n\nYells, and widening circles over the dappled earth.\n\n“Hi! hi! _Ladies!_”\n\nNeither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe’s last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch,\nCecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth.\nFreddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe’s hat.\n\n“Gracious alive!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch. “Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too!\nWhatever has happened?”\n\n“Come this way immediately,” commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed.\n\n“Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil,\nMr. Beebe’s waistcoat—”\n\nNo business of ours, said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently “minded.”\n\n“I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond.”\n\n“This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way.”\n\nThey followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.\n\n“Well, _I_ can’t help it,” said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. “I can’t be trodden on, can I?”\n\n“Good gracious me, dear; so it’s you! What miserable management! Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?”\n\n“Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow’s got to dry, and if another fellow—”\n\n“Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy.” They turned. “Oh, look—don’t look! Oh, poor Mr.\nBeebe! How unfortunate again—”\n\nFor Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.\n\n“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”\n\n“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”\n\n“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”\n\n“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.\n\nHe regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed.\n\nThat evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome" +- "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,\nwho stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett,\nsmarting 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,\nhe knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner.\n\nLucy, 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.\n\n“But aren’t they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?” said the little lady inquisitively.\n\n“Only once. Charlotte didn’t like it, and said something—quite politely, of course.”\n\n“Most right of her. They don’t understand our ways. They must find their level.”\n\nMr. 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.\n\nEvening 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 façade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun.\n\n“Too late to go out,” said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. “All the galleries are shut.”\n\n“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.”\n\nHer two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:\n\n“I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won’t you be better on your feet?”\n\n“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan.\n\n“Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!”\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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.”" +- Chapter IV Fourth 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?\nCharlotte 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.\nIndirectly, 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.\n\nThere 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.\nBut 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.\n\nLucy 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.\n\nThere she bought a photograph of Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.” Venus,\nbeing 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.\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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,\nhalf 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,\nstill dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home.\n\nThen something did happen.\n\nTwo 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.\n\nThat 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,\nfell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.\n\nShe thought: “Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“Oh, what have I done?” she murmured, and opened her eyes.\n\nGeorge 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.\n\nThey 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:\n\n“Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“You fainted.”\n\n“I—I am very sorry.”\n\n“How are you now?”\n\n“Perfectly well—absolutely well.” And she began to nod and smile.\n\n“Then let us come home. There’s no point in our stopping.”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you.”\n\nHis hand was still extended.\n\n“Oh, my photographs!” she exclaimed suddenly.\n\n“What photographs?”\n\n“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?”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“Miss Honeychurch!”\n\nShe stopped with her hand on her heart.\n\n“You sit still; you aren’t fit to go home alone.”\n\n“Yes, I am, thank you so very much.”\n\n“No, you aren’t. You’d go openly if you were.”\n\n“But I had rather—”\n\n“Then I don’t fetch your photographs.”\n\n“I had rather be alone.”\n\nHe 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.”\n\nIn the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day,\nand joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,\n“Oh, what have I done?”—the thought that she, as well as the dying man,\nhad crossed some spiritual boundary.\n\nHe 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,\nshe 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?”\n\nHe had thrown something into the stream.\n\n“What did you throw in?”\n\n“Things I didn’t want,” he said crossly.\n\n“Mr. Emerson!”\n\n“Well?”\n\n“Where are the photographs?”\n\nHe was silent.\n\n“I believe it was my photographs that you threw away.”\n\n“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.\n“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.”\n\nSomething warned Lucy that she must stop him.\n\n“It has happened,” he repeated, “and I mean to find out what it is.”\n\n“Mr. Emerson—”\n\nHe turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.\n\n“I want to ask you something before we go in.”\n\nThey 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:\n\n“I have behaved ridiculously.”\n\nHe was following his own thoughts.\n\n“I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me.”\n\n“I nearly fainted myself,” he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.\n\n“Well, I owe you a thousand apologies.”\n\n“Oh, all right.”\n\n“And—this is the real point—you know how silly people are gossiping—ladies especially, I am afraid—you understand what I mean?”\n\n“I’m afraid I don’t.”\n\n“I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?”\n\n“Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right—all right.”\n\n“Thank you so much. And would you—”\n\nShe 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;\nhis 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.\n\n“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”\n\n“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears." +- Chapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing +- "It was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one.\n\nFor good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure,\nnot that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events,\ncontradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.\n\nAt breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties—all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.\n\n“No, Charlotte!” cried the girl, with real warmth. “It’s very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather.”\n\n“Very well, dear,” said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her.\n\nShe slipped her arm into her cousin’s, and they started off along the Lung’ Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was “How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!”\n\nLucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.\n\n“Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice.”\n\nSerious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle—queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper—but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett’s insinuations.\n\nBut though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones,\na Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts.\n\nThe exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.\n\n“Oh, let me congratulate you!” said Miss Bartlett. “After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!”\n\n“Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning.” Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.\n\n“But perhaps you would rather not?”\n\n“I’m sorry—if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not.”\n\nThe elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.\n\n“It is I who am sorry,” said Miss Lavish “literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there’s no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn’t pry.”" +- "She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o’clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.\n\n“What is the heroine’s name?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Leonora,” said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.\n\n“I do hope she’s nice.”\n\nThat desideratum would not be omitted.\n\n“And what is the plot?”\n\nLove, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.\n\n“I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,” Miss Lavish concluded. “It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist.”\n\n“Oh, you wicked woman,” cried Miss Bartlett. “I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons.”\n\nMiss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile.\n\n“I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen.\nIt is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday’s is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life.”\n\nThere was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square.\n\n“She is my idea of a really clever woman,” said Miss Bartlett. “That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel.”\n\nLucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an _ingenué_.\n\n“She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word,”\ncontinued Miss Bartlett slowly. “None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman—Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!”\n\n“Ah, not for me,” said the chaplain blandly, “for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time.”\n\n“We were chatting to Miss Lavish.”\n\nHis brow contracted.\n\n“So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!” The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. “I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week—a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano.\nThere is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour’s ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful—far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures.\nThat man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us.”" +- "Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of,\nand saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them.\nLiving in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole’s slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook.\n\nTherefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of.\nBetween the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that—how Lucy would enjoy it!\n\nA few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett—even if culminating in a residential tea-party—was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere.\n\n“So we shall be a _partie carrée_,” said the chaplain. “In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town! Beautiful as it is, it is the town.”\n\nThey assented.\n\n“This very square—so I am told—witnessed yesterday the most sordid of tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola there is something portentous in such desecration—portentous and humiliating.”\n\n“Humiliating indeed,” said Miss Bartlett. “Miss Honeychurch happened to be passing through as it happened. She can hardly bear to speak of it.”\nShe glanced at Lucy proudly.\n\n“And how came we to have you here?” asked the chaplain paternally.\n\nMiss Bartlett’s recent liberalism oozed away at the question. “Do not blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The fault is mine: I left her unchaperoned.”\n\n“So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?” His voice suggested sympathetic reproof but at the same time indicated that a few harrowing details would not be unacceptable. His dark, handsome face drooped mournfully towards her to catch her reply.\n\n“Practically.”\n\n“One of our pension acquaintances kindly brought her home,” said Miss Bartlett, adroitly concealing the sex of the preserver.\n\n“For her also it must have been a terrible experience. I trust that neither of you was at all—that it was not in your immediate proximity?”\n\nOf the many things Lucy was noticing to-day, not the least remarkable was this: the ghoulish fashion in which respectable people will nibble after blood. George Emerson had kept the subject strangely pure.\n\n“He died by the fountain, I believe,” was her reply.\n\n“And you and your friend—”\n\n“Were over at the Loggia.”\n\n“That must have saved you much. You have not, of course, seen the disgraceful illustrations which the gutter Press—This man is a public nuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly well, and yet he goes on worrying me to buy his vulgar views.”\n\nSurely the vendor of photographs was in league with Lucy—in the eternal league of Italy with youth. He had suddenly extended his book before Miss Bartlett and Mr. Eager, binding their hands together by a long glossy ribbon of churches, pictures, and views.\n\n“This is too much!” cried the chaplain, striking petulantly at one of Fra Angelico’s angels. She tore. A shrill cry rose from the vendor. The book it seemed, was more valuable than one would have supposed.\n\n“Willingly would I purchase—” began Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Ignore him,” said Mr. Eager sharply, and they all walked rapidly away from the square." +- "But an Italian can never be ignored, least of all when he has a grievance. His mysterious persecution of Mr. Eager became relentless;\nthe air rang with his threats and lamentations. He appealed to Lucy;\nwould not she intercede? He was poor—he sheltered a family—the tax on bread. He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed, he was dissatisfied,\nhe did not leave them until he had swept their minds clean of all thoughts whether pleasant or unpleasant.\n\nShopping was the topic that now ensued. Under the chaplain’s guidance they selected many hideous presents and mementoes—florid little picture-frames that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other little frames, more severe, that stood on little easels, and were carven out of oak; a blotting book of vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheap mosaic brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, would never tell from real; pins, pots, heraldic saucers, brown art-photographs; Eros and Psyche in alabaster; St. Peter to match—all of which would have cost less in London.\n\nThis successful morning left no pleasant impressions on Lucy. She had been a little frightened, both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she knew not why. And as they frightened her, she had, strangely enough,\nceased to respect them. She doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist. She doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality and culture as she had been led to suppose. They were tried by some new test, and they were found wanting. As for Charlotte—as for Charlotte she was exactly the same. It might be possible to be nice to her; it was impossible to love her.\n\n“The son of a labourer; I happen to know it for a fact. A mechanic of some sort himself when he was young; then he took to writing for the Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton.”\n\nThey were talking about the Emersons.\n\n“How wonderfully people rise in these days!” sighed Miss Bartlett,\nfingering a model of the leaning Tower of Pisa.\n\n“Generally,” replied Mr. Eager, “one has only sympathy for their success. The desire for education and for social advance—in these things there is something not wholly vile. There are some working men whom one would be very willing to see out here in Florence—little as they would make of it.”\n\n“Is he a journalist now?” Miss Bartlett asked.\n\n“He is not; he made an advantageous marriage.”\n\nHe uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning, and ended with a sigh.\n\n“Oh, so he has a wife.”\n\n“Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder—yes I wonder how he has the effrontery to look me in the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with me. He was in my London parish long ago. The other day in Santa Croce,\nwhen he was with Miss Honeychurch, I snubbed him. Let him beware that he does not get more than a snub.”\n\n“What?” cried Lucy, flushing.\n\n“Exposure!” hissed Mr. Eager.\n\nHe tried to change the subject; but in scoring a dramatic point he had interested his audience more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett was full of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she wished never to see the Emersons again, was not disposed to condemn them on a single word.\n\n“Do you mean,” she asked, “that he is an irreligious man? We know that already.”\n\n“Lucy, dear—” said Miss Bartlett, gently reproving her cousin’s penetration.\n\n“I should be astonished if you knew all. The boy—an innocent child at the time—I will exclude. God knows what his education and his inherited qualities may have made him.”\n\n“Perhaps,” said Miss Bartlett, “it is something that we had better not hear.”\n\n“To speak plainly,” said Mr. Eager, “it is. I will say no more.” For the first time Lucy’s rebellious thoughts swept out in words—for the first time in her life.\n\n“You have said very little.”\n\n“It was my intention to say very little,” was his frigid reply.\n\nHe gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal indignation.\nShe turned towards him from the shop counter; her breast heaved quickly. He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of her lips. It was intolerable that she should disbelieve him." +- "“Murder, if you want to know,” he cried angrily. “That man murdered his wife!”\n\n“How?” she retorted.\n\n“To all intents and purposes he murdered her. That day in Santa Croce—did they say anything against me?”\n\n“Not a word, Mr. Eager—not a single word.”\n\n“Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to you. But I suppose it is only their personal charms that makes you defend them.”\n\n“I’m not defending them,” said Lucy, losing her courage, and relapsing into the old chaotic methods. “They’re nothing to me.”\n\n“How could you think she was defending them?” said Miss Bartlett, much discomfited by the unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly listening.\n\n“She will find it difficult. For that man has murdered his wife in the sight of God.”\n\nThe addition of God was striking. But the chaplain was really trying to qualify a rash remark. A silence followed which might have been impressive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bartlett hastily purchased the Leaning Tower, and led the way into the street.\n\n“I must be going,” said he, shutting his eyes and taking out his watch.\n\nMiss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, and spoke with enthusiasm of the approaching drive.\n\n“Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off?”\n\nLucy was recalled to her manners, and after a little exertion the complacency of Mr. Eager was restored.\n\n“Bother the drive!” exclaimed the girl, as soon as he had departed. “It is just the drive we had arranged with Mr. Beebe without any fuss at all. Why should he invite us in that absurd manner? We might as well invite him. We are each paying for ourselves.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, was launched by this remark into unexpected thoughts.\n\n“If that is so, dear—if the drive we and Mr. Beebe are going with Mr.\nEager is really the same as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then I foresee a sad kettle of fish.”\n\n“How?”\n\n“Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish to come, too.”\n\n“That will mean another carriage.”\n\n“Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it herself. The truth must be told; she is too unconventional for him.”\n\nThey were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank. Lucy stood by the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to answer,\nor at all events to formulate the questions rioting in her brain. The well-known world had broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic city where people thought and did the most extraordinary things.\nMurder, accusations of murder, a lady clinging to one man and being rude to another—were these the daily incidents of her streets? Was there more in her frank beauty than met the eye—the power, perhaps, to evoke passions, good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment?\n\nHappy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture with admirable delicacy “where things might lead to,” but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: “Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr.\nEager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor out altogether—which they could scarcely do—but in any case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!”\n\n“It is indeed,” replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic.\n\n“What do you think about it?” asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress.\n\n“I don’t know what I think, nor what I want.”\n\n“Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn’t boring you. Speak the word,\nand, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow.”" +- "“Thank you, Charlotte,” said Lucy, and pondered over the offer.\n\nThere were letters for her at the bureau—one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother’s letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald—all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveller returns.\n\n“And the news?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome,” said Lucy, giving the news that interested her least. “Do you know the Vyses?”\n\n“Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Piazza Signoria.”\n\n“They’re nice people, the Vyses. So clever—my idea of what’s really clever. Don’t you long to be in Rome?”\n\n“I die for it!”\n\nThe Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something,\nand though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god.\n\n“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion." +- "Chapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them." +- "It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guard against imposition. But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god.\n\nPhaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus enabling himself to drive with his arm round her waist. She did not mind. Mr.\nEager, who sat with his back to the horses, saw nothing of the indecorous proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy. The other two occupants of the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and Miss Lavish. For a dreadful thing had happened: Mr. Beebe, without consulting Mr. Eager, had doubled the size of the party. And though Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how the people were to sit, at the critical moment when the carriages came round they lost their heads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while Miss Bartlett, with George Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind.\n\nIt was hard on the poor chaplain to have his _partie carrée_ thus transformed. Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated it,\nwas now impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain style about them, and Mr. Beebe, though unreliable, was a man of parts. But a shoddy lady writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife in the sight of God—they should enter no villa at his introduction.\n\nLucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and nervous amid these explosive ingredients, attentive to Mr. Eager, repressive towards Miss Lavish, watchful of old Mr. Emerson, hitherto fortunately asleep,\nthanks to a heavy lunch and the drowsy atmosphere of Spring. She looked on the expedition as the work of Fate. But for it she would have avoided George Emerson successfully. In an open manner he had shown that he wished to continue their intimacy. She had refused, not because she disliked him, but because she did not know what had happened, and suspected that he did know. And this frightened her.\n\nFor the real event—whatever it was—had taken place, not in the Loggia,\nbut by the river. To behave wildly at the sight of death is pardonable.\nBut to discuss it afterwards, to pass from discussion into silence, and through silence into sympathy, that is an error, not of a startled emotion, but of the whole fabric. There was really something blameworthy (she thought) in their joint contemplation of the shadowy stream, in the common impulse which had turned them to the house without the passing of a look or word. This sense of wickedness had been slight at first. She had nearly joined the party to the Torre del Gallo. But each time that she avoided George it became more imperative that she should avoid him again. And now celestial irony, working through her cousin and two clergymen, did not suffer her to leave Florence till she had made this expedition with him through the hills.\n\nMeanwhile Mr. Eager held her in civil converse; their little tiff was over.\n\n“So, Miss Honeychurch, you are travelling? As a student of art?”\n\n“Oh, dear me, no—oh, no!”\n\n“Perhaps as a student of human nature,” interposed Miss Lavish, “like myself?”\n\n“Oh, no. I am here as a tourist.”" +- "“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Eager. “Are you indeed? If you will not think me rude, we residents sometimes pity you poor tourists not a little—handed about like a parcel of goods from Venice to Florence, from Florence to Rome, living herded together in pensions or hotels, quite unconscious of anything that is outside Baedeker, their one anxiety to get ‘done’\nor ‘through’ and go on somewhere else. The result is, they mix up towns, rivers, palaces in one inextricable whirl. You know the American girl in Punch who says: ‘Say, poppa, what did we see at Rome?’ And the father replies: ‘Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the yaller dog.’ There’s travelling for you. Ha! ha! ha!”\n\n“I quite agree,” said Miss Lavish, who had several times tried to interrupt his mordant wit. “The narrowness and superficiality of the Anglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace.”\n\n“Quite so. Now, the English colony at Florence, Miss Honeychurch—and it is of considerable size, though, of course, not all equally—a few are here for trade, for example. But the greater part are students. Lady Helen Laverstock is at present busy over Fra Angelico. I mention her name because we are passing her villa on the left. No, you can only see it if you stand—no, do not stand; you will fall. She is very proud of that thick hedge. Inside, perfect seclusion. One might have gone back six hundred years. Some critics believe that her garden was the scene of The Decameron, which lends it an additional interest, does it not?”\n\n“It does indeed!” cried Miss Lavish. “Tell me, where do they place the scene of that wonderful seventh day?”\n\nBut Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honeychurch that on the right lived Mr. Someone Something, an American of the best type—so rare!—and that the Somebody Elses were farther down the hill. “Doubtless you know her monographs in the series of ‘Mediæval Byways’? He is working at Gemistus Pletho. Sometimes as I take tea in their beautiful grounds I hear, over the wall, the electric tram squealing up the new road with its loads of hot, dusty, unintelligent tourists who are going to ‘do’\nFiesole in an hour in order that they may say they have been there, and I think—think—I think how little they think what lies so near them.”\n\nDuring this speech the two figures on the box were sporting with each other disgracefully. Lucy had a spasm of envy. Granted that they wished to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to do so. They were probably the only people enjoying the expedition. The carriage swept with agonizing jolts up through the Piazza of Fiesole and into the Settignano road.\n\n“Piano! piano!” said Mr. Eager, elegantly waving his hand over his head.\n\n“Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene,” crooned the driver, and whipped his horses up again.\n\nNow Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on the subject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or was he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind.\nAs the pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr.\nEmerson was thrown against the chaplain with the regularity of a machine.\n\n“Piano! piano!” said he, with a martyred look at Lucy.\n\nAn extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. Phaethon, who for some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded.\n\nA little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was most unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered to disentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his _pourboire_, the girl was immediately to get down.\n\n“She is my sister,” said he, turning round on them with piteous eyes.\n\nMr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar." +- "Phaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation, but at its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated,\nand patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish,\nthough unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism.\n\n“Most certainly I would let them be,” she cried. “But I dare say I shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the conventions all my life. This is what _I_ call an adventure.”\n\n“We must not submit,” said Mr. Eager. “I knew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook’s tourists.”\n\n“Surely no!” said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing.\n\nThe other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly.\n\n“Leave them alone,” Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. “Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers—A king might envy us, and if we part them it’s more like sacrilege than anything I know.”\n\nHere the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect.\n\nMr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream,\nwith unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager’s mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker,\nand more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.\n\n“Signorina!” said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy?\n\n“Signorina!” echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why?\n\nFor a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box.\n\n“Victory at last!” said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again.\n\n“It is not victory,” said Mr. Emerson. “It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy.”\n\nMr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son.\n\n“We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul.”\n\nMiss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character.\n\n“He was not driving us well,” she said. “He jolted us.”\n\n“That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now.\nCan you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I’d be frightened of the girl,\ntoo. It doesn’t do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?”\n\nMiss Lavish bristled.\n\n“Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?”\n\n“The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line—so I heard yesterday—which runs like this: ‘Don’t go fighting against the Spring.’”\n\nMr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition.\n\n“Non fate guerra al Maggio,” he murmured. “‘War not with the May’ would render a correct meaning.”" +- "“The point is, we have warred with it. Look.” He pointed to the Val d’Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.\n“Fifty miles of Spring, and we’ve come up to admire them. Do you suppose there’s any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both.”\n\nNo one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated,\nwet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d’Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become equally enthusiastic.\n\nBut it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting.\nAnd the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest.\n\nThe party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in common, were left to each other.\n\nThe two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered “the railway.” She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not very much hurt at her asking him.\n\n“The railway!” gasped Miss Lavish. “Oh, but I shall die! Of course it was the railway!” She could not control her mirth. “He is the image of a porter—on, on the South-Eastern.”\n\n“Eleanor, be quiet,” plucking at her vivacious companion. “Hush!\nThey’ll hear—the Emersons—”\n\n“I can’t stop. Let me go my wicked way. A porter—”\n\n“Eleanor!”\n\n“I’m sure it’s all right,” put in Lucy. “The Emersons won’t hear, and they wouldn’t mind if they did.”\n\nMiss Lavish did not seem pleased at this.\n\n“Miss Honeychurch listening!” she said rather crossly. “Pouf! Wouf! You naughty girl! Go away!”\n\n“Oh, Lucy, you ought to be with Mr. Eager, I’m sure.”\n\n“I can’t find them now, and I don’t want to either.”\n\n“Mr. Eager will be offended. It is your party.”\n\n“Please, I’d rather stop here with you.”\n\n“No, I agree,” said Miss Lavish. “It’s like a school feast; the boys have got separated from the girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish to converse on high topics unsuited for your ear.”\n\nThe girl was stubborn. As her time at Florence drew to its close she was only at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent. Such a one was Miss Lavish, and such for the moment was Charlotte. She wished she had not called attention to herself; they were both annoyed at her remark and seemed determined to get rid of her.\n\n“How tired one gets,” said Miss Bartlett. “Oh, I do wish Freddy and your mother could be here.”" +- "Unselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely usurped the functions of enthusiasm. Lucy did not look at the view either. She would not enjoy anything till she was safe at Rome.\n\n“Then sit you down,” said Miss Lavish. “Observe my foresight.”\n\nWith many a smile she produced two of those mackintosh squares that protect the frame of the tourist from damp grass or cold marble steps.\nShe sat on one; who was to sit on the other?\n\n“Lucy; without a moment’s doubt, Lucy. The ground will do for me.\nReally I have not had rheumatism for years. If I do feel it coming on I shall stand. Imagine your mother’s feelings if I let you sit in the wet in your white linen.” She sat down heavily where the ground looked particularly moist. “Here we are, all settled delightfully. Even if my dress is thinner it will not show so much, being brown. Sit down, dear;\nyou are too unselfish; you don’t assert yourself enough.” She cleared her throat. “Now don’t be alarmed; this isn’t a cold. It’s the tiniest cough, and I have had it three days. It’s nothing to do with sitting here at all.”\n\nThere was only one way of treating the situation. At the end of five minutes Lucy departed in search of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager, vanquished by the mackintosh square.\n\nShe addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in the carriages, perfuming the cushions with cigars. The miscreant, a bony young man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with the courtesy of a host and the assurance of a relative.\n\n“Dove?” said Lucy, after much anxious thought.\n\nHis face lit up. Of course he knew where. Not so far either. His arm swept three-fourths of the horizon. He should just think he did know where. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead and then pushed them towards her, as if oozing with visible extract of knowledge.\n\nMore seemed necessary. What was the Italian for “clergyman”?\n\n“Dove buoni uomini?” said she at last.\n\nGood? Scarcely the adjective for those noble beings! He showed her his cigar.\n\n“Uno—piu—piccolo,” was her next remark, implying “Has the cigar been given to you by Mr. Beebe, the smaller of the two good men?”\n\nShe was correct as usual. He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it to make it stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded his hat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than a quarter of a minute was ready to conduct her. Italians are born knowing the way.\nIt would seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but as a chess-board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces as well as the squares. Any one can find places, but the finding of people is a gift from God.\n\nHe only stopped once, to pick her some great blue violets. She thanked him with real pleasure. In the company of this common man the world was beautiful and direct. For the first time she felt the influence of Spring. His arm swept the horizon gracefully; violets, like other things, existed in great profusion there; “would she like to see them?”\n\n“Ma buoni uomini.”\n\nHe bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceeded briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. They were nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing round them, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into countless pieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the pliant boughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not a twig, was unimportant to her.\n\n“What is that?”\n\nThere was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The voice of Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian’s ignorance is sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She could not make him understand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view was forming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, other hills.\n\n“Eccolo!” he exclaimed.\n\nAt the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end." +- "“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above.\n“Courage and love.”\n\nShe did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view,\nand violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth.\n\nStanding at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.\nBut he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.\n\nGeorge had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.\n\nBefore she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view." +- Chapter VII They Return +- "Some complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye.\nCharlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon had lost the game.\n\nThat last fact was undeniable. He climbed on to the box shivering, with his collar up, prophesying the swift approach of bad weather. “Let us go immediately,” he told them. “The signorino will walk.”\n\n“All the way? He will be hours,” said Mr. Beebe.\n\n“Apparently. I told him it was unwise.” He would look no one in the face; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him. He alone had played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the others had used scraps of their intelligence. He alone had divined what things were, and what he wished them to be. He alone had interpreted the message that Lucy had received five days before from the lips of a dying man. Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave—she could interpret it also. Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly,\nand perhaps too late.\n\nThe thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, seldom affect the lives of his employers. He was the most competent of Miss Bartlett’s opponents,\nbut infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the town, he and his insight and his knowledge would trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in the bushes; he might make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what have we to do with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed downwards towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious. They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.\n\nRain and darkness came on together. The two ladies huddled together under an inadequate parasol. There was a lightning flash, and Miss Lavish who was nervous, screamed from the carriage in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally:\n\n“Courage, Miss Honeychurch, courage and faith. If I might say so, there is something almost blasphemous in this horror of the elements. Are we seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all this immense electrical display, is simply called into existence to extinguish you or me?”\n\n“No—of course—”\n\n“Even from the scientific standpoint the chances against our being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage—courage and faith.”\n\nUnder the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin’s hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles,\ngained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination.\n\nShe renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence.\n\n“Mr. Eager!” called Mr. Beebe. “We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?”\n\n“George!” cried Mr. Emerson. “Ask your driver which way George went.\nThe boy may lose his way. He may be killed.”\n\n“Go, Mr. Eager,” said Miss Bartlett, “don’t ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe—, he is nearly demented.”\n\n“He may be killed!” cried the old man. “He may be killed!”" +- "“Typical behaviour,” said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. “In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down.”\n\n“What does he know?” whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone.\n“Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?”\n\n“Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But—” she pointed at the driver—“_he_ knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?” She took out her purse. “It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all.” Tapping Phaethon’s back with her guide-book,\nshe said, “Silenzio!” and offered him a franc.\n\n“Va bene,” he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him.\n\nThere was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity,\nwhich fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good.\n\nThe older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that,\neven if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers,\nthrough miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin.\n\n“Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I—I thought I was developing.”\n\n“Do not cry, dearest. Take your time.”\n\n“I have been obstinate and silly—worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river—Oh, but he isn’t killed—he wouldn’t be killed, would he?”\n\nThe thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone.\n\n“I trust not. One would always pray against that.”\n\n“He is really—I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before.\nBut this time I’m not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book.”\n\n“In a book?”\n\n“Heroes—gods—the nonsense of schoolgirls.”\n\n“And then?”\n\n“But, Charlotte, you know what happened then.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy’s body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.\n\n“I want to be truthful,” she whispered. “It is so hard to be absolutely truthful.”\n\n“Don’t be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room.”\n\nSo they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased,\nand Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of—Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love.\n\nThe luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.\n\n“At last,” thought she, “I shall understand myself. I shan’t again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don’t know what.”" +- "Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage.\nWhen it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:\n\n“Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair.”\n\nWith some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said “So what is to be done?”\n\nShe was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.\n\n“What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle.”\n\nThe rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett’s toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.\n\n“It has been raining for nearly four hours,” she said at last.\n\nMiss Bartlett ignored the remark.\n\n“How do you propose to silence him?”\n\n“The driver?”\n\n“My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson.”\n\nLucy began to pace up and down the room.\n\n“I don’t understand,” she said at last.\n\nShe understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.\n\n“How are you going to stop him talking about it?”\n\n“I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do.”\n\n“I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves.”\n\n“Exploits?” cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.\n\n“My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.\n\n“Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man,\nbut obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?”\n\nAn idea rushed across Lucy’s brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.\n\n“I propose to speak to him,” said she.\n\nMiss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.\n\n“You see, Charlotte, your kindness—I shall never forget it. But—as you said—it is my affair. Mine and his.”\n\n“And you are going to _implore_ him, to _beg_ him to keep silence?”\n\n“Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit.”\n\n“But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be—how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy gravely.\n\nSomething in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.\n\n“What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy again.\n\n“When he insulted you, how would you have replied?”\n\n“I hadn’t time to think. You came.”\n\n“Yes, but won’t you tell me now what you would have done?”" +- "“I should have—” She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness.\nShe could not think what she would have done.\n\n“Come away from the window, dear,” said Miss Bartlett. “You will be seen from the road.”\n\nLucy obeyed. She was in her cousin’s power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him.\n\nMiss Bartlett became plaintive.\n\n“Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister’s insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman.”\n\nAs she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:\n\n“It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try.”\n\n“What train?”\n\n“The train to Rome.” She looked at her gloves critically.\n\nThe girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.\n\n“When does the train to Rome go?”\n\n“At eight.”\n\n“Signora Bertolini would be upset.”\n\n“We must face that,” said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.\n\n“She will make us pay for a whole week’s pension.”\n\n“I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses’ hotel. Isn’t afternoon tea given there for nothing?”\n\n“Yes, but they pay extra for wine.” After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream.\n\nThey began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished,\nbegan to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte,\nwho was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk,\nvainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old.\nThe girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause.\nShe only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier,\nthe world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love.\nThe impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin’s side and took her in her arms.\n\nMiss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:\n\n“Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?”\n\nLucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:\n\n“Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!”\n\n“You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself,\ntoo. I know well how much I vex you at every turn.”\n\n“But no—”\n\nMiss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.\n\n“Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned—only fit to pack and unpack your things.”\n\n“Please—”\n\n“My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events.”\n\n“You mustn’t say these things,” said Lucy softly." +- "She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other,\nheart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.\n\n“I have been a failure,” said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy’s trunk instead of strapping her own. “Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster.”\n\n“But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn’t a disaster either.”\n\n“It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?”\n\n“Every right.”\n\n“When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her.”\n\nLucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:\n\n“Why need mother hear of it?”\n\n“But you tell her everything?”\n\n“I suppose I do generally.”\n\n“I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it.\nUnless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her.”\n\nThe girl would not be degraded to this.\n\n“Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one.”\n\nHer promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room.\n\nFor a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin’s voice had intervened, and, ever since,\nit was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now,\ncould be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time—indeed,\nfor years—she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better—a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most.\n\nLucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity,\nof her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul.\n\nThe door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,\nthough she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her.\n\nTo reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.\n\nWhether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:\n\n“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”\n\nSoon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\nIn the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO" +- Chapter VIII Medieval +- "The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,”\nor might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;\nwithin, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man.\n\nTwo pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.\n\n“Where aren’t they?” said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy’s brother. “I tell you I’m getting fairly sick.”\n\n“For goodness’ sake go out of my drawing-room, then?” cried Mrs.\nHoneychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally.\n\nFreddy did not move or reply.\n\n“I think things are coming to a head,” she observed, rather wanting her son’s opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.\n\n“Time they did.”\n\n“I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more.”\n\n“It’s his third go, isn’t it?”\n\n“Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind.”\n\n“I didn’t mean to be unkind.” Then he added: “But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don’t know how girls manage things, but she can’t have said ‘No’ properly before, or she wouldn’t have to say it again now. Over the whole thing—I can’t explain—I do feel so uncomfortable.”\n\n“Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!”\n\n“I feel—never mind.”\n\nHe returned to his work.\n\n“Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: ‘Dear Mrs.\nVyse.’”\n\n“Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter.”\n\n“I said: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it,\nand I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But—’” She stopped reading, “I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can’t get on without me.”\n\n“Nor me.”\n\n“You?”\n\nFreddy nodded.\n\n“What do you mean?”\n\n“He asked me for my permission also.”\n\nShe exclaimed: “How very odd of him!”\n\n“Why so?” asked the son and heir. “Why shouldn’t my permission be asked?”\n\n“What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?”\n\n“I said to Cecil, ‘Take her or leave her; it’s no business of mine!’”\n\n“What a helpful answer!” But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.\n\n“The bother is this,” began Freddy.\n\nThen he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was.\nMrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.\n\n“Freddy, you must come. There they still are!”\n\n“I don’t see you ought to go peeping like that.”\n\n“Peeping like that! Can’t I look out of my own window?”\n\nBut she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, “Still page 322?” Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased." +- "“The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully.”\nHe gave a nervous gulp. “Not content with ‘permission’, which I did give—that is to say, I said, ‘I don’t mind’—well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn’t off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn’t it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer—he said it would strengthen his hand.”\n\n“I hope you gave a careful answer, dear.”\n\n“I answered ‘No’” said the boy, grinding his teeth. “There! Fly into a stew! I can’t help it—had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me.”\n\n“Ridiculous child!” cried his mother. “You think you’re so holy and truthful, but really it’s only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?”\n\n“Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn’t say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn’t mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot’s in it.\nOh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work.”\n\n“No,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, “I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house.”\n\n“Not a bit!” he pleaded. “I only let out I didn’t like him. I don’t hate him, but I don’t like him. What I mind is that he’ll tell Lucy.”\n\nHe glanced at the curtains dismally.\n\n“Well, _I_ like him,” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “I know his mother; he’s good, he’s clever, he’s rich, he’s well connected—Oh, you needn’t kick the piano! He’s well connected—I’ll say it again if you like: he’s well connected.” She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: “And he has beautiful manners.”\n\n“I liked him till just now. I suppose it’s having him spoiling Lucy’s first week at home; and it’s also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe?” said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. “I don’t see how Mr. Beebe comes in.”\n\n“You know Mr. Beebe’s funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said: ‘Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.’ I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said ‘Oh, he’s like me—better detached.’ I couldn’t make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn’t been so pleasant, at least—I can’t explain.”\n\n“You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties.”\n\nThe explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one’s own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow’s cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons." +- "“Will this do?” called his mother. “‘Dear Mrs. Vyse,—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.’ Then I put in at the top, ‘and I have told Lucy so.’ I must write the letter out again—‘and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.’\nI said that because I didn’t want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned.\nShe goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid’s dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably—”\n\n“Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?”\n\n“Don’t interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes—‘Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.’ No, I’ll cross that last bit out—it looks patronizing. I’ll stop at ‘because she tells me everything.’ Or shall I cross that out,\ntoo?”\n\n“Cross it out, too,” said Freddy.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left it in.\n\n“Then the whole thing runs: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse.—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know—’”\n\n“Look out!” cried Freddy.\n\nThe curtains parted.\n\nCecil’s first movement was one of irritation. He couldn’t bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture.\nInstinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world.\n\nCecil entered.\n\nAppearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral.\nWell educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision,\nworshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow’s cap.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!” she exclaimed—“oh, Cecil, do tell me!”\n\n“I promessi sposi,” said he.\n\nThey stared at him anxiously.\n\n“She has accepted me,” he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human.\n\n“I am so glad,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences.\n\n“Welcome as one of the family!” said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. “This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy.”\n\n“I hope so,” replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling." +- "“We mothers—” simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic—all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room;\nlooking very cross and almost handsome?\n\n“I say, Lucy!” called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag.\n\nLucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother’s face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, “Steady on!”\n\n“Not a kiss for me?” asked her mother.\n\nLucy kissed her also.\n\n“Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?” Cecil suggested. “And I’d stop here and tell my mother.”\n\n“We go with Lucy?” said Freddy, as if taking orders.\n\n“Yes, you go with Lucy.”\n\nThey passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace,\nand descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend—he knew their ways—past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed,\nuntil they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed.\n\nSmiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that had led to such a happy conclusion.\n\nHe had known Lucy for several years, but only as a commonplace girl who happened to be musical. He could still remember his depression that afternoon at Rome, when she and her terrible cousin fell on him out of the blue, and demanded to be taken to St. Peter’s. That day she had seemed a typical tourist—shrill, crude, and gaunt with travel. But Italy worked some marvel in her. It gave her light, and—which he held more precious—it gave her shadow. Soon he detected in her a wonderful reticence. She was like a woman of Leonardo da Vinci’s, whom we love not so much for herself as for the things that she will not tell us.\nThe things are assuredly not of this life; no woman of Leonardo’s could have anything so vulgar as a “story.” She did develop most wonderfully day by day.\n\nSo it happened that from patronizing civility he had slowly passed if not to passion, at least to a profound uneasiness. Already at Rome he had hinted to her that they might be suitable for each other. It had touched him greatly that she had not broken away at the suggestion. Her refusal had been clear and gentle; after it—as the horrid phrase went—she had been exactly the same to him as before. Three months later, on the margin of Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked her again in bald, traditional language. She reminded him of a Leonardo more than ever; her sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic rock;\nat his words she had turned and stood between him and the light with immeasurable plains behind her. He walked home with her unashamed,\nfeeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things that really mattered were unshaken.\n\nSo now he had asked her once more, and, clear and gentle as ever, she had accepted him, giving no coy reasons for her delay, but simply saying that she loved him and would do her best to make him happy. His mother, too, would be pleased; she had counselled the step; he must write her a long account.\n\nGlancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy’s chemicals had come off on it, he moved to the writing table. There he saw “Dear Mrs. Vyse,”\nfollowed by many erasures. He recoiled without reading any more, and after a little hesitation sat down elsewhere, and pencilled a note on his knee." +- "Then he lit another cigarette, which did not seem quite as divine as the first, and considered what might be done to make Windy Corner drawing-room more distinctive. With that outlook it should have been a successful room, but the trail of Tottenham Court Road was upon it; he could almost visualize the motor-vans of Messrs. Shoolbred and Messrs.\nMaple arriving at the door and depositing this chair, those varnished book-cases, that writing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch’s letter. He did not want to read that letter—his temptations never lay in that direction; but he worried about it none the less. It was his own fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and so he had asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for Freddy—“He is only a boy,” he reflected. “I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?”\n\nThe Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps—he did not put it very definitely—he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible.\n\n“Mr. Beebe!” said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy’s praise of him in her letters from Florence.\n\nCecil greeted him rather critically.\n\n“I’ve come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?”\n\n“I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here—Don’t sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it.”\n\n“Pfui!”\n\n“I know,” said Cecil. “I know. I can’t think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it.”\n\nFor Cecil considered the bone and the Maples’ furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired.\n\n“I’ve come for tea and for gossip. Isn’t this news?”\n\n“News? I don’t understand you,” said Cecil. “News?”\n\nMr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward.\n\n“I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!”\n\n“Has he indeed?” said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder.\n\n“Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I’ll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you.”\n\n“I’m shockingly stupid over local affairs,” said the young man languidly. “I can’t even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference,\nor perhaps those aren’t the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don’t feel to exist on sufferance.”\n\nMr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert,\ndetermined to shift the subject.\n\n“Let me see, Mr. Vyse—I forget—what is your profession?”\n\n“I have no profession,” said Cecil. “It is another example of my decadence. My attitude—quite an indefensible one—is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don’t care a straw about, but somehow, I’ve not been able to begin.”\n\n“You are very fortunate,” said Mr. Beebe. “It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure.”" +- "His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also.\n\n“I am glad that you approve. I daren’t face the healthy person—for example, Freddy Honeychurch.”\n\n“Oh, Freddy’s a good sort, isn’t he?”\n\n“Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is.”\n\nCecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe’s mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science.\n\n“Where are the others?” said Mr. Beebe at last, “I insist on extracting tea before evening service.”\n\n“I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary—I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?”\n\n“I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs.”\n\n“The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small.”\n\nThey both laughed, and things began to go better.\n\n“The faults of Freddy—” Cecil continued.\n\n“Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable.”\n\n“She has none,” said the young man, with grave sincerity.\n\n“I quite agree. At present she has none.”\n\n“At present?”\n\n“I’m not cynical. I’m only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down,\nand music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good,\nheroically bad—too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad.”\n\nCecil found his companion interesting.\n\n“And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?”\n\n“Well, I must say I’ve only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn’t you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn’t wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be.”\n\n“In what way?”\n\nConversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace.\n\n“I could as easily tell you what tune she’ll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks.”\n\nThe sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself.\n\n“But the string never broke?”\n\n“No. I mightn’t have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall.”\n\n“It has broken now,” said the young man in low, vibrating tones.\n\nImmediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous,\ncontemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him?\n\n“Broken? What do you mean?”\n\n“I meant,” said Cecil stiffly, “that she is going to marry me.”\n\nThe clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice.\n\n“I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way.\nMr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me.” And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed." +- "Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered.\n\nOccasionally he could be quite crude.\n\n“I am sorry I have given you a shock,” he said dryly. “I fear that Lucy’s choice does not meet with your approval.”\n\n“Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. I know Miss Honeychurch only a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have discussed her so freely with any one; certainly not with you.”\n\n“You are conscious of having said something indiscreet?”\n\nMr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really, Mr. Vyse had the art of placing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to use the prerogatives of his profession.\n\n“No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it.\nShe has learnt—you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely—she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides.” It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. “She has learnt through you,” and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; “let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her.”\n\n“Grazie tante!” said Cecil, who did not like parsons.\n\n“Have you heard?” shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden. “Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?”\n\nFreddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact.\n\n“Indeed I have!” he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer—at all events not without apology. “Mrs.\nHoneychurch, I’m going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I’m too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them,\ngrave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my tea.”\n\n“You only asked for it just in time,” the lady retorted. “How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?”\n\nHe took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be serious any more.\n\nAn engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present." +- "So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne,\nputting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped.\nFreddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy." +- Chapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art +- "A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\nfor naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man.\n\nCecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers.\n\nAt tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been.\n\n“Do you go to much of this sort of thing?” he asked when they were driving home.\n\n“Oh, now and then,” said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself.\n\n“Is it typical of country society?”\n\n“I suppose so. Mother, would it be?”\n\n“Plenty of society,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses.\n\nSeeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said:\n\n“To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous.”\n\n“I am so sorry that you were stranded.”\n\n“Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property—a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!”\n\n“One has to go through it, I suppose. They won’t notice us so much next time.”\n\n“But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement—horrid word in the first place—is a private matter, and should be treated as such.”\n\nYet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them,\nrejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different—personal love. Hence Cecil’s irritation and Lucy’s belief that his irritation was just.\n\n“How tiresome!” she said. “Couldn’t you have escaped to tennis?”\n\n“I don’t play tennis—at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato.”\n\n“Inglese Italianato?”\n\n“E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?”\n\nShe did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement,\nhad taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing.\n\n“Well,” said he, “I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them.”\n\n“We all have our limitations, I suppose,” said wise Lucy.\n\n“Sometimes they are forced on us, though,” said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.\n\n“How?”\n\n“It makes a difference doesn’t it, whether we fully fence ourselves in,\nor whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?”\n\nShe thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference.\n\n“Difference?” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. “I don’t see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place.”\n\n“We were speaking of motives,” said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred.\n\n“My dear Cecil, look here.” She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. “This is me. That’s Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here.”\n\n“We weren’t talking of real fences,” said Lucy, laughing.\n\n“Oh, I see, dear—poetry.”\n\nShe leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused.\n\n“I tell you who has no ‘fences,’ as you call them,” she said, “and that’s Mr. Beebe.”" +- "“A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless.”\n\nLucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil’s epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it.\n\n“Don’t you like Mr. Beebe?” she asked thoughtfully.\n\n“I never said so!” he cried. “I consider him far above the average. I only denied—” And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant.\n\n“Now, a clergyman that I do hate,” said she wanting to say something sympathetic, “a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere—not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things.”\n\n“What sort of things?”\n\n“There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife.”\n\n“Perhaps he had.”\n\n“No!”\n\n“Why ‘no’?”\n\n“He was such a nice old man, I’m sure.”\n\nCecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence.\n\n“Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague—said the old man had ‘practically’ murdered his wife—had murdered her in the sight of God.”\n\n“Hush, dear!” said Mrs. Honeychurch absently.\n\n“But isn’t it intolerable that a person whom we’re told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn’t that.”\n\n“Poor old man! What was his name?”\n\n“Harris,” said Lucy glibly.\n\n“Let’s hope that Mrs. Harris there warn’t no sich person,” said her mother.\n\nCecil nodded intelligently.\n\n“Isn’t Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?” he asked.\n\n“I don’t know. I hate him. I’ve heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I _hate_ him.”\n\n“My goodness gracious me, child!” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “You’ll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen.”\n\nHe smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy’s moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman’s power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, he thought—lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch’s mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.\n\n“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.\nHoneychurch?”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil,\nwho was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again." +- "Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’" +- "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\nThe woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.\nPretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil.\n\n“Cissie” was the name of one of these villas, “Albert” of the other.\nThese titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. “Albert”\nwas inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. “Cissie” was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions.\n\n“The place is ruined!” said the ladies mechanically. “Summer Street will never be the same again.”\n\nAs the carriage passed, “Cissie’s” door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.\n\n“Stop!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.\n“Here’s Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!”\n\nSir Harry Otway—who need not be described—came to the carriage and said “Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can’t, I really can’t turn out Miss Flack.”\n\n“Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew’s time?”\n\n“But what can I do?” He lowered his voice. “An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden.”\n\n“Turn her out,” said Cecil bravely.\n\nSir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack’s intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm.\nHe called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,—a most reasonable and respectful man—who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ,\nhowever, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the façade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative.\n\nMr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, “and all the capitals different—one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack’s initials—every one different.” For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy.\n\nThis futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch’s carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well.\nHe had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever.\nAll he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for “Cissie”—someone really desirable." +- "“The rent is absurdly low,” he told them, “and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves.”\n\nCecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.\n\n“You ought to find a tenant at once,” he said maliciously. “It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk.”\n\n“Exactly!” said Sir Harry excitedly. “That is exactly what I fear, Mr.\nVyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved—a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?”\n\n“Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,” said Lucy.\n\nCecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.\n\n“Sir Harry!” she exclaimed, “I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?”\n\n“My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?”\n\n“Yes; I met them abroad.”\n\n“Gentlewomen?” he asked tentatively.\n\n“Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week—Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I’m really not joking.\nThey are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?”\n\n“Indeed you may!” he cried. “Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities—please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents’ fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote—a tactful letter, you know—asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory—people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!”\n\nShe nodded.\n\n“My advice,” put in Mrs. Honeychurch, “is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It’s a sad thing, but I’d far rather let to some one who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down.”\n\n“I think I follow you,” said Sir Harry; “but it is, as you say, a very sad thing.”\n\n“The Misses Alan aren’t that!” cried Lucy.\n\n“Yes, they are,” said Cecil. “I haven’t met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood.”\n\n“Don’t listen to him, Sir Harry—he’s tiresome.”\n\n“It’s I who am tiresome,” he replied. “I oughtn’t to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help.”\n\n“Then may I write to my Misses Alan?”\n\n“Please!”\n\nBut his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:\n\n“Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man.”\n\n“Really—” he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.\n\n“Men don’t gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there’s an end of them—they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they’re vulgar,\nthey somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn’t spread so. Give me a man—of course, provided he’s clean.”" +- "Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time,\nshould descend from the carriage and inspect “Cissie” for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale.\n\nCecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.\n\n“Mrs. Honeychurch,” he said, “what if we two walk home and leave you?”\n\n“Certainly!” was her cordial reply.\n\nSir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, “Aha! young people, young people!” and then hastened to unlock the house.\n\n“Hopeless vulgarian!” exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!”\n\n“I can’t help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man.”\n\n“He isn’t clever, but really he is nice.”\n\n“No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and every one—even your mother—is taken in.”\n\n“All that you say is quite true,” said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. “I wonder whether—whether it matters so very much.”\n\n“It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party.\nOh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he’ll get some vulgar tenant in that villa—some woman so really vulgar that he’ll notice it.\n_Gentlefolks!_ Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let’s forget him.”\n\nThis Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever,\nnor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, “It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy”? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps,\nduring the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.\n\n“Which way shall we go?” she asked him.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, she thought—was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad.\n\n“Are there two ways?”\n\n“Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we’re got up smart.”\n\n“I’d rather go through the wood,” said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. “Why is it,\nLucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?”\n\n“Haven’t I? The wood, then,” said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning.\n\nShe led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards.\n\n“I had got an idea—I dare say wrongly—that you feel more at home with me in a room.”\n\n“A room?” she echoed, hopelessly bewildered.\n\n“Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this.”\n\n“Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person.”\n\n“I don’t know that you aren’t. I connect you with a view—a certain type of view. Why shouldn’t you connect me with a room?”\n\nShe reflected a moment, and then said, laughing:\n\n“Do you know that you’re right? I do. I must be a poetess after all.\nWhen I think of you it’s always as in a room. How funny!”\n\nTo her surprise, he seemed annoyed.\n\n“A drawing-room, pray? With no view?”" +- "“Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?”\n\n“I’d rather,” he said reproachfully, “that you connected me with the open air.”\n\nShe said again, “Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?”\n\nAs no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm.\n\nPresently they came to a little clearing among the pines—another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool.\n\nShe exclaimed, “The Sacred Lake!”\n\n“Why do you call it that?”\n\n“I can’t remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It’s only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can’t get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it.”\n\n“And you?”\n\nHe meant, “Are you fond of it?” But she answered dreamily, “I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row.”\n\nAt another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool’s edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it,\nand she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green.\n\n“Who found you out?”\n\n“Charlotte,” she murmured. “She was stopping with us.\nCharlotte—Charlotte.”\n\n“Poor girl!”\n\nShe smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk, now appeared practical.\n\n“Lucy!”\n\n“Yes, I suppose we ought to be going,” was her reply.\n\n“Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before.”\n\nAt the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards him.\n\n“What, Cecil?”\n\n“Hitherto never—not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry me—”\n\nHe became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were observed. His courage had gone.\n\n“Yes?”\n\n“Up to now I have never kissed you.”\n\nShe was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately.\n\n“No—more you have,” she stammered.\n\n“Then I ask you—may I now?”\n\n“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can’t run at you, you know.”\n\nAt that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.\nAs he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them.\n\nSuch was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. Lucy was standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.\n\nThey left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.\n\n“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had." +- Chapter X Cecil as a Humourist +- "The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,\nand, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter.\nOther houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility. “I cannot think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction—which few honest solicitors despise—of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable.\n\nThe best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were rather dull,\nand Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy.\nHitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning—their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags,\norange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to speak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and identical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the London fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished.\nHer senses expanded; she felt that there was no one whom she might not get to like, that social barriers were irremovable, doubtless, but not particularly high. You jump over them just as you jump into a peasant’s olive-yard in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returned with new eyes.\n\nSo did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not to tolerance, but to irritation. He saw that the local society was narrow, but, instead of saying, “Does that very much matter?” he rebelled, and tried to substitute for it the society he called broad. He did not realize that Lucy had consecrated her environment by the thousand little civilities that create a tenderness in time, and that though her eyes saw its defects, her heart refused to despise it entirely. Nor did he realize a more important point—that if she was too great for this society, she was too great for all society, and had reached the stage where personal intercourse would alone satisfy her. A rebel she was, but not of the kind he understood—a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling-room, but equality beside the man she loved. For Italy was offering her the most priceless of all possessions—her own soul.\n\nPlaying bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece to the rector, and aged thirteen—an ancient and most honourable game, which consists in striking tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over the net and immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs. Honeychurch; others are lost.\nThe sentence is confused, but the better illustrates Lucy’s state of mind, for she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the same time.\n\n“Oh, it has been such a nuisance—first he, then they—no one knowing what they wanted, and everyone so tiresome.”\n\n“But they really are coming now,” said Mr. Beebe. “I wrote to Miss Teresa a few days ago—she was wondering how often the butcher called,\nand my reply of once a month must have impressed her favourably. They are coming. I heard from them this morning." +- "“I shall hate those Miss Alans!” Mrs. Honeychurch cried. “Just because they’re old and silly one’s expected to say ‘How sweet!’ I hate their ‘if’-ing and ‘but’-ing and ‘and’-ing. And poor Lucy—serve her right—worn to a shadow.”\n\nMr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and shouting over the tennis-court. Cecil was absent—one did not play bumble-puppy when he was there.\n\n“Well, if they are coming—No, Minnie, not Saturn.” Saturn was a tennis-ball whose skin was partially unsewn. When in motion his orb was encircled by a ring. “If they are coming, Sir Harry will let them move in before the twenty-ninth, and he will cross out the clause about whitewashing the ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in the fair wear and tear one.—That doesn’t count. I told you not Saturn.”\n\n“Saturn’s all right for bumble-puppy,” cried Freddy, joining them.\n“Minnie, don’t you listen to her.”\n\n“Saturn doesn’t bounce.”\n\n“Saturn bounces enough.”\n\n“No, he doesn’t.”\n\n“Well; he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil.”\n\n“Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Honeychurch.\n\n“But look at Lucy—complaining of Saturn, and all the time’s got the Beautiful White Devil in her hand, ready to plug it in. That’s right,\nMinnie, go for her—get her over the shins with the racquet—get her over the shins!”\n\nLucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand.\n\nMr. Beebe picked it up, and said: “The name of this ball is Vittoria Corombona, please.” But his correction passed unheeded.\n\nFreddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little girls to fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie from a well-mannered child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house Cecil heard them, and, though he was full of entertaining news, he did not come down to impart it, in case he got hurt. He was not a coward and bore necessary pain as well as any man. But he hated the physical violence of the young. How right it was! Sure enough it ended in a cry.\n\n“I wish the Miss Alans could see this,” observed Mr. Beebe, just as Lucy, who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted off her feet by her brother.\n\n“Who are the Miss Alans?” Freddy panted.\n\n“They have taken Cissie Villa.”\n\n“That wasn’t the name—”\n\nHere his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the grass. An interval elapses.\n\n“Wasn’t what name?” asked Lucy, with her brother’s head in her lap.\n\n“Alan wasn’t the name of the people Sir Harry’s let to.”\n\n“Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it.”\n\n“Nonsense yourself! I’ve this minute seen him. He said to me: ‘Ahem!\nHoneychurch,’”—Freddy was an indifferent mimic—“‘ahem! ahem! I have at last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.’ I said, ‘ooray, old boy!’\nand slapped him on the back.”\n\n“Exactly. The Miss Alans?”\n\n“Rather not. More like Anderson.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious, there isn’t going to be another muddle!” Mrs.\nHoneychurch exclaimed. “Do you notice, Lucy, I’m always right? I _said_ don’t interfere with Cissie Villa. I’m always right. I’m quite uneasy at being always right so often.”\n\n“It’s only another muddle of Freddy’s. Freddy doesn’t even know the name of the people he pretends have taken it instead.”\n\n“Yes, I do. I’ve got it. Emerson.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“Emerson. I’ll bet you anything you like.”\n\n“What a weathercock Sir Harry is,” said Lucy quietly. “I wish I had never bothered over it at all.”\n\nThen she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe,\nwhose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that _that_ was the proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong." +- "Meanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch from the contemplation of her own abilities.\n\n“Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?”\n\n“I don’t know whether they’re any Emersons,” retorted Freddy, who was democratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he was naturally attracted by the idea of equality, and the undeniable fact that there are different kinds of Emersons annoyed him beyond measure.\n\n“I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy”—she was sitting up again—“I see you looking down your nose and thinking your mother’s a snob. But there is a right sort and a wrong sort, and it’s affectation to pretend there isn’t.”\n\n“Emerson’s a common enough name,” Lucy remarked.\n\nShe was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she could see the pine-clad promontories descending one beyond another into the Weald. The further one descended the garden, the more glorious was this lateral view.\n\n“I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were no relations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray, does that satisfy you?”\n\n“Oh, yes,” he grumbled. “And you will be satisfied, too, for they’re friends of Cecil; so”—elaborate irony—“you and the other country families will be able to call in perfect safety.”\n\n“_Cecil?_” exclaimed Lucy.\n\n“Don’t be rude, dear,” said his mother placidly. “Lucy, don’t screech.\nIt’s a new bad habit you’re getting into.”\n\n“But has Cecil—”\n\n“Friends of Cecil’s,” he repeated, “‘and so really dee-sire-rebel.\nAhem! Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.’”\n\nShe got up from the grass.\n\nIt was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized with her very much. While she believed that her snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She might well “screech” when she heard that it came partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was a tease—something worse than a tease: he took a malicious pleasure in thwarting people. The clergyman, knowing this, looked at Miss Honeychurch with more than his usual kindness.\n\nWhen she exclaimed, “But Cecil’s Emersons—they can’t possibly be the same ones—there is that—” he did not consider that the exclamation was strange, but saw in it an opportunity of diverting the conversation while she recovered her composure. He diverted it as follows:\n\n“The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don’t suppose it will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friends of Mr. Vyse’s. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerest people! For our part we liked them, didn’t we?” He appealed to Lucy.\n“There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets and filled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who have failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine’s great stories. ‘My dear sister loves flowers,’ it began. They found the whole room a mass of blue—vases and jugs—and the story ends with ‘So ungentlemanly and yet so beautiful.’ It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect those Florentine Emersons with violets.”\n\n“Fiasco’s done you this time,” remarked Freddy, not seeing that his sister’s face was very red. She could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe saw it, and continued to divert the conversation.\n\n“These particular Emersons consisted of a father and a son—the son a goodly, if not a good young man; not a fool, I fancy, but very immature—pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the father—such a sentimental darling, and people declared he had murdered his wife.”\n\nIn his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have repeated such gossip,\nbut he was trying to shelter Lucy in her little trouble. He repeated any rubbish that came into his head." +- "“Murdered his wife?” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “Lucy, don’t desert us—go on playing bumble-puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have been the oddest place. That’s the second murderer I’ve heard of as being there. Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop? By-the-by, we really must ask Charlotte here some time.”\n\nMr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He suggested that his hostess was mistaken. At the hint of opposition she warmed. She was perfectly sure that there had been a second tourist of whom the same story had been told. The name escaped her. What was the name? Oh, what was the name? She clasped her knees for the name. Something in Thackeray. She struck her matronly forehead.\n\nLucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in.\n\n“Oh, don’t go!” he cried, and tried to catch her by the ankles.\n\n“I must go,” she said gravely. “Don’t be silly. You always overdo it when you play.”\n\nAs she left them her mother’s shout of “Harris!” shivered the tranquil air, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had never put it right. Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves and made her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil’s, with a pair of nondescript tourists. Hitherto truth had come to her naturally. She saw that for the future she must be more vigilant, and be—absolutely truthful? Well, at all events, she must not tell lies. She hurried up the garden, still flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would soothe her, she was sure.\n\n“Cecil!”\n\n“Hullo!” he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed in high spirits. “I was hoping you’d come. I heard you all bear-gardening, but there’s better fun up here. I, even I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith’s right—the cause of Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don’t be angry! Don’t be angry! You’ll forgive me when you hear it all.”\n\nHe looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings at once.\n\n“I have heard,” she said. “Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing!\nCertainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I’d rather have nice friends of yours. But you oughtn’t to tease one so.”\n\n“Friends of mine?” he laughed. “But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come!\nCome here.” But she remained standing where she was. “Do you know where I met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up to see my mother last week.”\n\n“What an odd place to meet people!” she said nervously. “I don’t quite understand.”\n\n“In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca Signorelli—of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy.”\n\n“But, Cecil—” proceeded hilariously.\n\n“In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country cottage—the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends. I thought, ‘What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!’ and I took their address and a London reference, found they weren’t actual blackguards—it was great sport—and wrote to him, making out—”\n\n“Cecil! No, it’s not fair. I’ve probably met them before—”\n\nHe bore her down.\n\n“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time.\nNo, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—”\n\n“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”\n\nHe stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”" +- "Her face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago.\n\n“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”\n\nShe left him.\n\n“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows.\n\nNo, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner." +- "Chapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n\n\nThe Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,\nmet Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die.\n\nLucy—to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows because there are hills—Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least.\nNow that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little thinking, and—so illogical are girls—the event remained rather greater and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa while she was safe in the London flat.\n\n“Cecil—Cecil darling,” she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept into his arms.\n\nCecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should,\nand looked up to him because he was a man.\n\n“So you do love me, little thing?” he murmured.\n\n“Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don’t know what I should do without you.”\n\nSeveral days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what Charlotte would call “the flight to Rome,” and in Rome it had increased amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy’s, and once, in the Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses—Mrs. Vyse was an acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.\n\n“TUNBRIDGE WELLS,\n“_September_.\n\n\n“DEAREST LUCIA,\n\n\n“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house. He _said_ he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune,\nand I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\nLucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W." +- "“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,\nand cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,\nthey would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.\nAs for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January.\n\n“Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do not put ‘Private’ outside your envelope again. No one opens my letters.\n\n\n“Yours affectionately,\n“L. M. HONEYCHURCH.”" +- "Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil’s life if he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.\n“Emerson, not Harris”; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she stopped.\n\nShe and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool,\nand it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the past.\n\nThe grandchildren asked her to play the piano.\n\nShe played Schumann. “Now some Beethoven” called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete—the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art—throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and “Too much Schumann” was not the remark that Mr.\nBeebe had passed to himself when she returned.\n\nWhen the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son.\nMrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another’s,\nhad been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd.\n\n“Make Lucy one of us,” she said, looking round intelligently at the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again.\n“Lucy is becoming wonderful—wonderful.”\n\n“Her music always was wonderful.”\n\n“Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made.”\n\n“Italy has done it.”\n\n“Perhaps,” she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. “It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January.\nShe is one of us already.”\n\n“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to London. I don’t believe in these London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”\n\n“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.\n\nAs she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek." +- "“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”\n\nThe elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat." +- Chapter XII Twelfth Chapter +- "It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.\nAll that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n“M’m.”\n\n“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in.\n\n“I suggested we should hinder them,” said Mr. Beebe. “They are worth it.” Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. “Hullo!” he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible.\n\nA grave voice replied, “Hullo!”\n\n“I’ve brought someone to see you.”\n\n“I’ll be down in a minute.”\n\nThe passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books.\n\n“Are these people great readers?” Freddy whispered. “Are they that sort?”\n\n“I fancy they know how to read—a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German.\nUm—um—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, look at that,” said Freddy in awestruck tones.\n\nOn the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: “Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.”\n\n“I know. Isn’t it jolly? I like that. I’m certain that’s the old man’s doing.”\n\n“How very odd of him!”\n\n“Surely you agree?”\n\nBut Freddy was his mother’s son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture.\n\n“Pictures!” the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.\n“Giotto—they got that at Florence, I’ll be bound.”\n\n“The same as Lucy’s got.”\n\n“Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?”\n\n“She came back yesterday.”\n\n“I suppose she had a good time?”\n\n“Yes, very,” said Freddy, taking up a book. “She and Cecil are thicker than ever.”\n\n“That’s good hearing.”\n\n“I wish I wasn’t such a fool, Mr. Beebe.”\n\nMr. Beebe ignored the remark.\n\n“Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it’ll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books.”\n\n“So will you.”\n\n“Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards.\nCecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful.\nThere are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says—”\n\n“What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson—we think we’ll come another time.”\n\nGeorge ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking.\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour.”\n\nThen Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George’s face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, “How d’ye do? Come and have a bathe.”\n\n“Oh, all right,” said George, impassive.\n\nMr. Beebe was highly entertained.\n\n“‘How d’ye do? how d’ye do? Come and have a bathe,’” he chuckled.\n“That’s the best conversational opening I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with ‘How do you do? Come and have a bathe’? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal.”" +- "“I tell you that they shall be,” said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same.”\n\n“We are to raise ladies to our level?” the clergyman inquired.\n\n“The Garden of Eden,” pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, “which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies.”\n\nMr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.\n\n“In this—not in other things—we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden.”\n\n“I say, what about this bathe?” murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him.\n\n“I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage.”\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence.”\n\n“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry.\nMarriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr.\nVyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”\n\n“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. “I must—that is to say, I have to—have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope.”\n\n“_Call_, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country.”\n\nMr. Beebe came to the rescue.\n\n“Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days’ interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon.”\n\n“Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can’t believe he’s well.”\n\nGeorge bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture.\n\n“Do you really want this bathe?” Freddy asked him. “It is only a pond,\ndon’t you know. I dare say you are used to something better.”\n\n“Yes—I have said ‘Yes’ already.”\n\nMr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads.\n\n“And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?”\n\n“I did not. Miss Lavish told me.”\n\n“When I was a young man, I always meant to write a ‘History of Coincidence.’”\n\nNo enthusiasm.\n\n“Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn’t purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect.”\n\nTo his relief, George began to talk." +- "“It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate—flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us—we settle nothing—”\n\n“You have not reflected at all,” rapped the clergyman. “Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don’t say, ‘I didn’t do this,’ for you did it, ten to one. Now I’ll cross-question you.\nWhere did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?”\n\n“Italy.”\n\n“And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?”\n\n“National Gallery.”\n\n“Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it.”\n\n“It is Fate that I am here,” persisted George. “But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy.”\n\nMr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George.\n\n“And so for this and for other reasons my ‘History of Coincidence’ is still to write.”\n\nSilence.\n\nWishing to round off the episode, he added; “We are all so glad that you have come.”\n\nSilence.\n\n“Here we are!” called Freddy.\n\n“Oh, good!” exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow.\n\n“In there’s the pond. I wish it was bigger,” he added apologetically.\n\nThey climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond,\nset in its little alp of green—only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool.\n\n“It’s distinctly successful, as ponds go,” said Mr. Beebe. “No apologies are necessary for the pond.”\n\nGeorge sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots.\n\n“Aren’t those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What’s the name of this aromatic plant?”\n\nNo one knew, or seemed to care.\n\n“These abrupt changes of vegetation—this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle—heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, aren’t you bathing?” called Freddy, as he stripped himself.\n\nMr. Beebe thought he was not.\n\n“Water’s wonderful!” cried Freddy, prancing in.\n\n“Water’s water,” murmured George. Wetting his hair first—a sure sign of apathy—he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.\n\n“Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,” went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud.\n\n“Is it worth it?” asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin.\n\nThe bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly.\n\n“Hee-poof—I’ve swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water’s wonderful,\nwater’s simply ripping.”\n\n“Water’s not so bad,” said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun.\n\n“Water’s wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do.”\n\n“Apooshoo, kouf.”\n\nMr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible,\nlooked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind—these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man?" +- "“I may as well wash too”; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water.\n\nIt was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Götterdämmerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit—for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out.\nHe smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool.\n\n“Race you round it, then,” cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run—a memorable sight.\n\nThey ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the sward, proclaiming:\n\n“No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in the end.”\n\n“A try! A try!” yelled Freddy, snatching up George’s bundle and placing it beside an imaginary goal-post.\n\n“Socker rules,” George retorted, scattering Freddy’s bundle with a kick.\n\n“Goal!”\n\n“Goal!”\n\n“Pass!”\n\n“Take care my watch!” cried Mr. Beebe.\n\nClothes flew in all directions.\n\n“Take care my hat! No, that’s enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!”\n\nBut the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair.\n\n“That’ll do!” shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. “Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!”\n\nYells, and widening circles over the dappled earth.\n\n“Hi! hi! _Ladies!_”\n\nNeither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe’s last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch,\nCecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth.\nFreddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe’s hat.\n\n“Gracious alive!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch. “Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too!\nWhatever has happened?”\n\n“Come this way immediately,” commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed.\n\n“Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil,\nMr. Beebe’s waistcoat—”\n\nNo business of ours, said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently “minded.”\n\n“I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond.”\n\n“This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way.”\n\nThey followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.\n\n“Well, _I_ can’t help it,” said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. “I can’t be trodden on, can I?”\n\n“Good gracious me, dear; so it’s you! What miserable management! Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?”" +- "“Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow’s got to dry, and if another fellow—”\n\n“Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy.” They turned. “Oh, look—don’t look! Oh, poor Mr.\nBeebe! How unfortunate again—”\n\nFor Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.\n\n“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”\n\n“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”\n\n“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”\n\n“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.\n\nHe regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed.\n\nThat evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth." +- Chapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome - "How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these.\nBut she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star.\n\nIndoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. “I will bow,” she had thought. “I will not shake hands with him.\nThat will be just the proper thing.” She had bowed—but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world.\n\nSo ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and made long, clever answers where “Yes” or “No” would have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed,\nthough not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover.\n\n“Lucy,” said her mother, when they got home, “is anything the matter with Cecil?”\n\nThe question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with charity and restraint.\n\n“No, I don’t think so, mother; Cecil’s all right.”\n\n“Perhaps he’s tired.”\n\nLucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired.\n\n“Because otherwise”—she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering displeasure—“because otherwise I cannot account for him.”\n\n“I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that.”\n\n“Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid fever. No—it is just the same thing everywhere.”\n\n“Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?”\n\n“Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?”\n\n“Cecil has a very high standard for people,” faltered Lucy, seeing trouble ahead. “It’s part of his ideals—it is really that that makes him sometimes seem—”\n\n“Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the better,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet.\n\n“Now, mother! I’ve seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!”\n\n“Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way.\nNo. It is the same with Cecil all over.”\n\n“By-the-by—I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I was away in London.”\n\nThis attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs.\nHoneychurch resented it.\n\n“Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him.\nWhenever I speak he winces;—I see him, Lucy; it is useless to contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture;\nyour father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly remember.”\n\n“I—I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn’t to. But he does not mean to be uncivil—he once explained—it is the _things_ that upset him—he is easily upset by ugly things—he is not uncivil to _people_.”" - "“Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?”\n\n“You can’t expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as we do.”\n\n“Then why didn’t he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering and spoiling everyone’s pleasure?”\n\n“We mustn’t be unjust to people,” faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations had clashed—Cecil hinted that they might—and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song.\n\nShe remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy—she knew not why—wished that the trouble could have come at any other time.\n\n“Go and dress, dear; you’ll be late.”\n\n“All right, mother—”\n\n“Don’t say ‘All right’ and stop. Go.”\n\nShe obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to herself, “Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?” It seemed to her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to have mentioned Miss Bartlett’s letter. She must be more careful;\nher mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?—and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved.\n\n“I say, those are topping people.”\n\n“My dear baby, how tiresome you’ve been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it’s much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban.”\n\n“I say, is anything on to-morrow week?”\n\n“Not that I know of.”\n\n“Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis.”\n\n“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Freddy, I wouldn’t do that with all this muddle.”\n\n“What’s wrong with the court? They won’t mind a bump or two, and I’ve ordered new balls.”\n\n“I meant _it’s_ better not. I really mean it.”\n\nHe seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: “Lucy, what a noise you’re making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?” and Freddy ran away.\n\n“Yes. I really can’t stop. I must dress too.”\n\n“How’s Charlotte?”\n\n“All right.”\n\n“Lucy!”\n\nThe unfortunate girl returned.\n\n“You’ve a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one’s sentences.\nDid Charlotte mention her boiler?”\n\n“Her _what?_”\n\n“Don’t you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?”\n\n“I can’t remember all Charlotte’s worries,” said Lucy bitterly. “I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil.”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: “Come here, old lady—thank you for putting away my bonnet—kiss me.” And,\nthough nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect." - "So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner.\nAt the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods—perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own.\n\nDinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry.\nNothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said:\n\n“Lucy, what’s Emerson like?”\n\n“I saw him in Florence,” said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply.\n\n“Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?”\n\n“Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here.”\n\n“He is the clever sort, like myself,” said Cecil.\n\nFreddy looked at him doubtfully.\n\n“How well did you know them at the Bertolini?” asked Mrs. Honeychurch.\n\n“Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did.”\n\n“Oh, that reminds me—you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter.”\n\n“One thing and another,” said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie. “Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she’d come up and see us, and mercifully didn’t.”\n\n“Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind.”\n\n“She was a novelist,” said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one,\nfor nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: “If books must be written, let them be written by men”; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at “This year, next year, now, never,”\nwith his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother’s wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost—that touch of lips on her cheek—had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once.\nBut it had begotten a spectral family—Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett’s letter, Mr. Beebe’s memories of violets—and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil’s very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness.\n\n“I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte’s. How is she?”\n\n“I tore the thing up.”\n\n“Didn’t she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?”\n\n“Oh, yes I suppose so—no—not very cheerful, I suppose.”\n\n“Then, depend upon it, it _is_ the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one’s mind. I would rather anything else—even a misfortune with the meat.”\n\nCecil laid his hand over his eyes.\n\n“So would I,” asserted Freddy, backing his mother up—backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance.\n\n“And I have been thinking,” she added rather nervously, “surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while the plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long.”\n\nIt was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother’s goodness to her upstairs.\n\n“Mother, no!” she pleaded. “It’s impossible. We can’t have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we’re squeezed to death as it is. Freddy’s got a friend coming Tuesday, there’s Cecil, and you’ve promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can’t be done.”\n\n“Nonsense! It can.”\n\n“If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise.”\n\n“Minnie can sleep with you.”\n\n“I won’t have her.”\n\n“Then, if you’re so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy.”\n\n“Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett,” moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes." -- "“It’s impossible,” repeated Lucy. “I don’t want to make difficulties,\nbut it really isn’t fair on the maids to fill up the house so.”\n\nAlas!\n\n“The truth is, dear, you don’t like Charlotte.”\n\n“No, I don’t. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven’t seen her lately, and don’t realize how tiresome she can be,\nthough so good. So please, mother, don’t worry us this last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come.”\n\n“Hear, hear!” said Cecil.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling than she usually permitted herself, replied: “This isn’t very kind of you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are,\nand however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like to grow old.”\n\nCecil crumbled his bread.\n\n“I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on my bike,” put in Freddy. “She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right.”\n\n“I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return.”\n\nBut Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”\n\n“From your own account, you told her as much.”\n\n“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—”\n\nThe ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.\n\n“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”\n\nCecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n\n\nOf course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week.\n\nLucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.” Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed." -- "It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, “She loves young Emerson.” A reader in Lucy’s place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome “nerves”\nor any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?\n\nBut the external situation—she will face that bravely.\n\nThe meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,\nand George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy,\nand was glad that he did not seem shy either.\n\n“A nice fellow,” said Mr. Beebe afterwards “He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully.”\n\nLucy said, “He seems in better spirits. He laughs more.”\n\n“Yes,” replied the clergyman. “He is waking up.”\n\nThat was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs.\nHoneychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o’clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea.\n\n“I shall never forgive myself,” said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain. “I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate.”\n\n“Our visitors never do such dreadful things,” said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: “Just what I’ve been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour.”\n\n“I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor,” said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove.\n\n“All right, if you’d really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver.”\n\nMiss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: “But who am I to give the sovereign to?”\n\n“Let’s leave it all till mother comes back,” suggested Lucy.\n\n“No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts.”\n\nHere Freddy’s friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett’s quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance,\nand turned round.\n\nBut this did not do, either.\n\n“Please—please—I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost.”\n\n“Freddy owes me fifteen shillings,” interposed Cecil. “So it will work out right if you give the pound to me.”\n\n“Fifteen shillings,” said Miss Bartlett dubiously. “How is that, Mr.\nVyse?”\n\n“Because, don’t you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths.\nFor a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle." -- "“But I don’t see that!” exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. “I don’t see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid.”\n\n“Because of the fifteen shillings and the five,” they said solemnly.\n“Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see.”\n\n“But I don’t see—”\n\nThey tried to stifle her with cake.\n\n“No, thank you. I’m done. I don’t see why—Freddy, don’t poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother’s hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd’s ten shillings? Ow! No, I don’t see and I never shall see why Miss What’s-her-name shouldn’t pay that bob for the driver.”\n\n“I had forgotten the driver,” said Miss Bartlett, reddening. “Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?”\n\n“I’ll get it,” said the young hostess, rising with decision.\n\n“Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I’ll get Euphemia to change it, and we’ll start the whole thing again from the beginning.”\n\n“Lucy—Lucy—what a nuisance I am!” protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: “Have you told him about him yet?”\n\n“No, I haven’t,” replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. “Let me see—a sovereign’s worth of silver.”\n\nShe escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett’s sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul.\n\n“No, I haven’t told Cecil or any one,” she remarked, when she returned.\n“I promised you I shouldn’t. Here is your money—all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St.\nJohn ascending, which had been framed.\n\n“How dreadful!” she murmured, “how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source.”\n\n“Oh, no, Charlotte,” said the girl, entering the battle. “George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?”\n\nMiss Bartlett considered. “For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth.”\n\nLucy shuddered a little. “We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren’t careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?”\n\n“We must think of every possibility.”\n\n“Oh, it’s all right.”\n\n“Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know.”\n\n“I don’t care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it.”\n\n“To contradict it?”\n\n“No, to laugh at it.” But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched.\n\n“Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different.”\n\n“Now, Charlotte!” She struck at her playfully. “You kind, anxious thing. What _would_ you have me do? First you say ‘Don’t tell’; and then you say, ‘Tell’. Which is it to be? Quick!”\n\nMiss Bartlett sighed “I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me.”\n\n“Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don’t.”\n\nFor the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon." -- "“Dear, one moment—we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?”\n\n“Yes, I have.”\n\n“What happened?”\n\n“We met at the Rectory.”\n\n“What line is he taking up?”\n\n“No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won’t be any nuisance, Charlotte.”\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion.”\n\nLucy paused. “Cecil said one day—and I thought it so profound—that there are two kinds of cads—the conscious and the subconscious.” She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil’s profundity.\nThrough the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith’s library. Her mother must have returned from the station.\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad,” droned Miss Bartlett.\n\n“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him,\nand has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden.” She took hold of her guest by the arm. “Suppose we don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.”\n\nLucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\nThe Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells.\n\nThe garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her,\nno nonsense”—“Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!”—“Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?” For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church.\n\nThe sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan;\non George Emerson cleaning his father’s boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly,\nas though acknowledging the caress." -- "Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies—an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little—not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills.\n\n“Lucy! Lucy! What’s that book? Who’s been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?”\n\n“It’s only the library book that Cecil’s been reading.”\n\n“But pick it up, and don’t stand idling there like a flamingo.”\n\nLucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, “What! you aren’t forgetting your Italy already?” And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun.\n\n“Lucy—have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?”\n\nShe hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster.\n\n“It’s a special collection—I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book’s all warped.\n(Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press.\nMinnie!”\n\n“Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch—” from the upper regions.\n\n“Minnie, don’t be late. Here comes the horse”—it was always the horse,\nnever the carriage. “Where’s Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte—How I do detest blouses! Minnie!”\n\nPaganism is infectious—more infectious than diphtheria or piety—and the Rector’s niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn’t see why. Why shouldn’t she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs.\nHoneychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs.\n\n“Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change—nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me—”\n\n“Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame.”\n\n“If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?” said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued,\nand then they drove off.\n\n“Good-bye! Be good!” called out Cecil.\n\nLucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of “church and so on” they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different.\n\nShe saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden." -- "“Introduce me,” said her mother. “Unless the young man considers that he knows me already.”\n\nHe probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic,\nand asked him how he liked his new house.\n\n“Very much,” he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice;\nshe had never known him offended before. He added: “We find, though,\nthat the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out.\nWomen mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it.”\n\n“I believe that there was some misunderstanding,” said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily.\n\n“Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person,”\nsaid George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. “He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed.”\n\n“And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?” He appealed to Lucy.\n\n“Oh, stop now you have come,” said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned,\nthough his name was never mentioned.\n\n“So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind.”\n\n“There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world,” said George,\nwatching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages.\n\n“Yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. “That’s exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?”\n\n“There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,” he continued in measured tones. “We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm—yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you’re clever!”\n\n“Eh—?”\n\n“I see you’re going to be clever. I hope you didn’t go behaving like that to poor Freddy.”\n\nGeorge’s eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well.\n\n“No, I didn’t,” he said. “He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first.”\n\n“What _do_ you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don’t explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday—?”\n\n“George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday—”\n\n“Very well, George doesn’t mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That’s settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased.”\n\nHe thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days.\n\nShe turned to George: “And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans.”\n\n“I know,” said George, and put his arm round his father’s neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape—a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection.\n\nMiss Bartlett approached.\n\n“You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett,” said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly.\n“You met her with my daughter in Florence.”\n\n“Yes, indeed!” said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine.\nIt was the old, old battle of the room with the view." -- "George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: “I—I’ll come up to tennis if I can manage it,” and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno.\n\n“George, don’t go,” cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. “George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon.”\n\nLucy caught her cousin’s eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. “Yes,” she said, raising her voice, “I do hope he will.” Then she went to the carriage and murmured, “The old man hasn’t been told; I knew it was all right.” Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away.\n\nSatisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy’s spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses’ hoofs sang a tune to her: “He has not told, he has not told.” Her brain expanded the melody: “He has not told his father—to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone.” She raised her hand to her cheek. “He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did!\nBut he has not told. He will not tell.”\n\nShe longed to shout the words: “It is all right. It’s a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear.” She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded.\n\nOnly three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:\n\n“The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously.”\n\n“How are my protégés?” asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them,\nand had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes.\n\n“Protégés!” she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl’s soul yearned.\n\n“You shall see for yourself how your protégés are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don’t—” She nearly said, “Don’t protect him.” But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte.\n\nLunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning,\nwould never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument." +- "“It’s impossible,” repeated Lucy. “I don’t want to make difficulties,\nbut it really isn’t fair on the maids to fill up the house so.”\n\nAlas!\n\n“The truth is, dear, you don’t like Charlotte.”\n\n“No, I don’t. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven’t seen her lately, and don’t realize how tiresome she can be,\nthough so good. So please, mother, don’t worry us this last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come.”\n\n“Hear, hear!” said Cecil.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling than she usually permitted herself, replied: “This isn’t very kind of you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are,\nand however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like to grow old.”\n\nCecil crumbled his bread.\n\n“I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on my bike,” put in Freddy. “She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right.”\n\n“I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return.”\n\nBut Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”\n\n“From your own account, you told her as much.”\n\n“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—”\n\nThe ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.\n\n“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”\n\nCecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”" +- Chapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely +- "Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week.\n\nLucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.” Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed.\n\nIt is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, “She loves young Emerson.” A reader in Lucy’s place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome “nerves”\nor any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?\n\nBut the external situation—she will face that bravely.\n\nThe meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,\nand George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy,\nand was glad that he did not seem shy either.\n\n“A nice fellow,” said Mr. Beebe afterwards “He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully.”\n\nLucy said, “He seems in better spirits. He laughs more.”\n\n“Yes,” replied the clergyman. “He is waking up.”\n\nThat was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs.\nHoneychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o’clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea.\n\n“I shall never forgive myself,” said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain. “I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate.”\n\n“Our visitors never do such dreadful things,” said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: “Just what I’ve been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour.”\n\n“I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor,” said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove.\n\n“All right, if you’d really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver.”\n\nMiss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: “But who am I to give the sovereign to?”\n\n“Let’s leave it all till mother comes back,” suggested Lucy.\n\n“No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts.”" +- "Here Freddy’s friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett’s quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance,\nand turned round.\n\nBut this did not do, either.\n\n“Please—please—I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost.”\n\n“Freddy owes me fifteen shillings,” interposed Cecil. “So it will work out right if you give the pound to me.”\n\n“Fifteen shillings,” said Miss Bartlett dubiously. “How is that, Mr.\nVyse?”\n\n“Because, don’t you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths.\nFor a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle.\n\n“But I don’t see that!” exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. “I don’t see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid.”\n\n“Because of the fifteen shillings and the five,” they said solemnly.\n“Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see.”\n\n“But I don’t see—”\n\nThey tried to stifle her with cake.\n\n“No, thank you. I’m done. I don’t see why—Freddy, don’t poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother’s hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd’s ten shillings? Ow! No, I don’t see and I never shall see why Miss What’s-her-name shouldn’t pay that bob for the driver.”\n\n“I had forgotten the driver,” said Miss Bartlett, reddening. “Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?”\n\n“I’ll get it,” said the young hostess, rising with decision.\n\n“Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I’ll get Euphemia to change it, and we’ll start the whole thing again from the beginning.”\n\n“Lucy—Lucy—what a nuisance I am!” protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: “Have you told him about him yet?”\n\n“No, I haven’t,” replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. “Let me see—a sovereign’s worth of silver.”\n\nShe escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett’s sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul.\n\n“No, I haven’t told Cecil or any one,” she remarked, when she returned.\n“I promised you I shouldn’t. Here is your money—all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St.\nJohn ascending, which had been framed.\n\n“How dreadful!” she murmured, “how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source.”\n\n“Oh, no, Charlotte,” said the girl, entering the battle. “George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?”\n\nMiss Bartlett considered. “For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth.”\n\nLucy shuddered a little. “We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren’t careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?”\n\n“We must think of every possibility.”\n\n“Oh, it’s all right.”\n\n“Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know.”" +- "“I don’t care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it.”\n\n“To contradict it?”\n\n“No, to laugh at it.” But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched.\n\n“Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different.”\n\n“Now, Charlotte!” She struck at her playfully. “You kind, anxious thing. What _would_ you have me do? First you say ‘Don’t tell’; and then you say, ‘Tell’. Which is it to be? Quick!”\n\nMiss Bartlett sighed “I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me.”\n\n“Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don’t.”\n\nFor the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon.\n\n“Dear, one moment—we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?”\n\n“Yes, I have.”\n\n“What happened?”\n\n“We met at the Rectory.”\n\n“What line is he taking up?”\n\n“No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won’t be any nuisance, Charlotte.”\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion.”\n\nLucy paused. “Cecil said one day—and I thought it so profound—that there are two kinds of cads—the conscious and the subconscious.” She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil’s profundity.\nThrough the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith’s library. Her mother must have returned from the station.\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad,” droned Miss Bartlett.\n\n“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him,\nand has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden.” She took hold of her guest by the arm. “Suppose we don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.”\n\nLucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain." +- Chapter XV The Disaster Within +- "The Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells.\n\nThe garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her,\nno nonsense”—“Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!”—“Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?” For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church.\n\nThe sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan;\non George Emerson cleaning his father’s boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly,\nas though acknowledging the caress.\n\nPresently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies—an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little—not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills.\n\n“Lucy! Lucy! What’s that book? Who’s been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?”\n\n“It’s only the library book that Cecil’s been reading.”\n\n“But pick it up, and don’t stand idling there like a flamingo.”\n\nLucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, “What! you aren’t forgetting your Italy already?” And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun.\n\n“Lucy—have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?”\n\nShe hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster.\n\n“It’s a special collection—I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book’s all warped.\n(Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press.\nMinnie!”\n\n“Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch—” from the upper regions.\n\n“Minnie, don’t be late. Here comes the horse”—it was always the horse,\nnever the carriage. “Where’s Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte—How I do detest blouses! Minnie!”" +- "Paganism is infectious—more infectious than diphtheria or piety—and the Rector’s niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn’t see why. Why shouldn’t she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs.\nHoneychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs.\n\n“Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change—nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me—”\n\n“Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame.”\n\n“If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?” said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued,\nand then they drove off.\n\n“Good-bye! Be good!” called out Cecil.\n\nLucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of “church and so on” they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different.\n\nShe saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden.\n\n“Introduce me,” said her mother. “Unless the young man considers that he knows me already.”\n\nHe probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic,\nand asked him how he liked his new house.\n\n“Very much,” he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice;\nshe had never known him offended before. He added: “We find, though,\nthat the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out.\nWomen mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it.”\n\n“I believe that there was some misunderstanding,” said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily.\n\n“Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person,”\nsaid George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. “He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed.”\n\n“And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?” He appealed to Lucy.\n\n“Oh, stop now you have come,” said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned,\nthough his name was never mentioned.\n\n“So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind.”\n\n“There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world,” said George,\nwatching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages.\n\n“Yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. “That’s exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?”\n\n“There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,” he continued in measured tones. “We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm—yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you’re clever!”\n\n“Eh—?”\n\n“I see you’re going to be clever. I hope you didn’t go behaving like that to poor Freddy.”\n\nGeorge’s eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well." +- "“No, I didn’t,” he said. “He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first.”\n\n“What _do_ you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don’t explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday—?”\n\n“George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday—”\n\n“Very well, George doesn’t mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That’s settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased.”\n\nHe thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days.\n\nShe turned to George: “And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans.”\n\n“I know,” said George, and put his arm round his father’s neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape—a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection.\n\nMiss Bartlett approached.\n\n“You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett,” said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly.\n“You met her with my daughter in Florence.”\n\n“Yes, indeed!” said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine.\nIt was the old, old battle of the room with the view.\n\nGeorge did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: “I—I’ll come up to tennis if I can manage it,” and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno.\n\n“George, don’t go,” cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. “George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon.”\n\nLucy caught her cousin’s eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. “Yes,” she said, raising her voice, “I do hope he will.” Then she went to the carriage and murmured, “The old man hasn’t been told; I knew it was all right.” Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away.\n\nSatisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy’s spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses’ hoofs sang a tune to her: “He has not told, he has not told.” Her brain expanded the melody: “He has not told his father—to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone.” She raised her hand to her cheek. “He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did!\nBut he has not told. He will not tell.”\n\nShe longed to shout the words: “It is all right. It’s a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear.” She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded.\n\nOnly three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:\n\n“The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously.”\n\n“How are my protégés?” asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them,\nand had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes." +- "“Protégés!” she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl’s soul yearned.\n\n“You shall see for yourself how your protégés are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don’t—” She nearly said, “Don’t protect him.” But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte.\n\nLunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning,\nwould never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument." - "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE." diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@room_with_a_view.txt.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@room_with_a_view.txt.snap index a87f0a9e..ceeff789 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@room_with_a_view.txt.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__huggingface_trim@room_with_a_view.txt.snap @@ -29,7 +29,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - ROOM WITH A VIEW - "***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]" - A Room With A View -- "By E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS" +- By E. M. Forster +- CONTENTS - "Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini" - Chapter II. - In Santa Croce with No Baedeker @@ -64,7 +65,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants" - Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson - Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages -- "PART ONE\n\n\n\n\nChapter I The Bertolini" +- PART ONE +- Chapter I The Bertolini - “The Signora had no business to do it - ",” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at" - all. @@ -4424,7 +4426,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Go to bed at once, dear." - You need all the rest you can get.” - In the morning they left for Rome. -- "PART TWO\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval" +- PART TWO +- Chapter VIII Medieval - The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had - "been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new" - and deserved protection from the August sun. diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap index 3bcdc978..2f650bcc 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap @@ -5,24 +5,25 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt --- - "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare\n\n" - "This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook.\n\n" -- "Title: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\n" -- "THE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\n" +- "Title: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\n" +- "THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\n" +- "by William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\n" - "ACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n\n" - "ACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n\n" -- "ACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ\n\n" -- "ESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\n" +- "ACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n" +- " Dramatis Personæ\n\nESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\n" - "MONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.\n\n" - "CAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\nGREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\n" -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\nSCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\nTHE PROLOGUE\n\n" -- " Enter Chorus.\n\n" +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\nSCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\n" +- "THE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\n" - "CHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\nThe fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\n" -- "And the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\n" -- "SAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\n" -- "SAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\n" -- "SAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\n" -- "SAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\n" -- "SAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\n" -- "GREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\n" +- "And the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\n" +- "SAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\n" +- "SAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\n" +- "GREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\nSAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\n" +- "GREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\n" +- "SAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\n" - "SAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\n" - "SAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\n" - "GREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\n" @@ -129,7 +130,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "ROMEO.\nAy, so I fear; the more is my unrest.\n\nCAPULET.\nNay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,\nWe have a trifling foolish banquet towards.\nIs it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;\nI thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.\nMore torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.\nAh, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late,\nI’ll to my rest.\n\n" - " [_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nCome hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?\n\nNURSE.\nThe son and heir of old Tiberio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that now is going out of door?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, that I think be young Petruchio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that follows here, that would not dance?\n\nNURSE.\nI know not.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\nJULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\n" -- "NURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\n" +- "NURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\n" - "CHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:\n" - "Being held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\n" - "ROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed.\n\n" @@ -238,7 +240,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot\nWill ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.\nA lover may bestride the gossamers\nThat idles in the wanton summer air\nAnd yet not fall; so light is vanity.\n\nJULIET.\nGood even to my ghostly confessor.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nAs much to him, else is his thanks too much.\n\nROMEO.\nAh, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy\nBe heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue\nUnfold the imagin’d happiness that both\nReceive in either by this dear encounter.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nConceit more rich in matter than in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of ornament.\nThey are but beggars that can count their worth;\nBut my true love is grown to such excess,\nI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n" -- " [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\n" +- " [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\n" - "MERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?\n\n" - "MERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?\n\n" - "MERCUTIO.\nNay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would\nkill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a\nhair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel\nwith a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou\nhast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?\n" @@ -368,7 +371,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "NURSE.\nAnd from my soul too,\nOr else beshrew them both.\n\nJULIET.\nAmen.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat?\n\nJULIET.\nWell, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\nGo in, and tell my lady I am gone,\nHaving displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,\nTo make confession and to be absolv’d.\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, I will; and this is wisely done.\n\n" - " [_Exit._]\n\n" - "JULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\nIf all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n" -- " [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\n" +- " [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\n" - "PARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society.\n" - "Now do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife.\n\nPARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nI will confess to you that I love him.\n\nPARIS.\nSo will ye, I am sure, that you love me.\n\n" @@ -434,7 +438,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "PETER.\nThen have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and\nput up my iron dagger. Answer me like men.\n ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound,\n And doleful dumps the mind oppress,\n Then music with her silver sound’—\nWhy ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you,\nSimon Catling?\n\n" - "FIRST MUSICIAN.\nMarry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.\n\nPETER.\nPrates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck?\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nI say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.\n\nPETER.\nPrates too! What say you, James Soundpost?\n\nTHIRD MUSICIAN.\nFaith, I know not what to say.\n\n" - "PETER.\nO, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is\n‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for\nsounding.\n ‘Then music with her silver sound\n With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!\n\n" -- "SECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\n" +- "SECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\n" - "ROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,\n" - "That I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well.\n\n" - "BALTHASAR.\nThen she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleeps in Capel’s monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you.\nO pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir.\n\n" @@ -502,8 +507,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "PRINCE.\nThis letter doth make good the Friar’s words,\nTheir course of love, the tidings of her death.\nAnd here he writes that he did buy a poison\nOf a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal\nCame to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.\nWhere be these enemies? Capulet, Montague,\nSee what a scourge is laid upon your hate,\nThat heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!\n" - "And I, for winking at your discords too,\nHave lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d.\n\nCAPULET.\nO brother Montague, give me thy hand.\nThis is my daughter’s jointure, for no more\nCan I demand.\n\n" - "MONTAGUE.\nBut I can give thee more,\nFor I will raise her statue in pure gold,\nThat whiles Verona by that name is known,\nThere shall no figure at such rate be set\nAs that of true and faithful Juliet.\n\nCAPULET.\nAs rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie,\nPoor sacrifices of our enmity.\n\n" -- "PRINCE.\nA glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun for sorrow will not show his head.\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things.\nSome shall be pardon’d, and some punished,\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n" -- "Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\n" +- "PRINCE.\nA glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun for sorrow will not show his head.\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things.\nSome shall be pardon’d, and some punished,\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n\n" +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\n" - "Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the\nUnited States without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part\nof this license, apply to copying and distributing Project\nGutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm\n" - "concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,\nand may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following\nthe terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use\nof the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for\ncopies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very\neasy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation\nof derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project\n" - "Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may\ndo practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected\nby U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark\nlicense, especially commercial redistribution.\n\nSTART: FULL LICENSE\n\nTHE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE\nPLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK\n\n" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap index 7951a0cb..3c47aa93 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap @@ -3,28 +3,32 @@ source: tests/text_splitter_snapshots.rs expression: chunks input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt --- -- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook.\n\nTitle: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\nACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n\nACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n\nACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ\n\nESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\nMONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.\n\nCAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\nGREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\nSCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\nTHE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\nThe fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\n" -- "SAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\nSAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\nCAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.\n\n" -- "LADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants.\n\nPRINCE.\nRebellious subjects, enemies to peace,\nProfaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—\nWill they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts,\nThat quench the fire of your pernicious rage\nWith purple fountains issuing from your veins,\nOn pain of torture, from those bloody hands\nThrow your mistemper’d weapons to the ground\nAnd hear the sentence of your moved prince.\nThree civil brawls, bred of an airy word,\nBy thee, old Capulet, and Montague,\nHave thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,\nAnd made Verona’s ancient citizens\nCast by their grave beseeming ornaments,\nTo wield old partisans, in hands as old,\nCanker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.\nIf ever you disturb our streets again,\nYour lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.\nFor this time all the rest depart away:\nYou, Capulet, shall go along with me,\nAnd Montague, come you this afternoon,\nTo know our farther pleasure in this case,\nTo old Free-town, our common judgement-place.\nOnce more, on pain of death, all men depart.\n\n [_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt,\n Citizens and Servants._]\n\nMONTAGUE.\nWho set this ancient quarrel new abroach?\nSpeak, nephew, were you by when it began?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere were the servants of your adversary\nAnd yours, close fighting ere I did approach.\nI drew to part them, in the instant came\nThe fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d,\nWhich, as he breath’d defiance to my ears,\nHe swung about his head, and cut the winds,\nWho nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn.\nWhile we were interchanging thrusts and blows\nCame more and more, and fought on part and part,\nTill the Prince came, who parted either part.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nO where is Romeo, saw you him today?\nRight glad I am he was not at this fray.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMadam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun\nPeer’d forth the golden window of the east,\nA troubled mind drave me to walk abroad,\nWhere underneath the grove of sycamore\nThat westward rooteth from this city side,\nSo early walking did I see your son.\nTowards him I made, but he was ware of me,\nAnd stole into the covert of the wood.\nI, measuring his affections by my own,\nWhich then most sought where most might not be found,\nBeing one too many by my weary self,\nPursu’d my humour, not pursuing his,\nAnd gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nMany a morning hath he there been seen,\nWith tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,\nAdding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;\nBut all so soon as the all-cheering sun\nShould in the farthest east begin to draw\nThe shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,\nAway from light steals home my heavy son,\nAnd private in his chamber pens himself,\nShuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out\nAnd makes himself an artificial night.\nBlack and portentous must this humour prove,\nUnless good counsel may the cause remove.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMy noble uncle, do you know the cause?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI neither know it nor can learn of him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHave you importun’d him by any means?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nBoth by myself and many other friends;\nBut he, his own affections’ counsellor,\nIs to himself—I will not say how true—\nBut to himself so secret and so close,\nSo far from sounding and discovery,\nAs is the bud bit with an envious worm\nEre he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,\nOr dedicate his beauty to the sun.\nCould we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,\nWe would as willingly give cure as know.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSee, where he comes. So please you step aside;\nI’ll know his grievance or be much denied.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI would thou wert so happy by thy stay\nTo hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away,\n\n [_Exeunt Montague and Lady Montague._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGood morrow, cousin.\n\nROMEO.\nIs the day so young?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBut new struck nine.\n\nROMEO.\nAy me, sad hours seem long.\nWas that my father that went hence so fast?\n\n" -- "BENVOLIO.\nIt was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?\n\nROMEO.\nNot having that which, having, makes them short.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nIn love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nOf love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut of her favour where I am in love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAlas that love so gentle in his view,\nShould be so tyrannous and rough in proof.\n\nROMEO.\nAlas that love, whose view is muffled still,\nShould, without eyes, see pathways to his will!\nWhere shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?\nYet tell me not, for I have heard it all.\nHere’s much to do with hate, but more with love:\nWhy, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!\nO anything, of nothing first create!\nO heavy lightness! serious vanity!\nMisshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!\nFeather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!\nStill-waking sleep, that is not what it is!\nThis love feel I, that feel no love in this.\nDost thou not laugh?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nNo coz, I rather weep.\n\nROMEO.\nGood heart, at what?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt thy good heart’s oppression.\n\nROMEO.\nWhy such is love’s transgression.\nGriefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,\nWhich thou wilt propagate to have it prest\nWith more of thine. This love that thou hast shown\nDoth add more grief to too much of mine own.\nLove is a smoke made with the fume of sighs;\nBeing purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;\nBeing vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:\nWhat is it else? A madness most discreet,\nA choking gall, and a preserving sweet.\nFarewell, my coz.\n\n [_Going._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSoft! I will go along:\nAnd if you leave me so, you do me wrong.\n\nROMEO.\nTut! I have lost myself; I am not here.\nThis is not Romeo, he’s some other where.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTell me in sadness who is that you love?\n\nROMEO.\nWhat, shall I groan and tell thee?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGroan! Why, no; but sadly tell me who.\n\nROMEO.\nBid a sick man in sadness make his will,\nA word ill urg’d to one that is so ill.\nIn sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.\n\nROMEO.\nA right good markman, and she’s fair I love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nA right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.\n\nROMEO.\nWell, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit\nWith Cupid’s arrow, she hath Dian’s wit;\nAnd in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,\nFrom love’s weak childish bow she lives uncharm’d.\nShe will not stay the siege of loving terms\nNor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes,\nNor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:\nO she’s rich in beauty, only poor\nThat when she dies, with beauty dies her store.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThen she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?\n\nROMEO.\nShe hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;\nFor beauty starv’d with her severity,\nCuts beauty off from all posterity.\nShe is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair,\nTo merit bliss by making me despair.\nShe hath forsworn to love, and in that vow\nDo I live dead, that live to tell it now.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBe rul’d by me, forget to think of her.\n\nROMEO.\nO teach me how I should forget to think.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy giving liberty unto thine eyes;\nExamine other beauties.\n\nROMEO.\n’Tis the way\nTo call hers, exquisite, in question more.\nThese happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows,\nBeing black, puts us in mind they hide the fair;\nHe that is strucken blind cannot forget\nThe precious treasure of his eyesight lost.\nShow me a mistress that is passing fair,\nWhat doth her beauty serve but as a note\nWhere I may read who pass’d that passing fair?\nFarewell, thou canst not teach me to forget.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Street.\n\n Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant.\n\n" -- "CAPULET.\nBut Montague is bound as well as I,\nIn penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think,\nFor men so old as we to keep the peace.\n\nPARIS.\nOf honourable reckoning are you both,\nAnd pity ’tis you liv’d at odds so long.\nBut now my lord, what say you to my suit?\n\nCAPULET.\nBut saying o’er what I have said before.\nMy child is yet a stranger in the world,\nShe hath not seen the change of fourteen years;\nLet two more summers wither in their pride\nEre we may think her ripe to be a bride.\n\nPARIS.\nYounger than she are happy mothers made.\n\nCAPULET.\nAnd too soon marr’d are those so early made.\nThe earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,\nShe is the hopeful lady of my earth:\nBut woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,\nMy will to her consent is but a part;\nAnd she agree, within her scope of choice\nLies my consent and fair according voice.\nThis night I hold an old accustom’d feast,\nWhereto I have invited many a guest,\nSuch as I love, and you among the store,\nOne more, most welcome, makes my number more.\nAt my poor house look to behold this night\nEarth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:\nSuch comfort as do lusty young men feel\nWhen well apparell’d April on the heel\nOf limping winter treads, even such delight\nAmong fresh female buds shall you this night\nInherit at my house. Hear all, all see,\nAnd like her most whose merit most shall be:\nWhich, on more view of many, mine, being one,\nMay stand in number, though in reckoning none.\nCome, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about\nThrough fair Verona; find those persons out\nWhose names are written there, [_gives a paper_] and to them say,\nMy house and welcome on their pleasure stay.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet and Paris._]\n\nSERVANT.\nFind them out whose names are written here! It is written that the\nshoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the\nfisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to\nfind those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what\nnames the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good\ntime!\n\n Enter Benvolio and Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning,\nOne pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;\nTurn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;\nOne desperate grief cures with another’s languish:\nTake thou some new infection to thy eye,\nAnd the rank poison of the old will die.\n\nROMEO.\nYour plantain leaf is excellent for that.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nFor what, I pray thee?\n\nROMEO.\nFor your broken shin.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy, Romeo, art thou mad?\n\nROMEO.\nNot mad, but bound more than a madman is:\nShut up in prison, kept without my food,\nWhipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.\n\nSERVANT.\nGod gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, mine own fortune in my misery.\n\nSERVANT.\nPerhaps you have learned it without book.\nBut I pray, can you read anything you see?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, If I know the letters and the language.\n\nSERVANT.\nYe say honestly, rest you merry!\n\nROMEO.\nStay, fellow; I can read.\n\n [_He reads the letter._]\n\n_Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;\nCounty Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;\nThe lady widow of Utruvio;\nSignior Placentio and his lovely nieces;\nMercutio and his brother Valentine;\nMine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;\nMy fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\nSignior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt;\nLucio and the lively Helena. _\n\n\nA fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?\n\nSERVANT.\nUp.\n\nROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?\n\nSERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\nROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before.\n\nSERVANT.\nNow I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet,\nand if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a\ncup of wine. Rest you merry.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n" -- "BENVOLIO.\nAt this same ancient feast of Capulet’s\nSups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st;\nWith all the admired beauties of Verona.\nGo thither and with unattainted eye,\nCompare her face with some that I shall show,\nAnd I will make thee think thy swan a crow.\n\nROMEO.\nWhen the devout religion of mine eye\nMaintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire;\nAnd these who, often drown’d, could never die,\nTransparent heretics, be burnt for liars.\nOne fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun\nNe’er saw her match since first the world begun.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, you saw her fair, none else being by,\nHerself pois’d with herself in either eye:\nBut in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d\nYour lady’s love against some other maid\nThat I will show you shining at this feast,\nAnd she shall scant show well that now shows best.\n\nROMEO.\nI’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,\nBut to rejoice in splendour of my own.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me.\n\nNURSE.\nNow, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old,\nI bade her come. What, lamb! What ladybird!\nGod forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet!\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nHow now, who calls?\n\nNURSE.\nYour mother.\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, I am here. What is your will?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThis is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile,\nWe must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again,\nI have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.\nThou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, I can tell her age unto an hour.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nShe’s not fourteen.\n\nNURSE.\nI’ll lay fourteen of my teeth,\nAnd yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,\nShe is not fourteen. How long is it now\nTo Lammas-tide?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA fortnight and odd days.\n\nNURSE.\nEven or odd, of all days in the year,\nCome Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.\nSusan and she,—God rest all Christian souls!—\nWere of an age. Well, Susan is with God;\nShe was too good for me. But as I said,\nOn Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;\nThat shall she, marry; I remember it well.\n’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;\nAnd she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it—,\nOf all the days of the year, upon that day:\nFor I had then laid wormwood to my dug,\nSitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall;\nMy lord and you were then at Mantua:\nNay, I do bear a brain. But as I said,\nWhen it did taste the wormwood on the nipple\nOf my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,\nTo see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug!\nShake, quoth the dovehouse: ’twas no need, I trow,\nTo bid me trudge.\nAnd since that time it is eleven years;\nFor then she could stand alone; nay, by th’rood\nShe could have run and waddled all about;\nFor even the day before she broke her brow,\nAnd then my husband,—God be with his soul!\nA was a merry man,—took up the child:\n‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame,\nThe pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay’.\nTo see now how a jest shall come about.\nI warrant, and I should live a thousand years,\nI never should forget it. ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he;\nAnd, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nEnough of this; I pray thee hold thy peace.\n\n" -- "NURSE.\nYes, madam, yet I cannot choose but laugh,\nTo think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay’;\nAnd yet I warrant it had upon it brow\nA bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone;\nA perilous knock, and it cried bitterly.\n‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted, and said ‘Ay’.\n\nJULIET.\nAnd stint thou too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I.\n\nNURSE.\nPeace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace\nThou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d:\nAnd I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nMarry, that marry is the very theme\nI came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,\nHow stands your disposition to be married?\n\nJULIET.\nIt is an honour that I dream not of.\n\nNURSE.\nAn honour! Were not I thine only nurse,\nI would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, think of marriage now: younger than you,\nHere in Verona, ladies of esteem,\nAre made already mothers. By my count\nI was your mother much upon these years\nThat you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief;\nThe valiant Paris seeks you for his love.\n\nNURSE.\nA man, young lady! Lady, such a man\nAs all the world—why he’s a man of wax.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nVerona’s summer hath not such a flower.\n\nNURSE.\nNay, he’s a flower, in faith a very flower.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat say you, can you love the gentleman?\nThis night you shall behold him at our feast;\nRead o’er the volume of young Paris’ face,\nAnd find delight writ there with beauty’s pen.\nExamine every married lineament,\nAnd see how one another lends content;\nAnd what obscur’d in this fair volume lies,\nFind written in the margent of his eyes.\nThis precious book of love, this unbound lover,\nTo beautify him, only lacks a cover:\nThe fish lives in the sea; and ’tis much pride\nFor fair without the fair within to hide.\nThat book in many’s eyes doth share the glory,\nThat in gold clasps locks in the golden story;\nSo shall you share all that he doth possess,\nBy having him, making yourself no less.\n\nNURSE.\nNo less, nay bigger. Women grow by men.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nSpeak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?\n\nJULIET.\nI’ll look to like, if looking liking move:\nBut no more deep will I endart mine eye\nThan your consent gives strength to make it fly.\n\n Enter a Servant.\n\nSERVANT.\nMadam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady\nasked for, the Nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity.\nI must hence to wait, I beseech you follow straight.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe follow thee.\n\n [_Exit Servant._]\n\nJuliet, the County stays.\n\nNURSE.\nGo, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE IV. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers;\n Torch-bearers and others.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?\nOr shall we on without apology?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThe date is out of such prolixity:\nWe’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf,\nBearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,\nScaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;\nNor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke\nAfter the prompter, for our entrance:\nBut let them measure us by what they will,\nWe’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.\n\nROMEO.\nGive me a torch, I am not for this ambling;\nBeing but heavy I will bear the light.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.\n\nROMEO.\nNot I, believe me, you have dancing shoes,\nWith nimble soles, I have a soul of lead\nSo stakes me to the ground I cannot move.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nYou are a lover, borrow Cupid’s wings,\nAnd soar with them above a common bound.\n\n" -- "ROMEO.\nI am too sore enpierced with his shaft\nTo soar with his light feathers, and so bound,\nI cannot bound a pitch above dull woe.\nUnder love’s heavy burden do I sink.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd, to sink in it, should you burden love;\nToo great oppression for a tender thing.\n\nROMEO.\nIs love a tender thing? It is too rough,\nToo rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be rough with you, be rough with love;\nPrick love for pricking, and you beat love down.\nGive me a case to put my visage in: [_Putting on a mask._]\nA visor for a visor. What care I\nWhat curious eye doth quote deformities?\nHere are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, knock and enter; and no sooner in\nBut every man betake him to his legs.\n\nROMEO.\nA torch for me: let wantons, light of heart,\nTickle the senseless rushes with their heels;\nFor I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase,\nI’ll be a candle-holder and look on,\nThe game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nTut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word:\nIf thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire\nOr save your reverence love, wherein thou stickest\nUp to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho.\n\nROMEO.\nNay, that’s not so.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nI mean sir, in delay\nWe waste our lights in vain, light lights by day.\nTake our good meaning, for our judgment sits\nFive times in that ere once in our five wits.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd we mean well in going to this mask;\nBut ’tis no wit to go.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhy, may one ask?\n\nROMEO.\nI dreamt a dream tonight.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd so did I.\n\nROMEO.\nWell what was yours?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThat dreamers often lie.\n\nROMEO.\nIn bed asleep, while they do dream things true.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.\nShe is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes\nIn shape no bigger than an agate-stone\nOn the fore-finger of an alderman,\nDrawn with a team of little atomies\nOver men’s noses as they lie asleep:\nHer waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs;\nThe cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;\nHer traces, of the smallest spider’s web;\nThe collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams;\nHer whip of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film;\nHer waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,\nNot half so big as a round little worm\nPrick’d from the lazy finger of a maid:\nHer chariot is an empty hazelnut,\nMade by the joiner squirrel or old grub,\nTime out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers.\nAnd in this state she gallops night by night\nThrough lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;\nO’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight;\nO’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees;\nO’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream,\nWhich oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,\nBecause their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:\nSometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,\nAnd then dreams he of smelling out a suit;\nAnd sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail,\nTickling a parson’s nose as a lies asleep,\nThen dreams he of another benefice:\nSometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,\nAnd then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,\nOf breaches, ambuscados, Spanish blades,\nOf healths five fathom deep; and then anon\nDrums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;\nAnd, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,\nAnd sleeps again. This is that very Mab\nThat plats the manes of horses in the night;\nAnd bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,\nWhich, once untangled, much misfortune bodes:\nThis is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,\nThat presses them, and learns them first to bear,\nMaking them women of good carriage:\nThis is she,—\n\nROMEO.\nPeace, peace, Mercutio, peace,\nThou talk’st of nothing.\n\n" -- "MERCUTIO.\nTrue, I talk of dreams,\nWhich are the children of an idle brain,\nBegot of nothing but vain fantasy,\nWhich is as thin of substance as the air,\nAnd more inconstant than the wind, who wooes\nEven now the frozen bosom of the north,\nAnd, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,\nTurning his side to the dew-dropping south.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThis wind you talk of blows us from ourselves:\nSupper is done, and we shall come too late.\n\nROMEO.\nI fear too early: for my mind misgives\nSome consequence yet hanging in the stars,\nShall bitterly begin his fearful date\nWith this night’s revels; and expire the term\nOf a despised life, clos’d in my breast\nBy some vile forfeit of untimely death.\nBut he that hath the steerage of my course\nDirect my suit. On, lusty gentlemen!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nStrike, drum.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Musicians waiting. Enter Servants.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nWhere’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away?\nHe shift a trencher! He scrape a trencher!\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nWhen good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they\nunwash’d too, ’tis a foul thing.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nAway with the join-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the\nplate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and as thou loves me,\nlet the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony and Potpan!\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nAy, boy, ready.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nYou are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the\ngreat chamber.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nWe cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys. Be brisk awhile, and\nthe longer liver take all.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n Enter Capulet, &c. with the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers.\n\nCAPULET.\nWelcome, gentlemen, ladies that have their toes\nUnplagu’d with corns will have a bout with you.\nAh my mistresses, which of you all\nWill now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,\nShe I’ll swear hath corns. Am I come near ye now?\nWelcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day\nThat I have worn a visor, and could tell\nA whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear,\nSuch as would please; ’tis gone, ’tis gone, ’tis gone,\nYou are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.\nA hall, a hall, give room! And foot it, girls.\n\n [_Music plays, and they dance._]\n\nMore light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,\nAnd quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.\nAh sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well.\nNay sit, nay sit, good cousin Capulet,\nFor you and I are past our dancing days;\nHow long is’t now since last yourself and I\nWere in a mask?\n\nCAPULET’S COUSIN.\nBy’r Lady, thirty years.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat, man, ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much:\n’Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,\nCome Pentecost as quickly as it will,\nSome five and twenty years; and then we mask’d.\n\nCAPULET’S COUSIN.\n’Tis more, ’tis more, his son is elder, sir;\nHis son is thirty.\n\nCAPULET.\nWill you tell me that?\nHis son was but a ward two years ago.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat lady is that, which doth enrich the hand\nOf yonder knight?\n\nSERVANT.\nI know not, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nO, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!\nIt seems she hangs upon the cheek of night\nAs a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear;\nBeauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!\nSo shows a snowy dove trooping with crows\nAs yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.\nThe measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand,\nAnd touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.\nDid my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!\nFor I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.\n\n" -- "TYBALT.\nThis by his voice, should be a Montague.\nFetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave\nCome hither, cover’d with an antic face,\nTo fleer and scorn at our solemnity?\nNow by the stock and honour of my kin,\nTo strike him dead I hold it not a sin.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhy how now, kinsman!\nWherefore storm you so?\n\nTYBALT.\nUncle, this is a Montague, our foe;\nA villain that is hither come in spite,\nTo scorn at our solemnity this night.\n\nCAPULET.\nYoung Romeo, is it?\n\nTYBALT.\n’Tis he, that villain Romeo.\n\nCAPULET.\nContent thee, gentle coz, let him alone,\nA bears him like a portly gentleman;\nAnd, to say truth, Verona brags of him\nTo be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth.\nI would not for the wealth of all the town\nHere in my house do him disparagement.\nTherefore be patient, take no note of him,\nIt is my will; the which if thou respect,\nShow a fair presence and put off these frowns,\nAn ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.\n\nTYBALT.\nIt fits when such a villain is a guest:\nI’ll not endure him.\n\nCAPULET.\nHe shall be endur’d.\nWhat, goodman boy! I say he shall, go to;\nAm I the master here, or you? Go to.\nYou’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul,\nYou’ll make a mutiny among my guests!\nYou will set cock-a-hoop, you’ll be the man!\n\nTYBALT.\nWhy, uncle, ’tis a shame.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo to, go to!\nYou are a saucy boy. Is’t so, indeed?\nThis trick may chance to scathe you, I know what.\nYou must contrary me! Marry, ’tis time.\nWell said, my hearts!—You are a princox; go:\nBe quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame!\nI’ll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts.\n\nTYBALT.\nPatience perforce with wilful choler meeting\nMakes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.\nI will withdraw: but this intrusion shall,\nNow seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\n[_To Juliet._] If I profane with my unworthiest hand\nThis holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,\nMy lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand\nTo smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.\n\nJULIET.\nGood pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,\nWhich mannerly devotion shows in this;\nFor saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,\nAnd palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.\n\nROMEO.\nHave not saints lips, and holy palmers too?\n\nJULIET.\nAy, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.\n\nROMEO.\nO, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do:\nThey pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.\n\nJULIET.\nSaints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.\n\nROMEO.\nThen move not while my prayer’s effect I take.\nThus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg’d.\n[_Kissing her._]\n\nJULIET.\nThen have my lips the sin that they have took.\n\nROMEO.\nSin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d!\nGive me my sin again.\n\nJULIET.\nYou kiss by the book.\n\nNURSE.\nMadam, your mother craves a word with you.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat is her mother?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, bachelor,\nHer mother is the lady of the house,\nAnd a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.\nI nurs’d her daughter that you talk’d withal.\nI tell you, he that can lay hold of her\nShall have the chinks.\n\nROMEO.\nIs she a Capulet?\nO dear account! My life is my foe’s debt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAway, be gone; the sport is at the best.\n\nROMEO.\nAy, so I fear; the more is my unrest.\n\nCAPULET.\nNay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,\nWe have a trifling foolish banquet towards.\nIs it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;\nI thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.\nMore torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.\nAh, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late,\nI’ll to my rest.\n\n [_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._]\n\n" -- "JULIET.\nCome hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?\n\nNURSE.\nThe son and heir of old Tiberio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that now is going out of door?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, that I think be young Petruchio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that follows here, that would not dance?\n\nNURSE.\nI know not.\n\nJULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\nJULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:\nBeing held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHe ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:\nCall, good Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, I’ll conjure too.\nRomeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover!\nAppear thou in the likeness of a sigh,\nSpeak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;\nCry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove;\nSpeak to my gossip Venus one fair word,\nOne nickname for her purblind son and heir,\nYoung Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim\nWhen King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.\nHe heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;\nThe ape is dead, and I must conjure him.\nI conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,\nBy her high forehead and her scarlet lip,\nBy her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,\nAnd the demesnes that there adjacent lie,\nThat in thy likeness thou appear to us.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAn if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThis cannot anger him. ’Twould anger him\nTo raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle,\nOf some strange nature, letting it there stand\nTill she had laid it, and conjur’d it down;\nThat were some spite. My invocation\nIs fair and honest, and, in his mistress’ name,\nI conjure only but to raise up him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, he hath hid himself among these trees\nTo be consorted with the humorous night.\nBlind is his love, and best befits the dark.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.\nNow will he sit under a medlar tree,\nAnd wish his mistress were that kind of fruit\nAs maids call medlars when they laugh alone.\nO Romeo, that she were, O that she were\nAn open-arse and thou a poperin pear!\nRomeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle-bed.\nThis field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.\nCome, shall we go?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGo then; for ’tis in vain\nTo seek him here that means not to be found.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n" -- "SCENE II. Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nHe jests at scars that never felt a wound.\n\n Juliet appears above at a window.\n\nBut soft, what light through yonder window breaks?\nIt is the east, and Juliet is the sun!\nArise fair sun and kill the envious moon,\nWho is already sick and pale with grief,\nThat thou her maid art far more fair than she.\nBe not her maid since she is envious;\nHer vestal livery is but sick and green,\nAnd none but fools do wear it; cast it off.\nIt is my lady, O it is my love!\nO, that she knew she were!\nShe speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?\nHer eye discourses, I will answer it.\nI am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks.\nTwo of the fairest stars in all the heaven,\nHaving some business, do entreat her eyes\nTo twinkle in their spheres till they return.\nWhat if her eyes were there, they in her head?\nThe brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,\nAs daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven\nWould through the airy region stream so bright\nThat birds would sing and think it were not night.\nSee how she leans her cheek upon her hand.\nO that I were a glove upon that hand,\nThat I might touch that cheek.\n\nJULIET.\nAy me.\n\nROMEO.\nShe speaks.\nO speak again bright angel, for thou art\nAs glorious to this night, being o’er my head,\nAs is a winged messenger of heaven\nUnto the white-upturned wondering eyes\nOf mortals that fall back to gaze on him\nWhen he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds\nAnd sails upon the bosom of the air.\n\nJULIET.\nO Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?\nDeny thy father and refuse thy name.\nOr if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,\nAnd I’ll no longer be a Capulet.\n\nROMEO.\n[_Aside._] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?\n\nJULIET.\n’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;\nThou art thyself, though not a Montague.\nWhat’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot,\nNor arm, nor face, nor any other part\nBelonging to a man. O be some other name.\nWhat’s in a name? That which we call a rose\nBy any other name would smell as sweet;\nSo Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,\nRetain that dear perfection which he owes\nWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,\nAnd for thy name, which is no part of thee,\nTake all myself.\n\nROMEO.\nI take thee at thy word.\nCall me but love, and I’ll be new baptis’d;\nHenceforth I never will be Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat man art thou that, thus bescreen’d in night\nSo stumblest on my counsel?\n\nROMEO.\nBy a name\nI know not how to tell thee who I am:\nMy name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,\nBecause it is an enemy to thee.\nHad I it written, I would tear the word.\n\nJULIET.\nMy ears have yet not drunk a hundred words\nOf thy tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound.\nArt thou not Romeo, and a Montague?\n\nROMEO.\nNeither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.\n\nJULIET.\nHow cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?\nThe orchard walls are high and hard to climb,\nAnd the place death, considering who thou art,\nIf any of my kinsmen find thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nWith love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls,\nFor stony limits cannot hold love out,\nAnd what love can do, that dares love attempt:\nTherefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf they do see thee, they will murder thee.\n\nROMEO.\nAlack, there lies more peril in thine eye\nThan twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet,\nAnd I am proof against their enmity.\n\nJULIET.\nI would not for the world they saw thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nI have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes,\nAnd but thou love me, let them find me here.\nMy life were better ended by their hate\nThan death prorogued, wanting of thy love.\n\nJULIET.\nBy whose direction found’st thou out this place?\n\n" -- "ROMEO.\nBy love, that first did prompt me to enquire;\nHe lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.\nI am no pilot; yet wert thou as far\nAs that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea,\nI should adventure for such merchandise.\n\nJULIET.\nThou knowest the mask of night is on my face,\nElse would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek\nFor that which thou hast heard me speak tonight.\nFain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny\nWhat I have spoke; but farewell compliment.\nDost thou love me? I know thou wilt say Ay,\nAnd I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear’st,\nThou mayst prove false. At lovers’ perjuries,\nThey say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,\nIf thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.\nOr if thou thinkest I am too quickly won,\nI’ll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay,\nSo thou wilt woo. But else, not for the world.\nIn truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;\nAnd therefore thou mayst think my ’haviour light:\nBut trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true\nThan those that have more cunning to be strange.\nI should have been more strange, I must confess,\nBut that thou overheard’st, ere I was ’ware,\nMy true-love passion; therefore pardon me,\nAnd not impute this yielding to light love,\nWhich the dark night hath so discovered.\n\nROMEO.\nLady, by yonder blessed moon I vow,\nThat tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,—\n\nJULIET.\nO swear not by the moon, th’inconstant moon,\nThat monthly changes in her circled orb,\nLest that thy love prove likewise variable.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat shall I swear by?\n\nJULIET.\nDo not swear at all.\nOr if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,\nWhich is the god of my idolatry,\nAnd I’ll believe thee.\n\nROMEO.\nIf my heart’s dear love,—\n\nJULIET.\nWell, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,\nI have no joy of this contract tonight;\nIt is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden,\nToo like the lightning, which doth cease to be\nEre one can say It lightens. Sweet, good night.\nThis bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,\nMay prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.\nGood night, good night. As sweet repose and rest\nCome to thy heart as that within my breast.\n\nROMEO.\nO wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?\n\nJULIET.\nWhat satisfaction canst thou have tonight?\n\nROMEO.\nTh’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.\n\nJULIET.\nI gave thee mine before thou didst request it;\nAnd yet I would it were to give again.\n\nROMEO.\nWould’st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?\n\nJULIET.\nBut to be frank and give it thee again.\nAnd yet I wish but for the thing I have;\nMy bounty is as boundless as the sea,\nMy love as deep; the more I give to thee,\nThe more I have, for both are infinite.\nI hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu.\n[_Nurse calls within._]\nAnon, good Nurse!—Sweet Montague be true.\nStay but a little, I will come again.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nO blessed, blessed night. I am afeard,\nBeing in night, all this is but a dream,\nToo flattering sweet to be substantial.\n\n Enter Juliet above.\n\nJULIET.\nThree words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.\nIf that thy bent of love be honourable,\nThy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow,\nBy one that I’ll procure to come to thee,\nWhere and what time thou wilt perform the rite,\nAnd all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay\nAnd follow thee my lord throughout the world.\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Madam.\n\nJULIET.\nI come, anon.— But if thou meanest not well,\nI do beseech thee,—\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Madam.\n\nJULIET.\nBy and by I come—\nTo cease thy strife and leave me to my grief.\nTomorrow will I send.\n\nROMEO.\nSo thrive my soul,—\n\nJULIET.\nA thousand times good night.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nA thousand times the worse, to want thy light.\nLove goes toward love as schoolboys from their books,\nBut love from love, towards school with heavy looks.\n\n [_Retiring slowly._]\n\n Re-enter Juliet, above.\n\n" +- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook.\n\nTitle: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\nACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n\nACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n\nACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n" +- " Dramatis Personæ\n\nESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\nMONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.\n\nCAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\nGREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\nSCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\nTHE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\nThe fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\nSAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\n" +- "CAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants.\n\nPRINCE.\nRebellious subjects, enemies to peace,\nProfaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—\nWill they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts,\nThat quench the fire of your pernicious rage\nWith purple fountains issuing from your veins,\nOn pain of torture, from those bloody hands\nThrow your mistemper’d weapons to the ground\nAnd hear the sentence of your moved prince.\nThree civil brawls, bred of an airy word,\nBy thee, old Capulet, and Montague,\nHave thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,\nAnd made Verona’s ancient citizens\nCast by their grave beseeming ornaments,\nTo wield old partisans, in hands as old,\nCanker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.\nIf ever you disturb our streets again,\nYour lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.\nFor this time all the rest depart away:\nYou, Capulet, shall go along with me,\nAnd Montague, come you this afternoon,\nTo know our farther pleasure in this case,\nTo old Free-town, our common judgement-place.\nOnce more, on pain of death, all men depart.\n\n [_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt,\n Citizens and Servants._]\n\nMONTAGUE.\nWho set this ancient quarrel new abroach?\nSpeak, nephew, were you by when it began?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere were the servants of your adversary\nAnd yours, close fighting ere I did approach.\nI drew to part them, in the instant came\nThe fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d,\nWhich, as he breath’d defiance to my ears,\nHe swung about his head, and cut the winds,\nWho nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn.\nWhile we were interchanging thrusts and blows\nCame more and more, and fought on part and part,\nTill the Prince came, who parted either part.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nO where is Romeo, saw you him today?\nRight glad I am he was not at this fray.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMadam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun\nPeer’d forth the golden window of the east,\nA troubled mind drave me to walk abroad,\nWhere underneath the grove of sycamore\nThat westward rooteth from this city side,\nSo early walking did I see your son.\nTowards him I made, but he was ware of me,\nAnd stole into the covert of the wood.\nI, measuring his affections by my own,\nWhich then most sought where most might not be found,\nBeing one too many by my weary self,\nPursu’d my humour, not pursuing his,\nAnd gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nMany a morning hath he there been seen,\nWith tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,\nAdding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;\nBut all so soon as the all-cheering sun\nShould in the farthest east begin to draw\nThe shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,\nAway from light steals home my heavy son,\nAnd private in his chamber pens himself,\nShuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out\nAnd makes himself an artificial night.\nBlack and portentous must this humour prove,\nUnless good counsel may the cause remove.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMy noble uncle, do you know the cause?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI neither know it nor can learn of him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHave you importun’d him by any means?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nBoth by myself and many other friends;\nBut he, his own affections’ counsellor,\nIs to himself—I will not say how true—\nBut to himself so secret and so close,\nSo far from sounding and discovery,\nAs is the bud bit with an envious worm\nEre he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,\nOr dedicate his beauty to the sun.\nCould we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,\nWe would as willingly give cure as know.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSee, where he comes. So please you step aside;\nI’ll know his grievance or be much denied.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI would thou wert so happy by thy stay\nTo hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away,\n\n" +- " [_Exeunt Montague and Lady Montague._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGood morrow, cousin.\n\nROMEO.\nIs the day so young?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBut new struck nine.\n\nROMEO.\nAy me, sad hours seem long.\nWas that my father that went hence so fast?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nIt was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?\n\nROMEO.\nNot having that which, having, makes them short.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nIn love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nOf love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut of her favour where I am in love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAlas that love so gentle in his view,\nShould be so tyrannous and rough in proof.\n\nROMEO.\nAlas that love, whose view is muffled still,\nShould, without eyes, see pathways to his will!\nWhere shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?\nYet tell me not, for I have heard it all.\nHere’s much to do with hate, but more with love:\nWhy, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!\nO anything, of nothing first create!\nO heavy lightness! serious vanity!\nMisshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!\nFeather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!\nStill-waking sleep, that is not what it is!\nThis love feel I, that feel no love in this.\nDost thou not laugh?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nNo coz, I rather weep.\n\nROMEO.\nGood heart, at what?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt thy good heart’s oppression.\n\nROMEO.\nWhy such is love’s transgression.\nGriefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,\nWhich thou wilt propagate to have it prest\nWith more of thine. This love that thou hast shown\nDoth add more grief to too much of mine own.\nLove is a smoke made with the fume of sighs;\nBeing purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;\nBeing vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:\nWhat is it else? A madness most discreet,\nA choking gall, and a preserving sweet.\nFarewell, my coz.\n\n [_Going._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSoft! I will go along:\nAnd if you leave me so, you do me wrong.\n\nROMEO.\nTut! I have lost myself; I am not here.\nThis is not Romeo, he’s some other where.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTell me in sadness who is that you love?\n\nROMEO.\nWhat, shall I groan and tell thee?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGroan! Why, no; but sadly tell me who.\n\nROMEO.\nBid a sick man in sadness make his will,\nA word ill urg’d to one that is so ill.\nIn sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.\n\nROMEO.\nA right good markman, and she’s fair I love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nA right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.\n\nROMEO.\nWell, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit\nWith Cupid’s arrow, she hath Dian’s wit;\nAnd in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,\nFrom love’s weak childish bow she lives uncharm’d.\nShe will not stay the siege of loving terms\nNor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes,\nNor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:\nO she’s rich in beauty, only poor\nThat when she dies, with beauty dies her store.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThen she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?\n\nROMEO.\nShe hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;\nFor beauty starv’d with her severity,\nCuts beauty off from all posterity.\nShe is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair,\nTo merit bliss by making me despair.\nShe hath forsworn to love, and in that vow\nDo I live dead, that live to tell it now.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBe rul’d by me, forget to think of her.\n\nROMEO.\nO teach me how I should forget to think.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy giving liberty unto thine eyes;\nExamine other beauties.\n\n" +- "ROMEO.\n’Tis the way\nTo call hers, exquisite, in question more.\nThese happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows,\nBeing black, puts us in mind they hide the fair;\nHe that is strucken blind cannot forget\nThe precious treasure of his eyesight lost.\nShow me a mistress that is passing fair,\nWhat doth her beauty serve but as a note\nWhere I may read who pass’d that passing fair?\nFarewell, thou canst not teach me to forget.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Street.\n\n Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant.\n\nCAPULET.\nBut Montague is bound as well as I,\nIn penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think,\nFor men so old as we to keep the peace.\n\nPARIS.\nOf honourable reckoning are you both,\nAnd pity ’tis you liv’d at odds so long.\nBut now my lord, what say you to my suit?\n\nCAPULET.\nBut saying o’er what I have said before.\nMy child is yet a stranger in the world,\nShe hath not seen the change of fourteen years;\nLet two more summers wither in their pride\nEre we may think her ripe to be a bride.\n\nPARIS.\nYounger than she are happy mothers made.\n\nCAPULET.\nAnd too soon marr’d are those so early made.\nThe earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,\nShe is the hopeful lady of my earth:\nBut woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,\nMy will to her consent is but a part;\nAnd she agree, within her scope of choice\nLies my consent and fair according voice.\nThis night I hold an old accustom’d feast,\nWhereto I have invited many a guest,\nSuch as I love, and you among the store,\nOne more, most welcome, makes my number more.\nAt my poor house look to behold this night\nEarth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:\nSuch comfort as do lusty young men feel\nWhen well apparell’d April on the heel\nOf limping winter treads, even such delight\nAmong fresh female buds shall you this night\nInherit at my house. Hear all, all see,\nAnd like her most whose merit most shall be:\nWhich, on more view of many, mine, being one,\nMay stand in number, though in reckoning none.\nCome, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about\nThrough fair Verona; find those persons out\nWhose names are written there, [_gives a paper_] and to them say,\nMy house and welcome on their pleasure stay.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet and Paris._]\n\nSERVANT.\nFind them out whose names are written here! It is written that the\nshoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the\nfisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to\nfind those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what\nnames the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good\ntime!\n\n Enter Benvolio and Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning,\nOne pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;\nTurn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;\nOne desperate grief cures with another’s languish:\nTake thou some new infection to thy eye,\nAnd the rank poison of the old will die.\n\nROMEO.\nYour plantain leaf is excellent for that.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nFor what, I pray thee?\n\nROMEO.\nFor your broken shin.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy, Romeo, art thou mad?\n\nROMEO.\nNot mad, but bound more than a madman is:\nShut up in prison, kept without my food,\nWhipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.\n\nSERVANT.\nGod gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, mine own fortune in my misery.\n\nSERVANT.\nPerhaps you have learned it without book.\nBut I pray, can you read anything you see?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, If I know the letters and the language.\n\nSERVANT.\nYe say honestly, rest you merry!\n\nROMEO.\nStay, fellow; I can read.\n\n [_He reads the letter._]\n\n" +- "_Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;\nCounty Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;\nThe lady widow of Utruvio;\nSignior Placentio and his lovely nieces;\nMercutio and his brother Valentine;\nMine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;\nMy fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\nSignior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt;\nLucio and the lively Helena. _\n\n\n" +- "A fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?\n\nSERVANT.\nUp.\n\nROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?\n\nSERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\nROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before.\n\nSERVANT.\nNow I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet,\nand if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a\ncup of wine. Rest you merry.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt this same ancient feast of Capulet’s\nSups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st;\nWith all the admired beauties of Verona.\nGo thither and with unattainted eye,\nCompare her face with some that I shall show,\nAnd I will make thee think thy swan a crow.\n\nROMEO.\nWhen the devout religion of mine eye\nMaintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire;\nAnd these who, often drown’d, could never die,\nTransparent heretics, be burnt for liars.\nOne fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun\nNe’er saw her match since first the world begun.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, you saw her fair, none else being by,\nHerself pois’d with herself in either eye:\nBut in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d\nYour lady’s love against some other maid\nThat I will show you shining at this feast,\nAnd she shall scant show well that now shows best.\n\nROMEO.\nI’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,\nBut to rejoice in splendour of my own.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me.\n\nNURSE.\nNow, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old,\nI bade her come. What, lamb! What ladybird!\nGod forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet!\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nHow now, who calls?\n\nNURSE.\nYour mother.\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, I am here. What is your will?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThis is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile,\nWe must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again,\nI have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.\nThou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, I can tell her age unto an hour.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nShe’s not fourteen.\n\nNURSE.\nI’ll lay fourteen of my teeth,\nAnd yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,\nShe is not fourteen. How long is it now\nTo Lammas-tide?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA fortnight and odd days.\n\n" +- "NURSE.\nEven or odd, of all days in the year,\nCome Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.\nSusan and she,—God rest all Christian souls!—\nWere of an age. Well, Susan is with God;\nShe was too good for me. But as I said,\nOn Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;\nThat shall she, marry; I remember it well.\n’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;\nAnd she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it—,\nOf all the days of the year, upon that day:\nFor I had then laid wormwood to my dug,\nSitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall;\nMy lord and you were then at Mantua:\nNay, I do bear a brain. But as I said,\nWhen it did taste the wormwood on the nipple\nOf my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,\nTo see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug!\nShake, quoth the dovehouse: ’twas no need, I trow,\nTo bid me trudge.\nAnd since that time it is eleven years;\nFor then she could stand alone; nay, by th’rood\nShe could have run and waddled all about;\nFor even the day before she broke her brow,\nAnd then my husband,—God be with his soul!\nA was a merry man,—took up the child:\n‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame,\nThe pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay’.\nTo see now how a jest shall come about.\nI warrant, and I should live a thousand years,\nI never should forget it. ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he;\nAnd, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nEnough of this; I pray thee hold thy peace.\n\nNURSE.\nYes, madam, yet I cannot choose but laugh,\nTo think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay’;\nAnd yet I warrant it had upon it brow\nA bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone;\nA perilous knock, and it cried bitterly.\n‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted, and said ‘Ay’.\n\nJULIET.\nAnd stint thou too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I.\n\nNURSE.\nPeace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace\nThou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d:\nAnd I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nMarry, that marry is the very theme\nI came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,\nHow stands your disposition to be married?\n\nJULIET.\nIt is an honour that I dream not of.\n\nNURSE.\nAn honour! Were not I thine only nurse,\nI would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, think of marriage now: younger than you,\nHere in Verona, ladies of esteem,\nAre made already mothers. By my count\nI was your mother much upon these years\nThat you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief;\nThe valiant Paris seeks you for his love.\n\nNURSE.\nA man, young lady! Lady, such a man\nAs all the world—why he’s a man of wax.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nVerona’s summer hath not such a flower.\n\nNURSE.\nNay, he’s a flower, in faith a very flower.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat say you, can you love the gentleman?\nThis night you shall behold him at our feast;\nRead o’er the volume of young Paris’ face,\nAnd find delight writ there with beauty’s pen.\nExamine every married lineament,\nAnd see how one another lends content;\nAnd what obscur’d in this fair volume lies,\nFind written in the margent of his eyes.\nThis precious book of love, this unbound lover,\nTo beautify him, only lacks a cover:\nThe fish lives in the sea; and ’tis much pride\nFor fair without the fair within to hide.\nThat book in many’s eyes doth share the glory,\nThat in gold clasps locks in the golden story;\nSo shall you share all that he doth possess,\nBy having him, making yourself no less.\n\nNURSE.\nNo less, nay bigger. Women grow by men.\n\n" +- "LADY CAPULET.\nSpeak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?\n\nJULIET.\nI’ll look to like, if looking liking move:\nBut no more deep will I endart mine eye\nThan your consent gives strength to make it fly.\n\n Enter a Servant.\n\nSERVANT.\nMadam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady\nasked for, the Nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity.\nI must hence to wait, I beseech you follow straight.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe follow thee.\n\n [_Exit Servant._]\n\nJuliet, the County stays.\n\nNURSE.\nGo, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE IV. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers;\n Torch-bearers and others.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?\nOr shall we on without apology?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThe date is out of such prolixity:\nWe’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf,\nBearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,\nScaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;\nNor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke\nAfter the prompter, for our entrance:\nBut let them measure us by what they will,\nWe’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.\n\nROMEO.\nGive me a torch, I am not for this ambling;\nBeing but heavy I will bear the light.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.\n\nROMEO.\nNot I, believe me, you have dancing shoes,\nWith nimble soles, I have a soul of lead\nSo stakes me to the ground I cannot move.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nYou are a lover, borrow Cupid’s wings,\nAnd soar with them above a common bound.\n\nROMEO.\nI am too sore enpierced with his shaft\nTo soar with his light feathers, and so bound,\nI cannot bound a pitch above dull woe.\nUnder love’s heavy burden do I sink.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd, to sink in it, should you burden love;\nToo great oppression for a tender thing.\n\nROMEO.\nIs love a tender thing? It is too rough,\nToo rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be rough with you, be rough with love;\nPrick love for pricking, and you beat love down.\nGive me a case to put my visage in: [_Putting on a mask._]\nA visor for a visor. What care I\nWhat curious eye doth quote deformities?\nHere are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, knock and enter; and no sooner in\nBut every man betake him to his legs.\n\nROMEO.\nA torch for me: let wantons, light of heart,\nTickle the senseless rushes with their heels;\nFor I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase,\nI’ll be a candle-holder and look on,\nThe game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nTut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word:\nIf thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire\nOr save your reverence love, wherein thou stickest\nUp to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho.\n\nROMEO.\nNay, that’s not so.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nI mean sir, in delay\nWe waste our lights in vain, light lights by day.\nTake our good meaning, for our judgment sits\nFive times in that ere once in our five wits.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd we mean well in going to this mask;\nBut ’tis no wit to go.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhy, may one ask?\n\nROMEO.\nI dreamt a dream tonight.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd so did I.\n\nROMEO.\nWell what was yours?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThat dreamers often lie.\n\nROMEO.\nIn bed asleep, while they do dream things true.\n\n" +- "MERCUTIO.\nO, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.\nShe is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes\nIn shape no bigger than an agate-stone\nOn the fore-finger of an alderman,\nDrawn with a team of little atomies\nOver men’s noses as they lie asleep:\nHer waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs;\nThe cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;\nHer traces, of the smallest spider’s web;\nThe collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams;\nHer whip of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film;\nHer waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,\nNot half so big as a round little worm\nPrick’d from the lazy finger of a maid:\nHer chariot is an empty hazelnut,\nMade by the joiner squirrel or old grub,\nTime out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers.\nAnd in this state she gallops night by night\nThrough lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;\nO’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight;\nO’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees;\nO’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream,\nWhich oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,\nBecause their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:\nSometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,\nAnd then dreams he of smelling out a suit;\nAnd sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail,\nTickling a parson’s nose as a lies asleep,\nThen dreams he of another benefice:\nSometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,\nAnd then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,\nOf breaches, ambuscados, Spanish blades,\nOf healths five fathom deep; and then anon\nDrums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;\nAnd, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,\nAnd sleeps again. This is that very Mab\nThat plats the manes of horses in the night;\nAnd bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,\nWhich, once untangled, much misfortune bodes:\nThis is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,\nThat presses them, and learns them first to bear,\nMaking them women of good carriage:\nThis is she,—\n\nROMEO.\nPeace, peace, Mercutio, peace,\nThou talk’st of nothing.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nTrue, I talk of dreams,\nWhich are the children of an idle brain,\nBegot of nothing but vain fantasy,\nWhich is as thin of substance as the air,\nAnd more inconstant than the wind, who wooes\nEven now the frozen bosom of the north,\nAnd, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,\nTurning his side to the dew-dropping south.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThis wind you talk of blows us from ourselves:\nSupper is done, and we shall come too late.\n\nROMEO.\nI fear too early: for my mind misgives\nSome consequence yet hanging in the stars,\nShall bitterly begin his fearful date\nWith this night’s revels; and expire the term\nOf a despised life, clos’d in my breast\nBy some vile forfeit of untimely death.\nBut he that hath the steerage of my course\nDirect my suit. On, lusty gentlemen!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nStrike, drum.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Musicians waiting. Enter Servants.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nWhere’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away?\nHe shift a trencher! He scrape a trencher!\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nWhen good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they\nunwash’d too, ’tis a foul thing.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nAway with the join-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the\nplate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and as thou loves me,\nlet the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony and Potpan!\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nAy, boy, ready.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nYou are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the\ngreat chamber.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nWe cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys. Be brisk awhile, and\nthe longer liver take all.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n Enter Capulet, &c. with the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers.\n\n" +- "CAPULET.\nWelcome, gentlemen, ladies that have their toes\nUnplagu’d with corns will have a bout with you.\nAh my mistresses, which of you all\nWill now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,\nShe I’ll swear hath corns. Am I come near ye now?\nWelcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day\nThat I have worn a visor, and could tell\nA whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear,\nSuch as would please; ’tis gone, ’tis gone, ’tis gone,\nYou are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.\nA hall, a hall, give room! And foot it, girls.\n\n [_Music plays, and they dance._]\n\nMore light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,\nAnd quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.\nAh sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well.\nNay sit, nay sit, good cousin Capulet,\nFor you and I are past our dancing days;\nHow long is’t now since last yourself and I\nWere in a mask?\n\nCAPULET’S COUSIN.\nBy’r Lady, thirty years.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat, man, ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much:\n’Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,\nCome Pentecost as quickly as it will,\nSome five and twenty years; and then we mask’d.\n\nCAPULET’S COUSIN.\n’Tis more, ’tis more, his son is elder, sir;\nHis son is thirty.\n\nCAPULET.\nWill you tell me that?\nHis son was but a ward two years ago.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat lady is that, which doth enrich the hand\nOf yonder knight?\n\nSERVANT.\nI know not, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nO, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!\nIt seems she hangs upon the cheek of night\nAs a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear;\nBeauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!\nSo shows a snowy dove trooping with crows\nAs yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.\nThe measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand,\nAnd touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.\nDid my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!\nFor I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.\n\nTYBALT.\nThis by his voice, should be a Montague.\nFetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave\nCome hither, cover’d with an antic face,\nTo fleer and scorn at our solemnity?\nNow by the stock and honour of my kin,\nTo strike him dead I hold it not a sin.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhy how now, kinsman!\nWherefore storm you so?\n\nTYBALT.\nUncle, this is a Montague, our foe;\nA villain that is hither come in spite,\nTo scorn at our solemnity this night.\n\nCAPULET.\nYoung Romeo, is it?\n\nTYBALT.\n’Tis he, that villain Romeo.\n\nCAPULET.\nContent thee, gentle coz, let him alone,\nA bears him like a portly gentleman;\nAnd, to say truth, Verona brags of him\nTo be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth.\nI would not for the wealth of all the town\nHere in my house do him disparagement.\nTherefore be patient, take no note of him,\nIt is my will; the which if thou respect,\nShow a fair presence and put off these frowns,\nAn ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.\n\nTYBALT.\nIt fits when such a villain is a guest:\nI’ll not endure him.\n\nCAPULET.\nHe shall be endur’d.\nWhat, goodman boy! I say he shall, go to;\nAm I the master here, or you? Go to.\nYou’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul,\nYou’ll make a mutiny among my guests!\nYou will set cock-a-hoop, you’ll be the man!\n\nTYBALT.\nWhy, uncle, ’tis a shame.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo to, go to!\nYou are a saucy boy. Is’t so, indeed?\nThis trick may chance to scathe you, I know what.\nYou must contrary me! Marry, ’tis time.\nWell said, my hearts!—You are a princox; go:\nBe quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame!\nI’ll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts.\n\n" +- "TYBALT.\nPatience perforce with wilful choler meeting\nMakes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.\nI will withdraw: but this intrusion shall,\nNow seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\n[_To Juliet._] If I profane with my unworthiest hand\nThis holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,\nMy lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand\nTo smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.\n\nJULIET.\nGood pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,\nWhich mannerly devotion shows in this;\nFor saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,\nAnd palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.\n\nROMEO.\nHave not saints lips, and holy palmers too?\n\nJULIET.\nAy, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.\n\nROMEO.\nO, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do:\nThey pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.\n\nJULIET.\nSaints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.\n\nROMEO.\nThen move not while my prayer’s effect I take.\nThus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg’d.\n[_Kissing her._]\n\nJULIET.\nThen have my lips the sin that they have took.\n\nROMEO.\nSin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d!\nGive me my sin again.\n\nJULIET.\nYou kiss by the book.\n\nNURSE.\nMadam, your mother craves a word with you.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat is her mother?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, bachelor,\nHer mother is the lady of the house,\nAnd a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.\nI nurs’d her daughter that you talk’d withal.\nI tell you, he that can lay hold of her\nShall have the chinks.\n\nROMEO.\nIs she a Capulet?\nO dear account! My life is my foe’s debt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAway, be gone; the sport is at the best.\n\nROMEO.\nAy, so I fear; the more is my unrest.\n\nCAPULET.\nNay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,\nWe have a trifling foolish banquet towards.\nIs it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;\nI thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.\nMore torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.\nAh, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late,\nI’ll to my rest.\n\n [_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nCome hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?\n\nNURSE.\nThe son and heir of old Tiberio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that now is going out of door?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, that I think be young Petruchio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that follows here, that would not dance?\n\nNURSE.\nI know not.\n\nJULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\nJULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:\nBeing held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHe ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:\nCall, good Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, I’ll conjure too.\nRomeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover!\nAppear thou in the likeness of a sigh,\nSpeak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;\nCry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove;\nSpeak to my gossip Venus one fair word,\nOne nickname for her purblind son and heir,\nYoung Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim\nWhen King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.\nHe heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;\nThe ape is dead, and I must conjure him.\nI conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,\nBy her high forehead and her scarlet lip,\nBy her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,\nAnd the demesnes that there adjacent lie,\nThat in thy likeness thou appear to us.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAn if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThis cannot anger him. ’Twould anger him\nTo raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle,\nOf some strange nature, letting it there stand\nTill she had laid it, and conjur’d it down;\nThat were some spite. My invocation\nIs fair and honest, and, in his mistress’ name,\nI conjure only but to raise up him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, he hath hid himself among these trees\nTo be consorted with the humorous night.\nBlind is his love, and best befits the dark.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.\nNow will he sit under a medlar tree,\nAnd wish his mistress were that kind of fruit\nAs maids call medlars when they laugh alone.\nO Romeo, that she were, O that she were\nAn open-arse and thou a poperin pear!\nRomeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle-bed.\nThis field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.\nCome, shall we go?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGo then; for ’tis in vain\nTo seek him here that means not to be found.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nHe jests at scars that never felt a wound.\n\n Juliet appears above at a window.\n\n" +- "But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?\nIt is the east, and Juliet is the sun!\nArise fair sun and kill the envious moon,\nWho is already sick and pale with grief,\nThat thou her maid art far more fair than she.\nBe not her maid since she is envious;\nHer vestal livery is but sick and green,\nAnd none but fools do wear it; cast it off.\nIt is my lady, O it is my love!\nO, that she knew she were!\nShe speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?\nHer eye discourses, I will answer it.\nI am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks.\nTwo of the fairest stars in all the heaven,\nHaving some business, do entreat her eyes\nTo twinkle in their spheres till they return.\nWhat if her eyes were there, they in her head?\nThe brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,\nAs daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven\nWould through the airy region stream so bright\nThat birds would sing and think it were not night.\nSee how she leans her cheek upon her hand.\nO that I were a glove upon that hand,\nThat I might touch that cheek.\n\nJULIET.\nAy me.\n\nROMEO.\nShe speaks.\nO speak again bright angel, for thou art\nAs glorious to this night, being o’er my head,\nAs is a winged messenger of heaven\nUnto the white-upturned wondering eyes\nOf mortals that fall back to gaze on him\nWhen he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds\nAnd sails upon the bosom of the air.\n\nJULIET.\nO Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?\nDeny thy father and refuse thy name.\nOr if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,\nAnd I’ll no longer be a Capulet.\n\nROMEO.\n[_Aside._] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?\n\nJULIET.\n’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;\nThou art thyself, though not a Montague.\nWhat’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot,\nNor arm, nor face, nor any other part\nBelonging to a man. O be some other name.\nWhat’s in a name? That which we call a rose\nBy any other name would smell as sweet;\nSo Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,\nRetain that dear perfection which he owes\nWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,\nAnd for thy name, which is no part of thee,\nTake all myself.\n\nROMEO.\nI take thee at thy word.\nCall me but love, and I’ll be new baptis’d;\nHenceforth I never will be Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat man art thou that, thus bescreen’d in night\nSo stumblest on my counsel?\n\nROMEO.\nBy a name\nI know not how to tell thee who I am:\nMy name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,\nBecause it is an enemy to thee.\nHad I it written, I would tear the word.\n\nJULIET.\nMy ears have yet not drunk a hundred words\nOf thy tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound.\nArt thou not Romeo, and a Montague?\n\nROMEO.\nNeither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.\n\nJULIET.\nHow cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?\nThe orchard walls are high and hard to climb,\nAnd the place death, considering who thou art,\nIf any of my kinsmen find thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nWith love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls,\nFor stony limits cannot hold love out,\nAnd what love can do, that dares love attempt:\nTherefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf they do see thee, they will murder thee.\n\nROMEO.\nAlack, there lies more peril in thine eye\nThan twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet,\nAnd I am proof against their enmity.\n\nJULIET.\nI would not for the world they saw thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nI have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes,\nAnd but thou love me, let them find me here.\nMy life were better ended by their hate\nThan death prorogued, wanting of thy love.\n\nJULIET.\nBy whose direction found’st thou out this place?\n\nROMEO.\nBy love, that first did prompt me to enquire;\nHe lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.\nI am no pilot; yet wert thou as far\nAs that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea,\nI should adventure for such merchandise.\n\n" +- "JULIET.\nThou knowest the mask of night is on my face,\nElse would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek\nFor that which thou hast heard me speak tonight.\nFain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny\nWhat I have spoke; but farewell compliment.\nDost thou love me? I know thou wilt say Ay,\nAnd I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear’st,\nThou mayst prove false. At lovers’ perjuries,\nThey say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,\nIf thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.\nOr if thou thinkest I am too quickly won,\nI’ll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay,\nSo thou wilt woo. But else, not for the world.\nIn truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;\nAnd therefore thou mayst think my ’haviour light:\nBut trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true\nThan those that have more cunning to be strange.\nI should have been more strange, I must confess,\nBut that thou overheard’st, ere I was ’ware,\nMy true-love passion; therefore pardon me,\nAnd not impute this yielding to light love,\nWhich the dark night hath so discovered.\n\nROMEO.\nLady, by yonder blessed moon I vow,\nThat tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,—\n\nJULIET.\nO swear not by the moon, th’inconstant moon,\nThat monthly changes in her circled orb,\nLest that thy love prove likewise variable.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat shall I swear by?\n\nJULIET.\nDo not swear at all.\nOr if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,\nWhich is the god of my idolatry,\nAnd I’ll believe thee.\n\nROMEO.\nIf my heart’s dear love,—\n\nJULIET.\nWell, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,\nI have no joy of this contract tonight;\nIt is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden,\nToo like the lightning, which doth cease to be\nEre one can say It lightens. Sweet, good night.\nThis bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,\nMay prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.\nGood night, good night. As sweet repose and rest\nCome to thy heart as that within my breast.\n\nROMEO.\nO wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?\n\nJULIET.\nWhat satisfaction canst thou have tonight?\n\nROMEO.\nTh’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.\n\nJULIET.\nI gave thee mine before thou didst request it;\nAnd yet I would it were to give again.\n\nROMEO.\nWould’st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?\n\nJULIET.\nBut to be frank and give it thee again.\nAnd yet I wish but for the thing I have;\nMy bounty is as boundless as the sea,\nMy love as deep; the more I give to thee,\nThe more I have, for both are infinite.\nI hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu.\n[_Nurse calls within._]\nAnon, good Nurse!—Sweet Montague be true.\nStay but a little, I will come again.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nO blessed, blessed night. I am afeard,\nBeing in night, all this is but a dream,\nToo flattering sweet to be substantial.\n\n Enter Juliet above.\n\nJULIET.\nThree words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.\nIf that thy bent of love be honourable,\nThy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow,\nBy one that I’ll procure to come to thee,\nWhere and what time thou wilt perform the rite,\nAnd all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay\nAnd follow thee my lord throughout the world.\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Madam.\n\nJULIET.\nI come, anon.— But if thou meanest not well,\nI do beseech thee,—\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Madam.\n\nJULIET.\nBy and by I come—\nTo cease thy strife and leave me to my grief.\nTomorrow will I send.\n\nROMEO.\nSo thrive my soul,—\n\nJULIET.\nA thousand times good night.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nA thousand times the worse, to want thy light.\nLove goes toward love as schoolboys from their books,\nBut love from love, towards school with heavy looks.\n\n [_Retiring slowly._]\n\n Re-enter Juliet, above.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nHist! Romeo, hist! O for a falconer’s voice\nTo lure this tassel-gentle back again.\nBondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud,\nElse would I tear the cave where Echo lies,\nAnd make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine\nWith repetition of my Romeo’s name.\n\nROMEO.\nIt is my soul that calls upon my name.\nHow silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,\nLike softest music to attending ears.\n\nJULIET.\nRomeo.\n\nROMEO.\nMy nyas?\n\nJULIET.\nWhat o’clock tomorrow\nShall I send to thee?\n\nROMEO.\nBy the hour of nine.\n\nJULIET.\nI will not fail. ’Tis twenty years till then.\nI have forgot why I did call thee back.\n\nROMEO.\nLet me stand here till thou remember it.\n\nJULIET.\nI shall forget, to have thee still stand there,\nRemembering how I love thy company.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,\nForgetting any other home but this.\n\nJULIET.\n’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone,\nAnd yet no farther than a wanton’s bird,\nThat lets it hop a little from her hand,\nLike a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,\nAnd with a silk thread plucks it back again,\nSo loving-jealous of his liberty.\n\nROMEO.\nI would I were thy bird.\n\nJULIET.\nSweet, so would I:\nYet I should kill thee with much cherishing.\nGood night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow\nThat I shall say good night till it be morrow.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nSleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast.\nWould I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest.\nThe grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night,\nChequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light;\nAnd darkness fleckled like a drunkard reels\nFrom forth day’s pathway, made by Titan’s wheels\nHence will I to my ghostly Sire’s cell,\nHis help to crave and my dear hap to tell.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNow, ere the sun advance his burning eye,\nThe day to cheer, and night’s dank dew to dry,\nI must upfill this osier cage of ours\nWith baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.\nThe earth that’s nature’s mother, is her tomb;\nWhat is her burying grave, that is her womb:\nAnd from her womb children of divers kind\nWe sucking on her natural bosom find.\nMany for many virtues excellent,\nNone but for some, and yet all different.\nO, mickle is the powerful grace that lies\nIn plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities.\nFor naught so vile that on the earth doth live\nBut to the earth some special good doth give;\nNor aught so good but, strain’d from that fair use,\nRevolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.\nVirtue itself turns vice being misapplied,\nAnd vice sometime’s by action dignified.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nWithin the infant rind of this weak flower\nPoison hath residence, and medicine power:\nFor this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;\nBeing tasted, slays all senses with the heart.\nTwo such opposed kings encamp them still\nIn man as well as herbs,—grace and rude will;\nAnd where the worser is predominant,\nFull soon the canker death eats up that plant.\n\nROMEO.\nGood morrow, father.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nBenedicite!\nWhat early tongue so sweet saluteth me?\nYoung son, it argues a distemper’d head\nSo soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.\nCare keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,\nAnd where care lodges sleep will never lie;\nBut where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain\nDoth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.\nTherefore thy earliness doth me assure\nThou art uprous’d with some distemperature;\nOr if not so, then here I hit it right,\nOur Romeo hath not been in bed tonight.\n\nROMEO.\nThat last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nGod pardon sin. Wast thou with Rosaline?\n\nROMEO.\nWith Rosaline, my ghostly father? No.\nI have forgot that name, and that name’s woe.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s my good son. But where hast thou been then?\n\n" - "ROMEO.\nI’ll tell thee ere thou ask it me again.\nI have been feasting with mine enemy,\nWhere on a sudden one hath wounded me\nThat’s by me wounded. Both our remedies\nWithin thy help and holy physic lies.\nI bear no hatred, blessed man; for lo,\nMy intercession likewise steads my foe.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nBe plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;\nRiddling confession finds but riddling shrift.\n\nROMEO.\nThen plainly know my heart’s dear love is set\nOn the fair daughter of rich Capulet.\nAs mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;\nAnd all combin’d, save what thou must combine\nBy holy marriage. When, and where, and how\nWe met, we woo’d, and made exchange of vow,\nI’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,\nThat thou consent to marry us today.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHoly Saint Francis! What a change is here!\nIs Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear,\nSo soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies\nNot truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.\nJesu Maria, what a deal of brine\nHath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!\nHow much salt water thrown away in waste,\nTo season love, that of it doth not taste.\nThe sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,\nThy old groans yet ring in mine ancient ears.\nLo here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit\nOf an old tear that is not wash’d off yet.\nIf ere thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,\nThou and these woes were all for Rosaline,\nAnd art thou chang’d? Pronounce this sentence then,\nWomen may fall, when there’s no strength in men.\n\nROMEO.\nThou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nFor doting, not for loving, pupil mine.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd bad’st me bury love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNot in a grave\nTo lay one in, another out to have.\n\nROMEO.\nI pray thee chide me not, her I love now\nDoth grace for grace and love for love allow.\nThe other did not so.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO, she knew well\nThy love did read by rote, that could not spell.\nBut come young waverer, come go with me,\nIn one respect I’ll thy assistant be;\nFor this alliance may so happy prove,\nTo turn your households’ rancour to pure love.\n\nROMEO.\nO let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE IV. A Street.\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhere the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home tonight?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nNot to his father’s; I spoke with his man.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhy, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, torments him so\nthat he will sure run mad.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, hath sent a letter to his father’s\nhouse.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nA challenge, on my life.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo will answer it.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAny man that can write may answer a letter.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nNay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAlas poor Romeo, he is already dead, stabbed with a white wench’s black\neye; run through the ear with a love song, the very pin of his heart\ncleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft. And is he a man to encounter\nTybalt?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy, what is Tybalt?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nMore than Prince of cats. O, he’s the courageous captain of\ncompliments. He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance,\nand proportion. He rests his minim rest, one, two, and the third in\nyour bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist;\na gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah,\nthe immortal passado, the punto reverso, the hay.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThe what?\n\n" - "MERCUTIO.\nThe pox of such antic lisping, affecting phantasies; these new tuners\nof accent. By Jesu, a very good blade, a very tall man, a very good\nwhore. Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should\nbe thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers,\nthese pardon-me’s, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot\nsit at ease on the old bench? O their bones, their bones!\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere comes Romeo, here comes Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWithout his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou\nfishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in. Laura, to\nhis lady, was but a kitchen wench,—marry, she had a better love to\nberhyme her: Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gypsy; Helen and Hero hildings\nand harlots; Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior\nRomeo, bonjour! There’s a French salutation to your French slop. You\ngave us the counterfeit fairly last night.\n\nROMEO.\nGood morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThe slip sir, the slip; can you not conceive?\n\nROMEO.\nPardon, good Mercutio, my business was great, and in such a case as\nmine a man may strain courtesy.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThat’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow\nin the hams.\n\nROMEO.\nMeaning, to curtsy.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou hast most kindly hit it.\n\nROMEO.\nA most courteous exposition.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, I am the very pink of courtesy.\n\nROMEO.\nPink for flower.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nRight.\n\nROMEO.\nWhy, then is my pump well flowered.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nSure wit, follow me this jest now, till thou hast worn out thy pump,\nthat when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain after the\nwearing, solely singular.\n\nROMEO.\nO single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint.\n\nROMEO.\nSwits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I’ll cry a match.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done. For thou hast\nmore of the wild-goose in one of thy wits, than I am sure, I have in my\nwhole five. Was I with you there for the goose?\n\nROMEO.\nThou wast never with me for anything, when thou wast not there for the\ngoose.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nI will bite thee by the ear for that jest.\n\nROMEO.\nNay, good goose, bite not.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThy wit is a very bitter sweeting, it is a most sharp sauce.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd is it not then well served in to a sweet goose?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an\nell broad.\n\nROMEO.\nI stretch it out for that word broad, which added to the goose, proves\nthee far and wide a broad goose.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhy, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now art thou\nsociable, now art thou Romeo; not art thou what thou art, by art as\nwell as by nature. For this drivelling love is like a great natural,\nthat runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nStop there, stop there.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThou wouldst else have made thy tale large.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO, thou art deceived; I would have made it short, for I was come to the\nwhole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the argument no\nlonger.\n\n Enter Nurse and Peter.\n\nROMEO.\nHere’s goodly gear!\nA sail, a sail!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nTwo, two; a shirt and a smock.\n\nNURSE.\nPeter!\n\nPETER.\nAnon.\n\nNURSE.\nMy fan, Peter.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nGood Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the fairer face.\n\nNURSE.\nGod ye good morrow, gentlemen.\n\n" - "MERCUTIO.\nGod ye good-den, fair gentlewoman.\n\nNURSE.\nIs it good-den?\n\nMERCUTIO.\n’Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the\nprick of noon.\n\nNURSE.\nOut upon you! What a man are you?\n\nROMEO.\nOne, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar.\n\nNURSE.\nBy my troth, it is well said; for himself to mar, quoth a? Gentlemen,\ncan any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo?\n\nROMEO.\nI can tell you: but young Romeo will be older when you have found him\nthan he was when you sought him. I am the youngest of that name, for\nfault of a worse.\n\nNURSE.\nYou say well.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nYea, is the worst well? Very well took, i’faith; wisely, wisely.\n\nNURSE.\nIf you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nShe will endite him to some supper.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nA bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho!\n\nROMEO.\nWhat hast thou found?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNo hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something\nstale and hoar ere it be spent.\n[_Sings._]\n An old hare hoar,\n And an old hare hoar,\n Is very good meat in Lent;\n But a hare that is hoar\n Is too much for a score\n When it hoars ere it be spent.\nRomeo, will you come to your father’s? We’ll to dinner thither.\n\nROMEO.\nI will follow you.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nFarewell, ancient lady; farewell, lady, lady, lady.\n\n [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._]\n\nNURSE.\nI pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his\nropery?\n\nROMEO.\nA gentleman, Nurse, that loves to hear himself talk, and will speak\nmore in a minute than he will stand to in a month.\n\nNURSE.\nAnd a speak anything against me, I’ll take him down, and a were lustier\nthan he is, and twenty such Jacks. And if I cannot, I’ll find those\nthat shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none of\nhis skains-mates.—And thou must stand by too and suffer every knave to\nuse me at his pleasure!\n\nPETER.\nI saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I had, my weapon should\nquickly have been out. I warrant you, I dare draw as soon as another\nman, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side.\n\nNURSE.\nNow, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me quivers. Scurvy\nknave. Pray you, sir, a word: and as I told you, my young lady bid me\nenquire you out; what she bade me say, I will keep to myself. But first\nlet me tell ye, if ye should lead her in a fool’s paradise, as they\nsay, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say; for the\ngentlewoman is young. And therefore, if you should deal double with\nher, truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and\nvery weak dealing.\n\nROMEO. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto\nthee,—\n\nNURSE.\nGood heart, and i’faith I will tell her as much. Lord, Lord, she will\nbe a joyful woman.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat wilt thou tell her, Nurse? Thou dost not mark me.\n\nNURSE.\nI will tell her, sir, that you do protest, which, as I take it, is a\ngentlemanlike offer.\n\nROMEO.\nBid her devise\nSome means to come to shrift this afternoon,\nAnd there she shall at Friar Lawrence’ cell\nBe shriv’d and married. Here is for thy pains.\n\nNURSE.\nNo truly, sir; not a penny.\n\nROMEO.\nGo to; I say you shall.\n\nNURSE.\nThis afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there.\n\n" - "ROMEO.\nAnd stay, good Nurse, behind the abbey wall.\nWithin this hour my man shall be with thee,\nAnd bring thee cords made like a tackled stair,\nWhich to the high topgallant of my joy\nMust be my convoy in the secret night.\nFarewell, be trusty, and I’ll quit thy pains;\nFarewell; commend me to thy mistress.\n\nNURSE.\nNow God in heaven bless thee. Hark you, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat say’st thou, my dear Nurse?\n\nNURSE.\nIs your man secret? Did you ne’er hear say,\nTwo may keep counsel, putting one away?\n\nROMEO.\nI warrant thee my man’s as true as steel.\n\nNURSE.\nWell, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady. Lord, Lord! When ’twas a\nlittle prating thing,—O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that\nwould fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief see a\ntoad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her that\nParis is the properer man, but I’ll warrant you, when I say so, she\nlooks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and\nRomeo begin both with a letter?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, Nurse; what of that? Both with an R.\n\nNURSE.\nAh, mocker! That’s the dog’s name. R is for the—no, I know it begins\nwith some other letter, and she hath the prettiest sententious of it,\nof you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it.\n\nROMEO.\nCommend me to thy lady.\n\nNURSE.\nAy, a thousand times. Peter!\n\n [_Exit Romeo._]\n\nPETER.\nAnon.\n\nNURSE.\nBefore and apace.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nThe clock struck nine when I did send the Nurse,\nIn half an hour she promised to return.\nPerchance she cannot meet him. That’s not so.\nO, she is lame. Love’s heralds should be thoughts,\nWhich ten times faster glides than the sun’s beams,\nDriving back shadows over lowering hills:\nTherefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw love,\nAnd therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.\nNow is the sun upon the highmost hill\nOf this day’s journey, and from nine till twelve\nIs three long hours, yet she is not come.\nHad she affections and warm youthful blood,\nShe’d be as swift in motion as a ball;\nMy words would bandy her to my sweet love,\nAnd his to me.\nBut old folks, many feign as they were dead;\nUnwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.\n\n Enter Nurse and Peter.\n\nO God, she comes. O honey Nurse, what news?\nHast thou met with him? Send thy man away.\n\nNURSE.\nPeter, stay at the gate.\n\n [_Exit Peter._]\n\nJULIET.\nNow, good sweet Nurse,—O Lord, why look’st thou sad?\nThough news be sad, yet tell them merrily;\nIf good, thou sham’st the music of sweet news\nBy playing it to me with so sour a face.\n\nNURSE.\nI am aweary, give me leave awhile;\nFie, how my bones ache! What a jaunt have I had!\n\nJULIET.\nI would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news:\nNay come, I pray thee speak; good, good Nurse, speak.\n\nNURSE.\nJesu, what haste? Can you not stay a while? Do you not see that I am\nout of breath?\n\nJULIET.\nHow art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath\nTo say to me that thou art out of breath?\nThe excuse that thou dost make in this delay\nIs longer than the tale thou dost excuse.\nIs thy news good or bad? Answer to that;\nSay either, and I’ll stay the circumstance.\nLet me be satisfied, is’t good or bad?\n\n" - "NURSE.\nWell, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man.\nRomeo? No, not he. Though his face be better than any man’s, yet his\nleg excels all men’s, and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though\nthey be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the\nflower of courtesy, but I’ll warrant him as gentle as a lamb. Go thy\nways, wench, serve God. What, have you dined at home?\n\nJULIET.\nNo, no. But all this did I know before.\nWhat says he of our marriage? What of that?\n\nNURSE.\nLord, how my head aches! What a head have I!\nIt beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.\nMy back o’ t’other side,—O my back, my back!\nBeshrew your heart for sending me about\nTo catch my death with jauncing up and down.\n\nJULIET.\nI’faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.\nSweet, sweet, sweet Nurse, tell me, what says my love?\n\nNURSE.\nYour love says like an honest gentleman,\nAnd a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome,\nAnd I warrant a virtuous,—Where is your mother?\n\nJULIET.\nWhere is my mother? Why, she is within.\nWhere should she be? How oddly thou repliest.\n‘Your love says, like an honest gentleman,\n‘Where is your mother?’\n\nNURSE.\nO God’s lady dear,\nAre you so hot? Marry, come up, I trow.\nIs this the poultice for my aching bones?\nHenceforward do your messages yourself.\n\nJULIET.\nHere’s such a coil. Come, what says Romeo?\n\nNURSE.\nHave you got leave to go to shrift today?\n\nJULIET.\nI have.\n\nNURSE.\nThen hie you hence to Friar Lawrence’ cell;\nThere stays a husband to make you a wife.\nNow comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks,\nThey’ll be in scarlet straight at any news.\nHie you to church. I must another way,\nTo fetch a ladder by the which your love\nMust climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark.\nI am the drudge, and toil in your delight;\nBut you shall bear the burden soon at night.\nGo. I’ll to dinner; hie you to the cell.\n\nJULIET.\nHie to high fortune! Honest Nurse, farewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSo smile the heavens upon this holy act\nThat after-hours with sorrow chide us not.\n\nROMEO.\nAmen, amen, but come what sorrow can,\nIt cannot countervail the exchange of joy\nThat one short minute gives me in her sight.\nDo thou but close our hands with holy words,\nThen love-devouring death do what he dare,\nIt is enough I may but call her mine.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThese violent delights have violent ends,\nAnd in their triumph die; like fire and powder,\nWhich as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey\nIs loathsome in his own deliciousness,\nAnd in the taste confounds the appetite.\nTherefore love moderately: long love doth so;\nToo swift arrives as tardy as too slow.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nHere comes the lady. O, so light a foot\nWill ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.\nA lover may bestride the gossamers\nThat idles in the wanton summer air\nAnd yet not fall; so light is vanity.\n\nJULIET.\nGood even to my ghostly confessor.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.\n\nJULIET.\nAs much to him, else is his thanks too much.\n\nROMEO.\nAh, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy\nBe heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue\nUnfold the imagin’d happiness that both\nReceive in either by this dear encounter.\n\nJULIET.\nConceit more rich in matter than in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of ornament.\nThey are but beggars that can count their worth;\nBut my true love is grown to such excess,\nI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.\n\n" -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would\nkill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a\nhair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel\nwith a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou\nhast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?\nThy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy\nhead hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast\nquarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath\nwakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall\nout with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with\nanother for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt\ntutor me from quarrelling!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee\nsimple of my life for an hour and a quarter.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThe fee simple! O simple!\n\n Enter Tybalt and others.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy my head, here comes the Capulets.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBy my heel, I care not.\n\nTYBALT.\nFollow me close, for I will speak to them.\nGentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a\nword and a blow.\n\nTYBALT.\nYou shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me\noccasion.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCould you not take some occasion without giving?\n\nTYBALT.\nMercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nConsort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of\nus, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick, here’s\nthat shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWe talk here in the public haunt of men.\nEither withdraw unto some private place,\nAnd reason coldly of your grievances,\nOr else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nMen’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.\nI will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nTYBALT.\nWell, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBut I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery.\nMarry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower;\nYour worship in that sense may call him man.\n\nTYBALT.\nRomeo, the love I bear thee can afford\nNo better term than this: Thou art a villain.\n\nROMEO.\nTybalt, the reason that I have to love thee\nDoth much excuse the appertaining rage\nTo such a greeting. Villain am I none;\nTherefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.\n\nTYBALT.\nBoy, this shall not excuse the injuries\nThat thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw.\n\n" -- "ROMEO.\nI do protest I never injur’d thee,\nBut love thee better than thou canst devise\nTill thou shalt know the reason of my love.\nAnd so good Capulet, which name I tender\nAs dearly as mine own, be satisfied.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO calm, dishonourable, vile submission!\n[_Draws._] Alla stoccata carries it away.\nTybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat wouldst thou have with me?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nGood King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to\nmake bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest\nof the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears?\nMake haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.\n\nTYBALT.\n[_Drawing._] I am for you.\n\nROMEO.\nGentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, sir, your passado.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nROMEO.\nDraw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.\nGentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage,\nTybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath\nForbid this bandying in Verona streets.\nHold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!\n\n [_Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans._]\n\nMERCUTIO.\nI am hurt.\nA plague o’ both your houses. I am sped.\nIs he gone, and hath nothing?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhat, art thou hurt?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAy, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough.\nWhere is my page? Go villain, fetch a surgeon.\n\n [_Exit Page._]\n\nROMEO.\nCourage, man; the hurt cannot be much.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNo, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis\nenough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a\ngrave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both\nyour houses. Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to\ndeath. A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of\narithmetic!—Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your\narm.\n\nROMEO.\nI thought all for the best.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHelp me into some house, Benvolio,\nOr I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses.\nThey have made worms’ meat of me.\nI have it, and soundly too. Your houses!\n\n [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._]\n\nROMEO.\nThis gentleman, the Prince’s near ally,\nMy very friend, hath got his mortal hurt\nIn my behalf; my reputation stain’d\nWith Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour\nHath been my cousin. O sweet Juliet,\nThy beauty hath made me effeminate\nAnd in my temper soften’d valour’s steel.\n\n Re-enter Benvolio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead,\nThat gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds,\nWhich too untimely here did scorn the earth.\n\nROMEO.\nThis day’s black fate on mo days doth depend;\nThis but begins the woe others must end.\n\n Re-enter Tybalt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere comes the furious Tybalt back again.\n\nROMEO.\nAgain in triumph, and Mercutio slain?\nAway to heaven respective lenity,\nAnd fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now!\nNow, Tybalt, take the ‘villain’ back again\nThat late thou gav’st me, for Mercutio’s soul\nIs but a little way above our heads,\nStaying for thine to keep him company.\nEither thou or I, or both, must go with him.\n\nTYBALT.\nThou wretched boy, that didst consort him here,\nShalt with him hence.\n\nROMEO.\nThis shall determine that.\n\n [_They fight; Tybalt falls._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo, away, be gone!\nThe citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.\nStand not amaz’d. The Prince will doom thee death\nIf thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away!\n\nROMEO.\nO, I am fortune’s fool!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy dost thou stay?\n\n [_Exit Romeo._]\n\n Enter Citizens.\n\n" -- "FIRST CITIZEN.\nWhich way ran he that kill’d Mercutio?\nTybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThere lies that Tybalt.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nUp, sir, go with me.\nI charge thee in the Prince’s name obey.\n\n Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives and others.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhere are the vile beginners of this fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO noble Prince, I can discover all\nThe unlucky manage of this fatal brawl.\nThere lies the man, slain by young Romeo,\nThat slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child!\nO Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill’d\nOf my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true,\nFor blood of ours shed blood of Montague.\nO cousin, cousin.\n\nPRINCE.\nBenvolio, who began this bloody fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay;\nRomeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink\nHow nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal\nYour high displeasure. All this uttered\nWith gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d\nCould not take truce with the unruly spleen\nOf Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts\nWith piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast,\nWho, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,\nAnd, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats\nCold death aside, and with the other sends\nIt back to Tybalt, whose dexterity\nRetorts it. Romeo he cries aloud,\n‘Hold, friends! Friends, part!’ and swifter than his tongue,\nHis agile arm beats down their fatal points,\nAnd ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm\nAn envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life\nOf stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled.\nBut by and by comes back to Romeo,\nWho had but newly entertain’d revenge,\nAnd to’t they go like lightning; for, ere I\nCould draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain;\nAnd as he fell did Romeo turn and fly.\nThis is the truth, or let Benvolio die.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nHe is a kinsman to the Montague.\nAffection makes him false, he speaks not true.\nSome twenty of them fought in this black strife,\nAnd all those twenty could but kill one life.\nI beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give;\nRomeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.\n\nPRINCE.\nRomeo slew him, he slew Mercutio.\nWho now the price of his dear blood doth owe?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nNot Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio’s friend;\nHis fault concludes but what the law should end,\nThe life of Tybalt.\n\nPRINCE.\nAnd for that offence\nImmediately we do exile him hence.\nI have an interest in your hate’s proceeding,\nMy blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding.\nBut I’ll amerce you with so strong a fine\nThat you shall all repent the loss of mine.\nI will be deaf to pleading and excuses;\nNor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses.\nTherefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste,\nElse, when he is found, that hour is his last.\nBear hence this body, and attend our will.\nMercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\n" +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would\nkill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a\nhair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel\nwith a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou\nhast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?\nThy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy\nhead hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast\nquarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath\nwakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall\nout with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with\nanother for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt\ntutor me from quarrelling!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee\nsimple of my life for an hour and a quarter.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThe fee simple! O simple!\n\n Enter Tybalt and others.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy my head, here comes the Capulets.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBy my heel, I care not.\n\nTYBALT.\nFollow me close, for I will speak to them.\nGentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a\nword and a blow.\n\nTYBALT.\nYou shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me\noccasion.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCould you not take some occasion without giving?\n\nTYBALT.\nMercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nConsort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of\nus, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick, here’s\nthat shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWe talk here in the public haunt of men.\nEither withdraw unto some private place,\nAnd reason coldly of your grievances,\nOr else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nMen’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.\nI will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nTYBALT.\nWell, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBut I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery.\nMarry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower;\nYour worship in that sense may call him man.\n\nTYBALT.\nRomeo, the love I bear thee can afford\nNo better term than this: Thou art a villain.\n\nROMEO.\nTybalt, the reason that I have to love thee\nDoth much excuse the appertaining rage\nTo such a greeting. Villain am I none;\nTherefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.\n\nTYBALT.\nBoy, this shall not excuse the injuries\nThat thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw.\n\nROMEO.\nI do protest I never injur’d thee,\nBut love thee better than thou canst devise\nTill thou shalt know the reason of my love.\nAnd so good Capulet, which name I tender\nAs dearly as mine own, be satisfied.\n\n" +- "MERCUTIO.\nO calm, dishonourable, vile submission!\n[_Draws._] Alla stoccata carries it away.\nTybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat wouldst thou have with me?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nGood King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to\nmake bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest\nof the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears?\nMake haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.\n\nTYBALT.\n[_Drawing._] I am for you.\n\nROMEO.\nGentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, sir, your passado.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nROMEO.\nDraw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.\nGentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage,\nTybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath\nForbid this bandying in Verona streets.\nHold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!\n\n [_Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans._]\n\nMERCUTIO.\nI am hurt.\nA plague o’ both your houses. I am sped.\nIs he gone, and hath nothing?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhat, art thou hurt?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAy, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough.\nWhere is my page? Go villain, fetch a surgeon.\n\n [_Exit Page._]\n\nROMEO.\nCourage, man; the hurt cannot be much.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNo, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis\nenough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a\ngrave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both\nyour houses. Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to\ndeath. A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of\narithmetic!—Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your\narm.\n\nROMEO.\nI thought all for the best.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHelp me into some house, Benvolio,\nOr I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses.\nThey have made worms’ meat of me.\nI have it, and soundly too. Your houses!\n\n [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._]\n\nROMEO.\nThis gentleman, the Prince’s near ally,\nMy very friend, hath got his mortal hurt\nIn my behalf; my reputation stain’d\nWith Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour\nHath been my cousin. O sweet Juliet,\nThy beauty hath made me effeminate\nAnd in my temper soften’d valour’s steel.\n\n Re-enter Benvolio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead,\nThat gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds,\nWhich too untimely here did scorn the earth.\n\nROMEO.\nThis day’s black fate on mo days doth depend;\nThis but begins the woe others must end.\n\n Re-enter Tybalt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere comes the furious Tybalt back again.\n\nROMEO.\nAgain in triumph, and Mercutio slain?\nAway to heaven respective lenity,\nAnd fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now!\nNow, Tybalt, take the ‘villain’ back again\nThat late thou gav’st me, for Mercutio’s soul\nIs but a little way above our heads,\nStaying for thine to keep him company.\nEither thou or I, or both, must go with him.\n\nTYBALT.\nThou wretched boy, that didst consort him here,\nShalt with him hence.\n\nROMEO.\nThis shall determine that.\n\n [_They fight; Tybalt falls._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo, away, be gone!\nThe citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.\nStand not amaz’d. The Prince will doom thee death\nIf thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away!\n\nROMEO.\nO, I am fortune’s fool!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy dost thou stay?\n\n [_Exit Romeo._]\n\n Enter Citizens.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nWhich way ran he that kill’d Mercutio?\nTybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThere lies that Tybalt.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nUp, sir, go with me.\nI charge thee in the Prince’s name obey.\n\n" +- " Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives and others.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhere are the vile beginners of this fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO noble Prince, I can discover all\nThe unlucky manage of this fatal brawl.\nThere lies the man, slain by young Romeo,\nThat slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child!\nO Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill’d\nOf my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true,\nFor blood of ours shed blood of Montague.\nO cousin, cousin.\n\nPRINCE.\nBenvolio, who began this bloody fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay;\nRomeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink\nHow nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal\nYour high displeasure. All this uttered\nWith gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d\nCould not take truce with the unruly spleen\nOf Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts\nWith piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast,\nWho, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,\nAnd, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats\nCold death aside, and with the other sends\nIt back to Tybalt, whose dexterity\nRetorts it. Romeo he cries aloud,\n‘Hold, friends! Friends, part!’ and swifter than his tongue,\nHis agile arm beats down their fatal points,\nAnd ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm\nAn envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life\nOf stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled.\nBut by and by comes back to Romeo,\nWho had but newly entertain’d revenge,\nAnd to’t they go like lightning; for, ere I\nCould draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain;\nAnd as he fell did Romeo turn and fly.\nThis is the truth, or let Benvolio die.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nHe is a kinsman to the Montague.\nAffection makes him false, he speaks not true.\nSome twenty of them fought in this black strife,\nAnd all those twenty could but kill one life.\nI beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give;\nRomeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.\n\nPRINCE.\nRomeo slew him, he slew Mercutio.\nWho now the price of his dear blood doth owe?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nNot Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio’s friend;\nHis fault concludes but what the law should end,\nThe life of Tybalt.\n\nPRINCE.\nAnd for that offence\nImmediately we do exile him hence.\nI have an interest in your hate’s proceeding,\nMy blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding.\nBut I’ll amerce you with so strong a fine\nThat you shall all repent the loss of mine.\nI will be deaf to pleading and excuses;\nNor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses.\nTherefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste,\nElse, when he is found, that hour is his last.\nBear hence this body, and attend our will.\nMercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nGallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,\nTowards Phoebus’ lodging. Such a waggoner\nAs Phaeton would whip you to the west\nAnd bring in cloudy night immediately.\nSpread thy close curtain, love-performing night,\nThat runaway’s eyes may wink, and Romeo\nLeap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen.\nLovers can see to do their amorous rites\nBy their own beauties: or, if love be blind,\nIt best agrees with night. Come, civil night,\nThou sober-suited matron, all in black,\nAnd learn me how to lose a winning match,\nPlay’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.\nHood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,\nWith thy black mantle, till strange love, grow bold,\nThink true love acted simple modesty.\nCome, night, come Romeo; come, thou day in night;\nFor thou wilt lie upon the wings of night\nWhiter than new snow upon a raven’s back.\nCome gentle night, come loving black-brow’d night,\nGive me my Romeo, and when I shall die,\nTake him and cut him out in little stars,\nAnd he will make the face of heaven so fine\nThat all the world will be in love with night,\nAnd pay no worship to the garish sun.\nO, I have bought the mansion of a love,\nBut not possess’d it; and though I am sold,\nNot yet enjoy’d. So tedious is this day\nAs is the night before some festival\nTo an impatient child that hath new robes\nAnd may not wear them. O, here comes my Nurse,\nAnd she brings news, and every tongue that speaks\nBut Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence.\n\n Enter Nurse, with cords.\n\nNow, Nurse, what news? What hast thou there?\nThe cords that Romeo bid thee fetch?\n\nNURSE.\nAy, ay, the cords.\n\n [_Throws them down._]\n\nJULIET.\nAy me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands?\n\nNURSE.\nAh, well-a-day, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!\nWe are undone, lady, we are undone.\nAlack the day, he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead.\n\nJULIET.\nCan heaven be so envious?\n\nNURSE.\nRomeo can,\nThough heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo.\nWho ever would have thought it? Romeo!\n\nJULIET.\nWhat devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?\nThis torture should be roar’d in dismal hell.\nHath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but Ay,\nAnd that bare vowel I shall poison more\nThan the death-darting eye of cockatrice.\nI am not I if there be such an I;\nOr those eyes shut that make thee answer Ay.\nIf he be slain, say Ay; or if not, No.\nBrief sounds determine of my weal or woe.\n\nNURSE.\nI saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,\nGod save the mark!—here on his manly breast.\nA piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;\nPale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood,\nAll in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight.\n\nJULIET.\nO, break, my heart. Poor bankrout, break at once.\nTo prison, eyes; ne’er look on liberty.\nVile earth to earth resign; end motion here,\nAnd thou and Romeo press one heavy bier.\n\nNURSE.\nO Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had.\nO courteous Tybalt, honest gentleman!\nThat ever I should live to see thee dead.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat storm is this that blows so contrary?\nIs Romeo slaughter’d and is Tybalt dead?\nMy dearest cousin, and my dearer lord?\nThen dreadful trumpet sound the general doom,\nFor who is living, if those two are gone?\n\nNURSE.\nTybalt is gone, and Romeo banished,\nRomeo that kill’d him, he is banished.\n\nJULIET.\nO God! Did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?\n\nNURSE.\nIt did, it did; alas the day, it did.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nO serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!\nDid ever dragon keep so fair a cave?\nBeautiful tyrant, fiend angelical,\nDove-feather’d raven, wolvish-ravening lamb!\nDespised substance of divinest show!\nJust opposite to what thou justly seem’st,\nA damned saint, an honourable villain!\nO nature, what hadst thou to do in hell\nWhen thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend\nIn mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?\nWas ever book containing such vile matter\nSo fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell\nIn such a gorgeous palace.\n\nNURSE.\nThere’s no trust,\nNo faith, no honesty in men. All perjur’d,\nAll forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.\nAh, where’s my man? Give me some aqua vitae.\nThese griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.\nShame come to Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nBlister’d be thy tongue\nFor such a wish! He was not born to shame.\nUpon his brow shame is asham’d to sit;\nFor ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d\nSole monarch of the universal earth.\nO, what a beast was I to chide at him!\n\nNURSE.\nWill you speak well of him that kill’d your cousin?\n\nJULIET.\nShall I speak ill of him that is my husband?\nAh, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,\nWhen I thy three-hours’ wife have mangled it?\nBut wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?\nThat villain cousin would have kill’d my husband.\nBack, foolish tears, back to your native spring,\nYour tributary drops belong to woe,\nWhich you mistaking offer up to joy.\nMy husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain,\nAnd Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband.\nAll this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?\nSome word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,\nThat murder’d me. I would forget it fain,\nBut O, it presses to my memory\nLike damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds.\nTybalt is dead, and Romeo banished.\nThat ‘banished,’ that one word ‘banished,’\nHath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death\nWas woe enough, if it had ended there.\nOr if sour woe delights in fellowship,\nAnd needly will be rank’d with other griefs,\nWhy follow’d not, when she said Tybalt’s dead,\nThy father or thy mother, nay or both,\nWhich modern lamentation might have mov’d?\nBut with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death,\n‘Romeo is banished’—to speak that word\nIs father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,\nAll slain, all dead. Romeo is banished,\nThere is no end, no limit, measure, bound,\nIn that word’s death, no words can that woe sound.\nWhere is my father and my mother, Nurse?\n\nNURSE.\nWeeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse.\nWill you go to them? I will bring you thither.\n\nJULIET.\nWash they his wounds with tears. Mine shall be spent,\nWhen theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment.\nTake up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil’d,\nBoth you and I; for Romeo is exil’d.\nHe made you for a highway to my bed,\nBut I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.\nCome cords, come Nurse, I’ll to my wedding bed,\nAnd death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead.\n\nNURSE.\nHie to your chamber. I’ll find Romeo\nTo comfort you. I wot well where he is.\nHark ye, your Romeo will be here at night.\nI’ll to him, he is hid at Lawrence’ cell.\n\nJULIET.\nO find him, give this ring to my true knight,\nAnd bid him come to take his last farewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man.\nAffliction is enanmour’d of thy parts\nAnd thou art wedded to calamity.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nFather, what news? What is the Prince’s doom?\nWhat sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,\nThat I yet know not?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nToo familiar\nIs my dear son with such sour company.\nI bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom.\n\n" - "ROMEO.\nWhat less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nA gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips,\nNot body’s death, but body’s banishment.\n\nROMEO.\nHa, banishment? Be merciful, say death;\nFor exile hath more terror in his look,\nMuch more than death. Do not say banishment.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHence from Verona art thou banished.\nBe patient, for the world is broad and wide.\n\nROMEO.\nThere is no world without Verona walls,\nBut purgatory, torture, hell itself.\nHence banished is banish’d from the world,\nAnd world’s exile is death. Then banished\nIs death misterm’d. Calling death banished,\nThou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe,\nAnd smilest upon the stroke that murders me.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness!\nThy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince,\nTaking thy part, hath brush’d aside the law,\nAnd turn’d that black word death to banishment.\nThis is dear mercy, and thou see’st it not.\n\nROMEO.\n’Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here\nWhere Juliet lives, and every cat and dog,\nAnd little mouse, every unworthy thing,\nLive here in heaven and may look on her,\nBut Romeo may not. More validity,\nMore honourable state, more courtship lives\nIn carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize\nOn the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand,\nAnd steal immortal blessing from her lips,\nWho, even in pure and vestal modesty\nStill blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.\nBut Romeo may not, he is banished.\nThis may flies do, when I from this must fly.\nThey are free men but I am banished.\nAnd say’st thou yet that exile is not death?\nHadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife,\nNo sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean,\nBut banished to kill me? Banished?\nO Friar, the damned use that word in hell.\nHowlings attends it. How hast thou the heart,\nBeing a divine, a ghostly confessor,\nA sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d,\nTo mangle me with that word banished?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThou fond mad man, hear me speak a little,\n\nROMEO.\nO, thou wilt speak again of banishment.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI’ll give thee armour to keep off that word,\nAdversity’s sweet milk, philosophy,\nTo comfort thee, though thou art banished.\n\nROMEO.\nYet banished? Hang up philosophy.\nUnless philosophy can make a Juliet,\nDisplant a town, reverse a Prince’s doom,\nIt helps not, it prevails not, talk no more.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO, then I see that mad men have no ears.\n\nROMEO.\nHow should they, when that wise men have no eyes?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nLet me dispute with thee of thy estate.\n\nROMEO.\nThou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel.\nWert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,\nAn hour but married, Tybalt murdered,\nDoting like me, and like me banished,\nThen mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,\nAnd fall upon the ground as I do now,\nTaking the measure of an unmade grave.\n\n [_Knocking within._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nArise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.\n\nROMEO.\nNot I, unless the breath of heartsick groans\nMist-like infold me from the search of eyes.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHark, how they knock!—Who’s there?—Romeo, arise,\nThou wilt be taken.—Stay awhile.—Stand up.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nRun to my study.—By-and-by.—God’s will,\nWhat simpleness is this.—I come, I come.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nWho knocks so hard? Whence come you, what’s your will?\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand.\nI come from Lady Juliet.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWelcome then.\n\n Enter Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nO holy Friar, O, tell me, holy Friar,\nWhere is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThere on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.\n\n" @@ -32,21 +36,22 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nGo hence, good night, and here stands all your state:\nEither be gone before the watch be set,\nOr by the break of day disguis’d from hence.\nSojourn in Mantua. I’ll find out your man,\nAnd he shall signify from time to time\nEvery good hap to you that chances here.\nGive me thy hand; ’tis late; farewell; good night.\n\nROMEO.\nBut that a joy past joy calls out on me,\nIt were a grief so brief to part with thee.\nFarewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and Paris.\n\nCAPULET.\nThings have fallen out, sir, so unluckily\nThat we have had no time to move our daughter.\nLook you, she lov’d her kinsman Tybalt dearly,\nAnd so did I. Well, we were born to die.\n’Tis very late; she’ll not come down tonight.\nI promise you, but for your company,\nI would have been abed an hour ago.\n\nPARIS.\nThese times of woe afford no tune to woo.\nMadam, good night. Commend me to your daughter.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nI will, and know her mind early tomorrow;\nTonight she’s mew’d up to her heaviness.\n\nCAPULET.\nSir Paris, I will make a desperate tender\nOf my child’s love. I think she will be rul’d\nIn all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.\nWife, go you to her ere you go to bed,\nAcquaint her here of my son Paris’ love,\nAnd bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next,\nBut, soft, what day is this?\n\nPARIS.\nMonday, my lord.\n\nCAPULET.\nMonday! Ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,\nA Thursday let it be; a Thursday, tell her,\nShe shall be married to this noble earl.\nWill you be ready? Do you like this haste?\nWe’ll keep no great ado,—a friend or two,\nFor, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,\nIt may be thought we held him carelessly,\nBeing our kinsman, if we revel much.\nTherefore we’ll have some half a dozen friends,\nAnd there an end. But what say you to Thursday?\n\nPARIS.\nMy lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow.\n\nCAPULET.\nWell, get you gone. A Thursday be it then.\nGo you to Juliet ere you go to bed,\nPrepare her, wife, against this wedding day.\nFarewell, my lord.—Light to my chamber, ho!\nAfore me, it is so very very late that we\nMay call it early by and by. Good night.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo and Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nWilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.\nIt was the nightingale, and not the lark,\nThat pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear;\nNightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree.\nBelieve me, love, it was the nightingale.\n\nROMEO.\nIt was the lark, the herald of the morn,\nNo nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks\nDo lace the severing clouds in yonder east.\nNight’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day\nStands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.\nI must be gone and live, or stay and die.\n\nJULIET.\nYond light is not daylight, I know it, I.\nIt is some meteor that the sun exhales\nTo be to thee this night a torchbearer\nAnd light thee on thy way to Mantua.\nTherefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone.\n\nROMEO.\nLet me be ta’en, let me be put to death,\nI am content, so thou wilt have it so.\nI’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye,\n’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow.\nNor that is not the lark whose notes do beat\nThe vaulty heaven so high above our heads.\nI have more care to stay than will to go.\nCome, death, and welcome. Juliet wills it so.\nHow is’t, my soul? Let’s talk. It is not day.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nIt is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away.\nIt is the lark that sings so out of tune,\nStraining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.\nSome say the lark makes sweet division;\nThis doth not so, for she divideth us.\nSome say the lark and loathed toad change eyes.\nO, now I would they had chang’d voices too,\nSince arm from arm that voice doth us affray,\nHunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day.\nO now be gone, more light and light it grows.\n\nROMEO.\nMore light and light, more dark and dark our woes.\n\n Enter Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nMadam.\n\nJULIET.\nNurse?\n\nNURSE.\nYour lady mother is coming to your chamber.\nThe day is broke, be wary, look about.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nThen, window, let day in, and let life out.\n\nROMEO.\nFarewell, farewell, one kiss, and I’ll descend.\n\n [_Descends._]\n\nJULIET.\nArt thou gone so? Love, lord, ay husband, friend,\nI must hear from thee every day in the hour,\nFor in a minute there are many days.\nO, by this count I shall be much in years\nEre I again behold my Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nFarewell!\nI will omit no opportunity\nThat may convey my greetings, love, to thee.\n\nJULIET.\nO thinkest thou we shall ever meet again?\n\nROMEO.\nI doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve\nFor sweet discourses in our time to come.\n\nJULIET.\nO God! I have an ill-divining soul!\nMethinks I see thee, now thou art so low,\nAs one dead in the bottom of a tomb.\nEither my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd trust me, love, in my eye so do you.\nDry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu.\n\n [_Exit below._]\n\nJULIET.\nO Fortune, Fortune! All men call thee fickle,\nIf thou art fickle, what dost thou with him\nThat is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, Fortune;\nFor then, I hope thou wilt not keep him long\nBut send him back.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\n[_Within._] Ho, daughter, are you up?\n\nJULIET.\nWho is’t that calls? Is it my lady mother?\nIs she not down so late, or up so early?\nWhat unaccustom’d cause procures her hither?\n\n Enter Lady Capulet.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhy, how now, Juliet?\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, I am not well.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nEvermore weeping for your cousin’s death?\nWhat, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?\nAnd if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live.\nTherefore have done: some grief shows much of love,\nBut much of grief shows still some want of wit.\n\nJULIET.\nYet let me weep for such a feeling loss.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nSo shall you feel the loss, but not the friend\nWhich you weep for.\n\nJULIET.\nFeeling so the loss,\nI cannot choose but ever weep the friend.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death\nAs that the villain lives which slaughter’d him.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat villain, madam?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThat same villain Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nVillain and he be many miles asunder.\nGod pardon him. I do, with all my heart.\nAnd yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThat is because the traitor murderer lives.\n\nJULIET.\nAy madam, from the reach of these my hands.\nWould none but I might venge my cousin’s death.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe will have vengeance for it, fear thou not.\nThen weep no more. I’ll send to one in Mantua,\nWhere that same banish’d runagate doth live,\nShall give him such an unaccustom’d dram\nThat he shall soon keep Tybalt company:\nAnd then I hope thou wilt be satisfied.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nIndeed I never shall be satisfied\nWith Romeo till I behold him—dead—\nIs my poor heart so for a kinsman vex’d.\nMadam, if you could find out but a man\nTo bear a poison, I would temper it,\nThat Romeo should upon receipt thereof,\nSoon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors\nTo hear him nam’d, and cannot come to him,\nTo wreak the love I bore my cousin\nUpon his body that hath slaughter’d him.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nFind thou the means, and I’ll find such a man.\nBut now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.\n\nJULIET.\nAnd joy comes well in such a needy time.\nWhat are they, I beseech your ladyship?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, well, thou hast a careful father, child;\nOne who to put thee from thy heaviness,\nHath sorted out a sudden day of joy,\nThat thou expects not, nor I look’d not for.\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, in happy time, what day is that?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nMarry, my child, early next Thursday morn\nThe gallant, young, and noble gentleman,\nThe County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church,\nShall happily make thee there a joyful bride.\n\nJULIET.\nNow by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too,\nHe shall not make me there a joyful bride.\nI wonder at this haste, that I must wed\nEre he that should be husband comes to woo.\nI pray you tell my lord and father, madam,\nI will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear\nIt shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,\nRather than Paris. These are news indeed.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nHere comes your father, tell him so yourself,\nAnd see how he will take it at your hands.\n\n Enter Capulet and Nurse.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhen the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;\nBut for the sunset of my brother’s son\nIt rains downright.\nHow now? A conduit, girl? What, still in tears?\nEvermore showering? In one little body\nThou counterfeits a bark, a sea, a wind.\nFor still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,\nDo ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,\nSailing in this salt flood, the winds, thy sighs,\nWho raging with thy tears and they with them,\nWithout a sudden calm will overset\nThy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife?\nHave you deliver’d to her our decree?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAy, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.\nI would the fool were married to her grave.\n\nCAPULET.\nSoft. Take me with you, take me with you, wife.\nHow, will she none? Doth she not give us thanks?\nIs she not proud? Doth she not count her blest,\nUnworthy as she is, that we have wrought\nSo worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?\n\nJULIET.\nNot proud you have, but thankful that you have.\nProud can I never be of what I hate;\nBut thankful even for hate that is meant love.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow now, how now, chopp’d logic? What is this?\nProud, and, I thank you, and I thank you not;\nAnd yet not proud. Mistress minion you,\nThank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,\nBut fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next\nTo go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church,\nOr I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.\nOut, you green-sickness carrion! Out, you baggage!\nYou tallow-face!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nFie, fie! What, are you mad?\n\nJULIET.\nGood father, I beseech you on my knees,\nHear me with patience but to speak a word.\n\nCAPULET.\nHang thee young baggage, disobedient wretch!\nI tell thee what,—get thee to church a Thursday,\nOr never after look me in the face.\nSpeak not, reply not, do not answer me.\nMy fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest\nThat God had lent us but this only child;\nBut now I see this one is one too much,\nAnd that we have a curse in having her.\nOut on her, hilding.\n\nNURSE.\nGod in heaven bless her.\nYou are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.\n\n" -- "CAPULET.\nAnd why, my lady wisdom? Hold your tongue,\nGood prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.\n\nNURSE.\nI speak no treason.\n\nCAPULET.\nO God ye good-en!\n\nNURSE.\nMay not one speak?\n\nCAPULET.\nPeace, you mumbling fool!\nUtter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl,\nFor here we need it not.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nYou are too hot.\n\nCAPULET.\nGod’s bread, it makes me mad!\nDay, night, hour, ride, time, work, play,\nAlone, in company, still my care hath been\nTo have her match’d, and having now provided\nA gentleman of noble parentage,\nOf fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly allied,\nStuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,\nProportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man,\nAnd then to have a wretched puling fool,\nA whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,\nTo answer, ‘I’ll not wed, I cannot love,\nI am too young, I pray you pardon me.’\nBut, and you will not wed, I’ll pardon you.\nGraze where you will, you shall not house with me.\nLook to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.\nThursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise.\nAnd you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;\nAnd you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,\nFor by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,\nNor what is mine shall never do thee good.\nTrust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nIs there no pity sitting in the clouds,\nThat sees into the bottom of my grief?\nO sweet my mother, cast me not away,\nDelay this marriage for a month, a week,\nOr, if you do not, make the bridal bed\nIn that dim monument where Tybalt lies.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTalk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word.\nDo as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented?\nMy husband is on earth, my faith in heaven.\nHow shall that faith return again to earth,\nUnless that husband send it me from heaven\nBy leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me.\nAlack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems\nUpon so soft a subject as myself.\nWhat say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?\nSome comfort, Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, here it is.\nRomeo is banished; and all the world to nothing\nThat he dares ne’er come back to challenge you.\nOr if he do, it needs must be by stealth.\nThen, since the case so stands as now it doth,\nI think it best you married with the County.\nO, he’s a lovely gentleman.\nRomeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,\nHath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye\nAs Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,\nI think you are happy in this second match,\nFor it excels your first: or if it did not,\nYour first is dead, or ’twere as good he were,\nAs living here and you no use of him.\n\nJULIET.\nSpeakest thou from thy heart?\n\nNURSE.\nAnd from my soul too,\nOr else beshrew them both.\n\nJULIET.\nAmen.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat?\n\nJULIET.\nWell, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\nGo in, and tell my lady I am gone,\nHaving displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,\nTo make confession and to be absolv’d.\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, I will; and this is wisely done.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\nIf all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\n" -- "PARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\nPARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society.\nNow do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife.\n\nPARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nI will confess to you that I love him.\n\nPARIS.\nSo will ye, I am sure, that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf I do so, it will be of more price,\nBeing spoke behind your back than to your face.\n\nPARIS.\nPoor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.\n\nJULIET.\nThe tears have got small victory by that;\nFor it was bad enough before their spite.\n\nPARIS.\nThou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.\n\nJULIET.\nThat is no slander, sir, which is a truth,\nAnd what I spake, I spake it to my face.\n\nPARIS.\nThy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.\n\nJULIET.\nIt may be so, for it is not mine own.\nAre you at leisure, holy father, now,\nOr shall I come to you at evening mass?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nMy leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.—\nMy lord, we must entreat the time alone.\n\nPARIS.\nGod shield I should disturb devotion!—\nJuliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye,\nTill then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO shut the door, and when thou hast done so,\nCome weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO Juliet, I already know thy grief;\nIt strains me past the compass of my wits.\nI hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,\nOn Thursday next be married to this County.\n\nJULIET.\nTell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this,\nUnless thou tell me how I may prevent it.\nIf in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,\nDo thou but call my resolution wise,\nAnd with this knife I’ll help it presently.\nGod join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;\nAnd ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d,\nShall be the label to another deed,\nOr my true heart with treacherous revolt\nTurn to another, this shall slay them both.\nTherefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,\nGive me some present counsel, or behold\n’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife\nShall play the empire, arbitrating that\nWhich the commission of thy years and art\nCould to no issue of true honour bring.\nBe not so long to speak. I long to die,\nIf what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope,\nWhich craves as desperate an execution\nAs that is desperate which we would prevent.\nIf, rather than to marry County Paris\nThou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,\nThen is it likely thou wilt undertake\nA thing like death to chide away this shame,\nThat cop’st with death himself to scape from it.\nAnd if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy.\n\n" +- "CAPULET.\nAnd why, my lady wisdom? Hold your tongue,\nGood prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.\n\nNURSE.\nI speak no treason.\n\nCAPULET.\nO God ye good-en!\n\nNURSE.\nMay not one speak?\n\nCAPULET.\nPeace, you mumbling fool!\nUtter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl,\nFor here we need it not.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nYou are too hot.\n\nCAPULET.\nGod’s bread, it makes me mad!\nDay, night, hour, ride, time, work, play,\nAlone, in company, still my care hath been\nTo have her match’d, and having now provided\nA gentleman of noble parentage,\nOf fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly allied,\nStuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,\nProportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man,\nAnd then to have a wretched puling fool,\nA whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,\nTo answer, ‘I’ll not wed, I cannot love,\nI am too young, I pray you pardon me.’\nBut, and you will not wed, I’ll pardon you.\nGraze where you will, you shall not house with me.\nLook to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.\nThursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise.\nAnd you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;\nAnd you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,\nFor by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,\nNor what is mine shall never do thee good.\nTrust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nIs there no pity sitting in the clouds,\nThat sees into the bottom of my grief?\nO sweet my mother, cast me not away,\nDelay this marriage for a month, a week,\nOr, if you do not, make the bridal bed\nIn that dim monument where Tybalt lies.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTalk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word.\nDo as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented?\nMy husband is on earth, my faith in heaven.\nHow shall that faith return again to earth,\nUnless that husband send it me from heaven\nBy leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me.\nAlack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems\nUpon so soft a subject as myself.\nWhat say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?\nSome comfort, Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, here it is.\nRomeo is banished; and all the world to nothing\nThat he dares ne’er come back to challenge you.\nOr if he do, it needs must be by stealth.\nThen, since the case so stands as now it doth,\nI think it best you married with the County.\nO, he’s a lovely gentleman.\nRomeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,\nHath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye\nAs Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,\nI think you are happy in this second match,\nFor it excels your first: or if it did not,\nYour first is dead, or ’twere as good he were,\nAs living here and you no use of him.\n\nJULIET.\nSpeakest thou from thy heart?\n\nNURSE.\nAnd from my soul too,\nOr else beshrew them both.\n\nJULIET.\nAmen.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat?\n\nJULIET.\nWell, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\nGo in, and tell my lady I am gone,\nHaving displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,\nTo make confession and to be absolv’d.\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, I will; and this is wisely done.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\nIf all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\nPARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society.\nNow do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife.\n\nPARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nI will confess to you that I love him.\n\nPARIS.\nSo will ye, I am sure, that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf I do so, it will be of more price,\nBeing spoke behind your back than to your face.\n\nPARIS.\nPoor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.\n\nJULIET.\nThe tears have got small victory by that;\nFor it was bad enough before their spite.\n\nPARIS.\nThou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.\n\nJULIET.\nThat is no slander, sir, which is a truth,\nAnd what I spake, I spake it to my face.\n\nPARIS.\nThy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.\n\nJULIET.\nIt may be so, for it is not mine own.\nAre you at leisure, holy father, now,\nOr shall I come to you at evening mass?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nMy leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.—\nMy lord, we must entreat the time alone.\n\nPARIS.\nGod shield I should disturb devotion!—\nJuliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye,\nTill then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO shut the door, and when thou hast done so,\nCome weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO Juliet, I already know thy grief;\nIt strains me past the compass of my wits.\nI hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,\nOn Thursday next be married to this County.\n\nJULIET.\nTell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this,\nUnless thou tell me how I may prevent it.\nIf in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,\nDo thou but call my resolution wise,\nAnd with this knife I’ll help it presently.\nGod join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;\nAnd ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d,\nShall be the label to another deed,\nOr my true heart with treacherous revolt\nTurn to another, this shall slay them both.\nTherefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,\nGive me some present counsel, or behold\n’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife\nShall play the empire, arbitrating that\nWhich the commission of thy years and art\nCould to no issue of true honour bring.\nBe not so long to speak. I long to die,\nIf what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope,\nWhich craves as desperate an execution\nAs that is desperate which we would prevent.\nIf, rather than to marry County Paris\nThou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,\nThen is it likely thou wilt undertake\nA thing like death to chide away this shame,\nThat cop’st with death himself to scape from it.\nAnd if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy.\n\n" - "JULIET.\nO, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,\nFrom off the battlements of yonder tower,\nOr walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk\nWhere serpents are. Chain me with roaring bears;\nOr hide me nightly in a charnel-house,\nO’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones,\nWith reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls.\nOr bid me go into a new-made grave,\nAnd hide me with a dead man in his shroud;\nThings that, to hear them told, have made me tremble,\nAnd I will do it without fear or doubt,\nTo live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold then. Go home, be merry, give consent\nTo marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow;\nTomorrow night look that thou lie alone,\nLet not thy Nurse lie with thee in thy chamber.\nTake thou this vial, being then in bed,\nAnd this distilled liquor drink thou off,\nWhen presently through all thy veins shall run\nA cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse\nShall keep his native progress, but surcease.\nNo warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest,\nThe roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade\nTo paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall,\nLike death when he shuts up the day of life.\nEach part depriv’d of supple government,\nShall stiff and stark and cold appear like death.\nAnd in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death\nThou shalt continue two and forty hours,\nAnd then awake as from a pleasant sleep.\nNow when the bridegroom in the morning comes\nTo rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.\nThen as the manner of our country is,\nIn thy best robes, uncover’d, on the bier,\nThou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault\nWhere all the kindred of the Capulets lie.\nIn the meantime, against thou shalt awake,\nShall Romeo by my letters know our drift,\nAnd hither shall he come, and he and I\nWill watch thy waking, and that very night\nShall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.\nAnd this shall free thee from this present shame,\nIf no inconstant toy nor womanish fear\nAbate thy valour in the acting it.\n\nJULIET.\nGive me, give me! O tell not me of fear!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous\nIn this resolve. I’ll send a friar with speed\nTo Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.\n\nJULIET.\nLove give me strength, and strength shall help afford.\nFarewell, dear father.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse and Servants.\n\nCAPULET.\nSo many guests invite as here are writ.\n\n [_Exit first Servant._]\n\nSirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nYou shall have none ill, sir; for I’ll try if they can lick their\nfingers.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow canst thou try them so?\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nMarry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers;\ntherefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo, begone.\n\n [_Exit second Servant._]\n\nWe shall be much unfurnish’d for this time.\nWhat, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence?\n\nNURSE.\nAy, forsooth.\n\nCAPULET.\nWell, he may chance to do some good on her.\nA peevish self-will’d harlotry it is.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nNURSE.\nSee where she comes from shrift with merry look.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow now, my headstrong. Where have you been gadding?\n\nJULIET.\nWhere I have learnt me to repent the sin\nOf disobedient opposition\nTo you and your behests; and am enjoin’d\nBy holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here,\nTo beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you.\nHenceforward I am ever rul’d by you.\n\nCAPULET.\nSend for the County, go tell him of this.\nI’ll have this knot knit up tomorrow morning.\n\nJULIET.\nI met the youthful lord at Lawrence’ cell,\nAnd gave him what becomed love I might,\nNot stepping o’er the bounds of modesty.\n\n" - "CAPULET.\nWhy, I am glad on’t. This is well. Stand up.\nThis is as’t should be. Let me see the County.\nAy, marry. Go, I say, and fetch him hither.\nNow afore God, this reverend holy Friar,\nAll our whole city is much bound to him.\n\nJULIET.\nNurse, will you go with me into my closet,\nTo help me sort such needful ornaments\nAs you think fit to furnish me tomorrow?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNo, not till Thursday. There is time enough.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo, Nurse, go with her. We’ll to church tomorrow.\n\n [_Exeunt Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe shall be short in our provision,\n’Tis now near night.\n\nCAPULET.\nTush, I will stir about,\nAnd all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife.\nGo thou to Juliet, help to deck up her.\nI’ll not to bed tonight, let me alone.\nI’ll play the housewife for this once.—What, ho!—\nThey are all forth: well, I will walk myself\nTo County Paris, to prepare him up\nAgainst tomorrow. My heart is wondrous light\nSince this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Juliet’s Chamber.\n\n Enter Juliet and Nurse.\n\nJULIET.\nAy, those attires are best. But, gentle Nurse,\nI pray thee leave me to myself tonight;\nFor I have need of many orisons\nTo move the heavens to smile upon my state,\nWhich, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat, are you busy, ho? Need you my help?\n\nJULIET.\nNo, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries\nAs are behoveful for our state tomorrow.\nSo please you, let me now be left alone,\nAnd let the nurse this night sit up with you,\nFor I am sure you have your hands full all\nIn this so sudden business.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nGood night.\nGet thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need.\n\n [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nFarewell. God knows when we shall meet again.\nI have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins\nThat almost freezes up the heat of life.\nI’ll call them back again to comfort me.\nNurse!—What should she do here?\nMy dismal scene I needs must act alone.\nCome, vial.\nWhat if this mixture do not work at all?\nShall I be married then tomorrow morning?\nNo, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there.\n\n [_Laying down her dagger._]\n\nWhat if it be a poison, which the Friar\nSubtly hath minister’d to have me dead,\nLest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d,\nBecause he married me before to Romeo?\nI fear it is. And yet methinks it should not,\nFor he hath still been tried a holy man.\nHow if, when I am laid into the tomb,\nI wake before the time that Romeo\nCome to redeem me? There’s a fearful point!\nShall I not then be stifled in the vault,\nTo whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,\nAnd there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?\nOr, if I live, is it not very like,\nThe horrible conceit of death and night,\nTogether with the terror of the place,\nAs in a vault, an ancient receptacle,\nWhere for this many hundred years the bones\nOf all my buried ancestors are pack’d,\nWhere bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,\nLies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,\nAt some hours in the night spirits resort—\nAlack, alack, is it not like that I,\nSo early waking, what with loathsome smells,\nAnd shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,\nThat living mortals, hearing them, run mad.\nO, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,\nEnvironed with all these hideous fears,\nAnd madly play with my forefathers’ joints?\nAnd pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?\nAnd, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone,\nAs with a club, dash out my desperate brains?\nO look, methinks I see my cousin’s ghost\nSeeking out Romeo that did spit his body\nUpon a rapier’s point. Stay, Tybalt, stay!\nRomeo, Romeo, Romeo, here’s drink! I drink to thee.\n\n" - " [_Throws herself on the bed._]\n\nSCENE IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nHold, take these keys and fetch more spices, Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nThey call for dates and quinces in the pastry.\n\n Enter Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nCome, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow’d,\nThe curfew bell hath rung, ’tis three o’clock.\nLook to the bak’d meats, good Angelica;\nSpare not for cost.\n\nNURSE.\nGo, you cot-quean, go,\nGet you to bed; faith, you’ll be sick tomorrow\nFor this night’s watching.\n\nCAPULET.\nNo, not a whit. What! I have watch’d ere now\nAll night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAy, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time;\nBut I will watch you from such watching now.\n\n [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._]\n\nCAPULET.\nA jealous-hood, a jealous-hood!\n\n Enter Servants, with spits, logs and baskets.\n\nNow, fellow, what’s there?\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nThings for the cook, sir; but I know not what.\n\nCAPULET.\nMake haste, make haste.\n\n [_Exit First Servant._]\n\n—Sirrah, fetch drier logs.\nCall Peter, he will show thee where they are.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nI have a head, sir, that will find out logs\nAnd never trouble Peter for the matter.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nCAPULET.\nMass and well said; a merry whoreson, ha.\nThou shalt be loggerhead.—Good faith, ’tis day.\nThe County will be here with music straight,\nFor so he said he would. I hear him near.\n\n [_Play music._]\n\nNurse! Wife! What, ho! What, Nurse, I say!\n\n Re-enter Nurse.\n\nGo waken Juliet, go and trim her up.\nI’ll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste,\nMake haste; the bridegroom he is come already.\nMake haste I say.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n Enter Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nMistress! What, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she.\nWhy, lamb, why, lady, fie, you slug-abed!\nWhy, love, I say! Madam! Sweetheart! Why, bride!\nWhat, not a word? You take your pennyworths now.\nSleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,\nThe County Paris hath set up his rest\nThat you shall rest but little. God forgive me!\nMarry and amen. How sound is she asleep!\nI needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam!\nAy, let the County take you in your bed,\nHe’ll fright you up, i’faith. Will it not be?\nWhat, dress’d, and in your clothes, and down again?\nI must needs wake you. Lady! Lady! Lady!\nAlas, alas! Help, help! My lady’s dead!\nO, well-a-day that ever I was born.\nSome aqua vitae, ho! My lord! My lady!\n\n Enter Lady Capulet.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat noise is here?\n\nNURSE.\nO lamentable day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat is the matter?\n\nNURSE.\nLook, look! O heavy day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO me, O me! My child, my only life.\nRevive, look up, or I will die with thee.\nHelp, help! Call help.\n\n Enter Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nFor shame, bring Juliet forth, her lord is come.\n\nNURSE.\nShe’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead; alack the day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAlack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead!\n\nCAPULET.\nHa! Let me see her. Out alas! She’s cold,\nHer blood is settled and her joints are stiff.\nLife and these lips have long been separated.\nDeath lies on her like an untimely frost\nUpon the sweetest flower of all the field.\n\nNURSE.\nO lamentable day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO woful time!\n\nCAPULET.\nDeath, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail,\nTies up my tongue and will not let me speak.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris with Musicians.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, is the bride ready to go to church?\n\n" - "CAPULET.\nReady to go, but never to return.\nO son, the night before thy wedding day\nHath death lain with thy bride. There she lies,\nFlower as she was, deflowered by him.\nDeath is my son-in-law, death is my heir;\nMy daughter he hath wedded. I will die.\nAnd leave him all; life, living, all is death’s.\n\nPARIS.\nHave I thought long to see this morning’s face,\nAnd doth it give me such a sight as this?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAccurs’d, unhappy, wretched, hateful day.\nMost miserable hour that e’er time saw\nIn lasting labour of his pilgrimage.\nBut one, poor one, one poor and loving child,\nBut one thing to rejoice and solace in,\nAnd cruel death hath catch’d it from my sight.\n\nNURSE.\nO woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day.\nMost lamentable day, most woeful day\nThat ever, ever, I did yet behold!\nO day, O day, O day, O hateful day.\nNever was seen so black a day as this.\nO woeful day, O woeful day.\n\nPARIS.\nBeguil’d, divorced, wronged, spited, slain.\nMost detestable death, by thee beguil’d,\nBy cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown.\nO love! O life! Not life, but love in death!\n\nCAPULET.\nDespis’d, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d.\nUncomfortable time, why cam’st thou now\nTo murder, murder our solemnity?\nO child! O child! My soul, and not my child,\nDead art thou. Alack, my child is dead,\nAnd with my child my joys are buried.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nPeace, ho, for shame. Confusion’s cure lives not\nIn these confusions. Heaven and yourself\nHad part in this fair maid, now heaven hath all,\nAnd all the better is it for the maid.\nYour part in her you could not keep from death,\nBut heaven keeps his part in eternal life.\nThe most you sought was her promotion,\nFor ’twas your heaven she should be advanc’d,\nAnd weep ye now, seeing she is advanc’d\nAbove the clouds, as high as heaven itself?\nO, in this love, you love your child so ill\nThat you run mad, seeing that she is well.\nShe’s not well married that lives married long,\nBut she’s best married that dies married young.\nDry up your tears, and stick your rosemary\nOn this fair corse, and, as the custom is,\nAnd in her best array bear her to church;\nFor though fond nature bids us all lament,\nYet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment.\n\nCAPULET.\nAll things that we ordained festival\nTurn from their office to black funeral:\nOur instruments to melancholy bells,\nOur wedding cheer to a sad burial feast;\nOur solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;\nOur bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,\nAnd all things change them to the contrary.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSir, go you in, and, madam, go with him,\nAnd go, Sir Paris, everyone prepare\nTo follow this fair corse unto her grave.\nThe heavens do lower upon you for some ill;\nMove them no more by crossing their high will.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris and Friar._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nFaith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.\n\nNURSE.\nHonest good fellows, ah, put up, put up,\nFor well you know this is a pitiful case.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nAy, by my troth, the case may be amended.\n\n [_Exit Nurse._]\n\n Enter Peter.\n\nPETER.\nMusicians, O, musicians, ‘Heart’s ease,’ ‘Heart’s ease’, O, and you\nwill have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhy ‘Heart’s ease’?\n\nPETER.\nO musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full’. O play\nme some merry dump to comfort me.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nNot a dump we, ’tis no time to play now.\n\nPETER.\nYou will not then?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nNo.\n\nPETER.\nI will then give it you soundly.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat will you give us?\n\nPETER.\nNo money, on my faith, but the gleek! I will give you the minstrel.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nThen will I give you the serving-creature.\n\n" -- "PETER.\nThen will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate. I will\ncarry no crotchets. I’ll re you, I’ll fa you. Do you note me?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nAnd you re us and fa us, you note us.\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nPray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.\n\nPETER.\nThen have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and\nput up my iron dagger. Answer me like men.\n ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound,\n And doleful dumps the mind oppress,\n Then music with her silver sound’—\nWhy ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you,\nSimon Catling?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nMarry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.\n\nPETER.\nPrates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck?\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nI say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.\n\nPETER.\nPrates too! What say you, James Soundpost?\n\nTHIRD MUSICIAN.\nFaith, I know not what to say.\n\nPETER.\nO, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is\n‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for\nsounding.\n ‘Then music with her silver sound\n With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,\nThat I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nThen she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleeps in Capel’s monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you.\nO pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nIs it even so? Then I defy you, stars!\nThou know’st my lodging. Get me ink and paper,\nAnd hire post-horses. I will hence tonight.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI do beseech you sir, have patience.\nYour looks are pale and wild, and do import\nSome misadventure.\n\nROMEO.\nTush, thou art deceiv’d.\nLeave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.\nHast thou no letters to me from the Friar?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nNo, my good lord.\n\nROMEO.\nNo matter. Get thee gone,\nAnd hire those horses. I’ll be with thee straight.\n\n [_Exit Balthasar._]\n\n" -- "Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight.\nLet’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift\nTo enter in the thoughts of desperate men.\nI do remember an apothecary,—\nAnd hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted\nIn tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,\nCulling of simples, meagre were his looks,\nSharp misery had worn him to the bones;\nAnd in his needy shop a tortoise hung,\nAn alligator stuff’d, and other skins\nOf ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves\nA beggarly account of empty boxes,\nGreen earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,\nRemnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses\nWere thinly scatter’d, to make up a show.\nNoting this penury, to myself I said,\nAnd if a man did need a poison now,\nWhose sale is present death in Mantua,\nHere lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.\nO, this same thought did but forerun my need,\nAnd this same needy man must sell it me.\nAs I remember, this should be the house.\nBeing holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.\nWhat, ho! Apothecary!\n\n Enter Apothecary.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nWho calls so loud?\n\nROMEO.\nCome hither, man. I see that thou art poor.\nHold, there is forty ducats. Let me have\nA dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear\nAs will disperse itself through all the veins,\nThat the life-weary taker may fall dead,\nAnd that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath\nAs violently as hasty powder fir’d\nDoth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nSuch mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law\nIs death to any he that utters them.\n\nROMEO.\nArt thou so bare and full of wretchedness,\nAnd fear’st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks,\nNeed and oppression starveth in thine eyes,\nContempt and beggary hangs upon thy back.\nThe world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law;\nThe world affords no law to make thee rich;\nThen be not poor, but break it and take this.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nMy poverty, but not my will consents.\n\nROMEO.\nI pay thy poverty, and not thy will.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nPut this in any liquid thing you will\nAnd drink it off; and, if you had the strength\nOf twenty men, it would despatch you straight.\n\nROMEO.\nThere is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls,\nDoing more murder in this loathsome world\nThan these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.\nI sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.\nFarewell, buy food, and get thyself in flesh.\nCome, cordial and not poison, go with me\nTo Juliet’s grave, for there must I use thee.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar John.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nHoly Franciscan Friar! Brother, ho!\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThis same should be the voice of Friar John.\nWelcome from Mantua. What says Romeo?\nOr, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nGoing to find a barefoot brother out,\nOne of our order, to associate me,\nHere in this city visiting the sick,\nAnd finding him, the searchers of the town,\nSuspecting that we both were in a house\nWhere the infectious pestilence did reign,\nSeal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth,\nSo that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWho bare my letter then to Romeo?\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nI could not send it,—here it is again,—\nNor get a messenger to bring it thee,\nSo fearful were they of infection.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nUnhappy fortune! By my brotherhood,\nThe letter was not nice, but full of charge,\nOf dear import, and the neglecting it\nMay do much danger. Friar John, go hence,\nGet me an iron crow and bring it straight\nUnto my cell.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nBrother, I’ll go and bring it thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n" -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNow must I to the monument alone.\nWithin this three hours will fair Juliet wake.\nShe will beshrew me much that Romeo\nHath had no notice of these accidents;\nBut I will write again to Mantua,\nAnd keep her at my cell till Romeo come.\nPoor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch.\n\nPARIS.\nGive me thy torch, boy. Hence and stand aloof.\nYet put it out, for I would not be seen.\nUnder yond yew tree lay thee all along,\nHolding thy ear close to the hollow ground;\nSo shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,\nBeing loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,\nBut thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me,\nAs signal that thou hear’st something approach.\nGive me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.\n\nPAGE.\n[_Aside._] I am almost afraid to stand alone\nHere in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\nPARIS.\nSweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew.\nO woe, thy canopy is dust and stones,\nWhich with sweet water nightly I will dew,\nOr wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans.\nThe obsequies that I for thee will keep,\nNightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.\n\n [_The Page whistles._]\n\nThe boy gives warning something doth approach.\nWhat cursed foot wanders this way tonight,\nTo cross my obsequies and true love’s rite?\nWhat, with a torch! Muffle me, night, awhile.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\n Enter Romeo and Balthasar with a torch, mattock, &c.\n\nROMEO.\nGive me that mattock and the wrenching iron.\nHold, take this letter; early in the morning\nSee thou deliver it to my lord and father.\nGive me the light; upon thy life I charge thee,\nWhate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof\nAnd do not interrupt me in my course.\nWhy I descend into this bed of death\nIs partly to behold my lady’s face,\nBut chiefly to take thence from her dead finger\nA precious ring, a ring that I must use\nIn dear employment. Therefore hence, be gone.\nBut if thou jealous dost return to pry\nIn what I further shall intend to do,\nBy heaven I will tear thee joint by joint,\nAnd strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs.\nThe time and my intents are savage-wild;\nMore fierce and more inexorable far\nThan empty tigers or the roaring sea.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.\n\nROMEO.\nSo shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that.\nLive, and be prosperous, and farewell, good fellow.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nFor all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout.\nHis looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.\n\n [_Retires_]\n\nROMEO.\nThou detestable maw, thou womb of death,\nGorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth,\nThus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,\n\n [_Breaking open the door of the monument._]\n\nAnd in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food.\n\nPARIS.\nThis is that banish’d haughty Montague\nThat murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief,\nIt is supposed, the fair creature died,—\nAnd here is come to do some villanous shame\nTo the dead bodies. I will apprehend him.\n\n [_Advances._]\n\nStop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague.\nCan vengeance be pursu’d further than death?\nCondemned villain, I do apprehend thee.\nObey, and go with me, for thou must die.\n\nROMEO.\nI must indeed; and therefore came I hither.\nGood gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man.\nFly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone;\nLet them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,\nPut not another sin upon my head\nBy urging me to fury. O be gone.\nBy heaven I love thee better than myself;\nFor I come hither arm’d against myself.\nStay not, be gone, live, and hereafter say,\nA madman’s mercy bid thee run away.\n\nPARIS.\nI do defy thy conjuration,\nAnd apprehend thee for a felon here.\n\nROMEO.\nWilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy!\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nPAGE.\nO lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n" -- "PARIS.\nO, I am slain! [_Falls._] If thou be merciful,\nOpen the tomb, lay me with Juliet.\n\n [_Dies._]\n\nROMEO.\nIn faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.\nMercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris!\nWhat said my man, when my betossed soul\nDid not attend him as we rode? I think\nHe told me Paris should have married Juliet.\nSaid he not so? Or did I dream it so?\nOr am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,\nTo think it was so? O, give me thy hand,\nOne writ with me in sour misfortune’s book.\nI’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave.\nA grave? O no, a lantern, slaught’red youth,\nFor here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes\nThis vault a feasting presence full of light.\nDeath, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d.\n\n [_Laying Paris in the monument._]\n\nHow oft when men are at the point of death\nHave they been merry! Which their keepers call\nA lightning before death. O, how may I\nCall this a lightning? O my love, my wife,\nDeath that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath,\nHath had no power yet upon thy beauty.\nThou art not conquer’d. Beauty’s ensign yet\nIs crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,\nAnd death’s pale flag is not advanced there.\nTybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?\nO, what more favour can I do to thee\nThan with that hand that cut thy youth in twain\nTo sunder his that was thine enemy?\nForgive me, cousin. Ah, dear Juliet,\nWhy art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe\nThat unsubstantial death is amorous;\nAnd that the lean abhorred monster keeps\nThee here in dark to be his paramour?\nFor fear of that I still will stay with thee,\nAnd never from this palace of dim night\nDepart again. Here, here will I remain\nWith worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here\nWill I set up my everlasting rest;\nAnd shake the yoke of inauspicious stars\nFrom this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last.\nArms, take your last embrace! And, lips, O you\nThe doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss\nA dateless bargain to engrossing death.\nCome, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide.\nThou desperate pilot, now at once run on\nThe dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark.\nHere’s to my love! [_Drinks._] O true apothecary!\nThy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.\n\n [_Dies._]\n\n Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, Friar Lawrence, with a\n lantern, crow, and spade.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSaint Francis be my speed. How oft tonight\nHave my old feet stumbled at graves? Who’s there?\nWho is it that consorts, so late, the dead?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nHere’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nBliss be upon you. Tell me, good my friend,\nWhat torch is yond that vainly lends his light\nTo grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern,\nIt burneth in the Capels’ monument.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nIt doth so, holy sir, and there’s my master,\nOne that you love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWho is it?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nRomeo.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHow long hath he been there?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nFull half an hour.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nGo with me to the vault.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI dare not, sir;\nMy master knows not but I am gone hence,\nAnd fearfully did menace me with death\nIf I did stay to look on his intents.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nStay then, I’ll go alone. Fear comes upon me.\nO, much I fear some ill unlucky thing.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nAs I did sleep under this yew tree here,\nI dreamt my master and another fought,\nAnd that my master slew him.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo! [_Advances._]\nAlack, alack, what blood is this which stains\nThe stony entrance of this sepulchre?\nWhat mean these masterless and gory swords\nTo lie discolour’d by this place of peace?\n\n [_Enters the monument._]\n\n" -- "Romeo! O, pale! Who else? What, Paris too?\nAnd steep’d in blood? Ah what an unkind hour\nIs guilty of this lamentable chance?\nThe lady stirs.\n\n [_Juliet wakes and stirs._]\n\nJULIET.\nO comfortable Friar, where is my lord?\nI do remember well where I should be,\nAnd there I am. Where is my Romeo?\n\n [_Noise within._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest\nOf death, contagion, and unnatural sleep.\nA greater power than we can contradict\nHath thwarted our intents. Come, come away.\nThy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;\nAnd Paris too. Come, I’ll dispose of thee\nAmong a sisterhood of holy nuns.\nStay not to question, for the watch is coming.\nCome, go, good Juliet. I dare no longer stay.\n\nJULIET.\nGo, get thee hence, for I will not away.\n\n [_Exit Friar Lawrence._]\n\nWhat’s here? A cup clos’d in my true love’s hand?\nPoison, I see, hath been his timeless end.\nO churl. Drink all, and left no friendly drop\nTo help me after? I will kiss thy lips.\nHaply some poison yet doth hang on them,\nTo make me die with a restorative.\n\n [_Kisses him._]\n\nThy lips are warm!\n\nFIRST WATCH.\n[_Within._] Lead, boy. Which way?\n\nJULIET.\nYea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger.\n\n [_Snatching Romeo’s dagger._]\n\nThis is thy sheath. [_stabs herself_] There rest, and let me die.\n\n [_Falls on Romeo’s body and dies._]\n\n Enter Watch with the Page of Paris.\n\nPAGE.\nThis is the place. There, where the torch doth burn.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nThe ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard.\nGo, some of you, whoe’er you find attach.\n\n [_Exeunt some of the Watch._]\n\nPitiful sight! Here lies the County slain,\nAnd Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,\nWho here hath lain this two days buried.\nGo tell the Prince; run to the Capulets.\nRaise up the Montagues, some others search.\n\n [_Exeunt others of the Watch._]\n\nWe see the ground whereon these woes do lie,\nBut the true ground of all these piteous woes\nWe cannot without circumstance descry.\n\n Re-enter some of the Watch with Balthasar.\n\nSECOND WATCH.\nHere’s Romeo’s man. We found him in the churchyard.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nHold him in safety till the Prince come hither.\n\n Re-enter others of the Watch with Friar Lawrence.\n\nTHIRD WATCH. Here is a Friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps.\nWe took this mattock and this spade from him\nAs he was coming from this churchyard side.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nA great suspicion. Stay the Friar too.\n\n Enter the Prince and Attendants.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhat misadventure is so early up,\nThat calls our person from our morning’s rest?\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and others.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat should it be that they so shriek abroad?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO the people in the street cry Romeo,\nSome Juliet, and some Paris, and all run\nWith open outcry toward our monument.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhat fear is this which startles in our ears?\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nSovereign, here lies the County Paris slain,\nAnd Romeo dead, and Juliet, dead before,\nWarm and new kill’d.\n\nPRINCE.\nSearch, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nHere is a Friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man,\nWith instruments upon them fit to open\nThese dead men’s tombs.\n\nCAPULET.\nO heaven! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!\nThis dagger hath mista’en, for lo, his house\nIs empty on the back of Montague,\nAnd it mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO me! This sight of death is as a bell\nThat warns my old age to a sepulchre.\n\n Enter Montague and others.\n\nPRINCE.\nCome, Montague, for thou art early up,\nTo see thy son and heir more early down.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nAlas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight.\nGrief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath.\nWhat further woe conspires against mine age?\n\nPRINCE.\nLook, and thou shalt see.\n\n" -- "MONTAGUE.\nO thou untaught! What manners is in this,\nTo press before thy father to a grave?\n\nPRINCE.\nSeal up the mouth of outrage for a while,\nTill we can clear these ambiguities,\nAnd know their spring, their head, their true descent,\nAnd then will I be general of your woes,\nAnd lead you even to death. Meantime forbear,\nAnd let mischance be slave to patience.\nBring forth the parties of suspicion.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI am the greatest, able to do least,\nYet most suspected, as the time and place\nDoth make against me, of this direful murder.\nAnd here I stand, both to impeach and purge\nMyself condemned and myself excus’d.\n\nPRINCE.\nThen say at once what thou dost know in this.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI will be brief, for my short date of breath\nIs not so long as is a tedious tale.\nRomeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet,\nAnd she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife.\nI married them; and their stol’n marriage day\nWas Tybalt’s doomsday, whose untimely death\nBanish’d the new-made bridegroom from this city;\nFor whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin’d.\nYou, to remove that siege of grief from her,\nBetroth’d, and would have married her perforce\nTo County Paris. Then comes she to me,\nAnd with wild looks, bid me devise some means\nTo rid her from this second marriage,\nOr in my cell there would she kill herself.\nThen gave I her, so tutored by my art,\nA sleeping potion, which so took effect\nAs I intended, for it wrought on her\nThe form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo\nThat he should hither come as this dire night\nTo help to take her from her borrow’d grave,\nBeing the time the potion’s force should cease.\nBut he which bore my letter, Friar John,\nWas stay’d by accident; and yesternight\nReturn’d my letter back. Then all alone\nAt the prefixed hour of her waking\nCame I to take her from her kindred’s vault,\nMeaning to keep her closely at my cell\nTill I conveniently could send to Romeo.\nBut when I came, some minute ere the time\nOf her awaking, here untimely lay\nThe noble Paris and true Romeo dead.\nShe wakes; and I entreated her come forth\nAnd bear this work of heaven with patience.\nBut then a noise did scare me from the tomb;\nAnd she, too desperate, would not go with me,\nBut, as it seems, did violence on herself.\nAll this I know; and to the marriage\nHer Nurse is privy. And if ought in this\nMiscarried by my fault, let my old life\nBe sacrific’d, some hour before his time,\nUnto the rigour of severest law.\n\nPRINCE.\nWe still have known thee for a holy man.\nWhere’s Romeo’s man? What can he say to this?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI brought my master news of Juliet’s death,\nAnd then in post he came from Mantua\nTo this same place, to this same monument.\nThis letter he early bid me give his father,\nAnd threaten’d me with death, going in the vault,\nIf I departed not, and left him there.\n\nPRINCE.\nGive me the letter, I will look on it.\nWhere is the County’s Page that rais’d the watch?\nSirrah, what made your master in this place?\n\nPAGE.\nHe came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave,\nAnd bid me stand aloof, and so I did.\nAnon comes one with light to ope the tomb,\nAnd by and by my master drew on him,\nAnd then I ran away to call the watch.\n\nPRINCE.\nThis letter doth make good the Friar’s words,\nTheir course of love, the tidings of her death.\nAnd here he writes that he did buy a poison\nOf a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal\nCame to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.\nWhere be these enemies? Capulet, Montague,\nSee what a scourge is laid upon your hate,\nThat heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!\nAnd I, for winking at your discords too,\nHave lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d.\n\nCAPULET.\nO brother Montague, give me thy hand.\nThis is my daughter’s jointure, for no more\nCan I demand.\n\n" -- "MONTAGUE.\nBut I can give thee more,\nFor I will raise her statue in pure gold,\nThat whiles Verona by that name is known,\nThere shall no figure at such rate be set\nAs that of true and faithful Juliet.\n\nCAPULET.\nAs rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie,\nPoor sacrifices of our enmity.\n\nPRINCE.\nA glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun for sorrow will not show his head.\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things.\nSome shall be pardon’d, and some punished,\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the\nUnited States without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. 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I’ll re you, I’ll fa you. Do you note me?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nAnd you re us and fa us, you note us.\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nPray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.\n\nPETER.\nThen have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and\nput up my iron dagger. Answer me like men.\n ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound,\n And doleful dumps the mind oppress,\n Then music with her silver sound’—\nWhy ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you,\nSimon Catling?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nMarry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.\n\nPETER.\nPrates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck?\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nI say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.\n\nPETER.\nPrates too! What say you, James Soundpost?\n\nTHIRD MUSICIAN.\nFaith, I know not what to say.\n\nPETER.\nO, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is\n‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for\nsounding.\n ‘Then music with her silver sound\n With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,\nThat I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nThen she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleeps in Capel’s monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you.\nO pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nIs it even so? Then I defy you, stars!\nThou know’st my lodging. Get me ink and paper,\nAnd hire post-horses. I will hence tonight.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI do beseech you sir, have patience.\nYour looks are pale and wild, and do import\nSome misadventure.\n\nROMEO.\nTush, thou art deceiv’d.\nLeave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.\nHast thou no letters to me from the Friar?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nNo, my good lord.\n\nROMEO.\nNo matter. Get thee gone,\nAnd hire those horses. I’ll be with thee straight.\n\n [_Exit Balthasar._]\n\nWell, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight.\nLet’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift\nTo enter in the thoughts of desperate men.\nI do remember an apothecary,—\nAnd hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted\nIn tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,\nCulling of simples, meagre were his looks,\nSharp misery had worn him to the bones;\nAnd in his needy shop a tortoise hung,\nAn alligator stuff’d, and other skins\nOf ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves\nA beggarly account of empty boxes,\nGreen earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,\nRemnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses\nWere thinly scatter’d, to make up a show.\nNoting this penury, to myself I said,\nAnd if a man did need a poison now,\nWhose sale is present death in Mantua,\nHere lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.\nO, this same thought did but forerun my need,\nAnd this same needy man must sell it me.\nAs I remember, this should be the house.\nBeing holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.\nWhat, ho! Apothecary!\n\n Enter Apothecary.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nWho calls so loud?\n\nROMEO.\nCome hither, man. I see that thou art poor.\nHold, there is forty ducats. Let me have\nA dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear\nAs will disperse itself through all the veins,\nThat the life-weary taker may fall dead,\nAnd that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath\nAs violently as hasty powder fir’d\nDoth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nSuch mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law\nIs death to any he that utters them.\n\nROMEO.\nArt thou so bare and full of wretchedness,\nAnd fear’st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks,\nNeed and oppression starveth in thine eyes,\nContempt and beggary hangs upon thy back.\nThe world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law;\nThe world affords no law to make thee rich;\nThen be not poor, but break it and take this.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nMy poverty, but not my will consents.\n\nROMEO.\nI pay thy poverty, and not thy will.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nPut this in any liquid thing you will\nAnd drink it off; and, if you had the strength\nOf twenty men, it would despatch you straight.\n\n" +- "ROMEO.\nThere is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls,\nDoing more murder in this loathsome world\nThan these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.\nI sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.\nFarewell, buy food, and get thyself in flesh.\nCome, cordial and not poison, go with me\nTo Juliet’s grave, for there must I use thee.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar John.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nHoly Franciscan Friar! Brother, ho!\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThis same should be the voice of Friar John.\nWelcome from Mantua. What says Romeo?\nOr, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nGoing to find a barefoot brother out,\nOne of our order, to associate me,\nHere in this city visiting the sick,\nAnd finding him, the searchers of the town,\nSuspecting that we both were in a house\nWhere the infectious pestilence did reign,\nSeal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth,\nSo that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWho bare my letter then to Romeo?\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nI could not send it,—here it is again,—\nNor get a messenger to bring it thee,\nSo fearful were they of infection.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nUnhappy fortune! By my brotherhood,\nThe letter was not nice, but full of charge,\nOf dear import, and the neglecting it\nMay do much danger. Friar John, go hence,\nGet me an iron crow and bring it straight\nUnto my cell.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nBrother, I’ll go and bring it thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNow must I to the monument alone.\nWithin this three hours will fair Juliet wake.\nShe will beshrew me much that Romeo\nHath had no notice of these accidents;\nBut I will write again to Mantua,\nAnd keep her at my cell till Romeo come.\nPoor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch.\n\nPARIS.\nGive me thy torch, boy. Hence and stand aloof.\nYet put it out, for I would not be seen.\nUnder yond yew tree lay thee all along,\nHolding thy ear close to the hollow ground;\nSo shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,\nBeing loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,\nBut thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me,\nAs signal that thou hear’st something approach.\nGive me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.\n\nPAGE.\n[_Aside._] I am almost afraid to stand alone\nHere in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\nPARIS.\nSweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew.\nO woe, thy canopy is dust and stones,\nWhich with sweet water nightly I will dew,\nOr wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans.\nThe obsequies that I for thee will keep,\nNightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.\n\n [_The Page whistles._]\n\nThe boy gives warning something doth approach.\nWhat cursed foot wanders this way tonight,\nTo cross my obsequies and true love’s rite?\nWhat, with a torch! Muffle me, night, awhile.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\n Enter Romeo and Balthasar with a torch, mattock, &c.\n\nROMEO.\nGive me that mattock and the wrenching iron.\nHold, take this letter; early in the morning\nSee thou deliver it to my lord and father.\nGive me the light; upon thy life I charge thee,\nWhate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof\nAnd do not interrupt me in my course.\nWhy I descend into this bed of death\nIs partly to behold my lady’s face,\nBut chiefly to take thence from her dead finger\nA precious ring, a ring that I must use\nIn dear employment. Therefore hence, be gone.\nBut if thou jealous dost return to pry\nIn what I further shall intend to do,\nBy heaven I will tear thee joint by joint,\nAnd strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs.\nThe time and my intents are savage-wild;\nMore fierce and more inexorable far\nThan empty tigers or the roaring sea.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.\n\n" +- "ROMEO.\nSo shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that.\nLive, and be prosperous, and farewell, good fellow.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nFor all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout.\nHis looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.\n\n [_Retires_]\n\nROMEO.\nThou detestable maw, thou womb of death,\nGorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth,\nThus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,\n\n [_Breaking open the door of the monument._]\n\nAnd in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food.\n\nPARIS.\nThis is that banish’d haughty Montague\nThat murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief,\nIt is supposed, the fair creature died,—\nAnd here is come to do some villanous shame\nTo the dead bodies. I will apprehend him.\n\n [_Advances._]\n\nStop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague.\nCan vengeance be pursu’d further than death?\nCondemned villain, I do apprehend thee.\nObey, and go with me, for thou must die.\n\nROMEO.\nI must indeed; and therefore came I hither.\nGood gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man.\nFly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone;\nLet them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,\nPut not another sin upon my head\nBy urging me to fury. O be gone.\nBy heaven I love thee better than myself;\nFor I come hither arm’d against myself.\nStay not, be gone, live, and hereafter say,\nA madman’s mercy bid thee run away.\n\nPARIS.\nI do defy thy conjuration,\nAnd apprehend thee for a felon here.\n\nROMEO.\nWilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy!\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nPAGE.\nO lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nPARIS.\nO, I am slain! [_Falls._] If thou be merciful,\nOpen the tomb, lay me with Juliet.\n\n [_Dies._]\n\nROMEO.\nIn faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.\nMercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris!\nWhat said my man, when my betossed soul\nDid not attend him as we rode? I think\nHe told me Paris should have married Juliet.\nSaid he not so? Or did I dream it so?\nOr am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,\nTo think it was so? O, give me thy hand,\nOne writ with me in sour misfortune’s book.\nI’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave.\nA grave? O no, a lantern, slaught’red youth,\nFor here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes\nThis vault a feasting presence full of light.\nDeath, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d.\n\n [_Laying Paris in the monument._]\n\nHow oft when men are at the point of death\nHave they been merry! Which their keepers call\nA lightning before death. O, how may I\nCall this a lightning? O my love, my wife,\nDeath that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath,\nHath had no power yet upon thy beauty.\nThou art not conquer’d. Beauty’s ensign yet\nIs crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,\nAnd death’s pale flag is not advanced there.\nTybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?\nO, what more favour can I do to thee\nThan with that hand that cut thy youth in twain\nTo sunder his that was thine enemy?\nForgive me, cousin. Ah, dear Juliet,\nWhy art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe\nThat unsubstantial death is amorous;\nAnd that the lean abhorred monster keeps\nThee here in dark to be his paramour?\nFor fear of that I still will stay with thee,\nAnd never from this palace of dim night\nDepart again. Here, here will I remain\nWith worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here\nWill I set up my everlasting rest;\nAnd shake the yoke of inauspicious stars\nFrom this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last.\nArms, take your last embrace! And, lips, O you\nThe doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss\nA dateless bargain to engrossing death.\nCome, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide.\nThou desperate pilot, now at once run on\nThe dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark.\nHere’s to my love! [_Drinks._] O true apothecary!\nThy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.\n\n [_Dies._]\n\n" +- " Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, Friar Lawrence, with a\n lantern, crow, and spade.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSaint Francis be my speed. How oft tonight\nHave my old feet stumbled at graves? Who’s there?\nWho is it that consorts, so late, the dead?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nHere’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nBliss be upon you. Tell me, good my friend,\nWhat torch is yond that vainly lends his light\nTo grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern,\nIt burneth in the Capels’ monument.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nIt doth so, holy sir, and there’s my master,\nOne that you love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWho is it?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nRomeo.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHow long hath he been there?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nFull half an hour.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nGo with me to the vault.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI dare not, sir;\nMy master knows not but I am gone hence,\nAnd fearfully did menace me with death\nIf I did stay to look on his intents.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nStay then, I’ll go alone. Fear comes upon me.\nO, much I fear some ill unlucky thing.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nAs I did sleep under this yew tree here,\nI dreamt my master and another fought,\nAnd that my master slew him.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo! [_Advances._]\nAlack, alack, what blood is this which stains\nThe stony entrance of this sepulchre?\nWhat mean these masterless and gory swords\nTo lie discolour’d by this place of peace?\n\n [_Enters the monument._]\n\nRomeo! O, pale! Who else? What, Paris too?\nAnd steep’d in blood? Ah what an unkind hour\nIs guilty of this lamentable chance?\nThe lady stirs.\n\n [_Juliet wakes and stirs._]\n\nJULIET.\nO comfortable Friar, where is my lord?\nI do remember well where I should be,\nAnd there I am. Where is my Romeo?\n\n [_Noise within._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest\nOf death, contagion, and unnatural sleep.\nA greater power than we can contradict\nHath thwarted our intents. Come, come away.\nThy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;\nAnd Paris too. Come, I’ll dispose of thee\nAmong a sisterhood of holy nuns.\nStay not to question, for the watch is coming.\nCome, go, good Juliet. I dare no longer stay.\n\nJULIET.\nGo, get thee hence, for I will not away.\n\n [_Exit Friar Lawrence._]\n\nWhat’s here? A cup clos’d in my true love’s hand?\nPoison, I see, hath been his timeless end.\nO churl. Drink all, and left no friendly drop\nTo help me after? I will kiss thy lips.\nHaply some poison yet doth hang on them,\nTo make me die with a restorative.\n\n [_Kisses him._]\n\nThy lips are warm!\n\nFIRST WATCH.\n[_Within._] Lead, boy. Which way?\n\nJULIET.\nYea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger.\n\n [_Snatching Romeo’s dagger._]\n\nThis is thy sheath. [_stabs herself_] There rest, and let me die.\n\n [_Falls on Romeo’s body and dies._]\n\n Enter Watch with the Page of Paris.\n\nPAGE.\nThis is the place. There, where the torch doth burn.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nThe ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard.\nGo, some of you, whoe’er you find attach.\n\n [_Exeunt some of the Watch._]\n\nPitiful sight! Here lies the County slain,\nAnd Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,\nWho here hath lain this two days buried.\nGo tell the Prince; run to the Capulets.\nRaise up the Montagues, some others search.\n\n [_Exeunt others of the Watch._]\n\nWe see the ground whereon these woes do lie,\nBut the true ground of all these piteous woes\nWe cannot without circumstance descry.\n\n Re-enter some of the Watch with Balthasar.\n\nSECOND WATCH.\nHere’s Romeo’s man. We found him in the churchyard.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nHold him in safety till the Prince come hither.\n\n Re-enter others of the Watch with Friar Lawrence.\n\n" +- "THIRD WATCH. Here is a Friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps.\nWe took this mattock and this spade from him\nAs he was coming from this churchyard side.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nA great suspicion. Stay the Friar too.\n\n Enter the Prince and Attendants.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhat misadventure is so early up,\nThat calls our person from our morning’s rest?\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and others.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat should it be that they so shriek abroad?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO the people in the street cry Romeo,\nSome Juliet, and some Paris, and all run\nWith open outcry toward our monument.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhat fear is this which startles in our ears?\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nSovereign, here lies the County Paris slain,\nAnd Romeo dead, and Juliet, dead before,\nWarm and new kill’d.\n\nPRINCE.\nSearch, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nHere is a Friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man,\nWith instruments upon them fit to open\nThese dead men’s tombs.\n\nCAPULET.\nO heaven! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!\nThis dagger hath mista’en, for lo, his house\nIs empty on the back of Montague,\nAnd it mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO me! This sight of death is as a bell\nThat warns my old age to a sepulchre.\n\n Enter Montague and others.\n\nPRINCE.\nCome, Montague, for thou art early up,\nTo see thy son and heir more early down.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nAlas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight.\nGrief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath.\nWhat further woe conspires against mine age?\n\nPRINCE.\nLook, and thou shalt see.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nO thou untaught! What manners is in this,\nTo press before thy father to a grave?\n\nPRINCE.\nSeal up the mouth of outrage for a while,\nTill we can clear these ambiguities,\nAnd know their spring, their head, their true descent,\nAnd then will I be general of your woes,\nAnd lead you even to death. Meantime forbear,\nAnd let mischance be slave to patience.\nBring forth the parties of suspicion.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI am the greatest, able to do least,\nYet most suspected, as the time and place\nDoth make against me, of this direful murder.\nAnd here I stand, both to impeach and purge\nMyself condemned and myself excus’d.\n\nPRINCE.\nThen say at once what thou dost know in this.\n\n" +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI will be brief, for my short date of breath\nIs not so long as is a tedious tale.\nRomeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet,\nAnd she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife.\nI married them; and their stol’n marriage day\nWas Tybalt’s doomsday, whose untimely death\nBanish’d the new-made bridegroom from this city;\nFor whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin’d.\nYou, to remove that siege of grief from her,\nBetroth’d, and would have married her perforce\nTo County Paris. Then comes she to me,\nAnd with wild looks, bid me devise some means\nTo rid her from this second marriage,\nOr in my cell there would she kill herself.\nThen gave I her, so tutored by my art,\nA sleeping potion, which so took effect\nAs I intended, for it wrought on her\nThe form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo\nThat he should hither come as this dire night\nTo help to take her from her borrow’d grave,\nBeing the time the potion’s force should cease.\nBut he which bore my letter, Friar John,\nWas stay’d by accident; and yesternight\nReturn’d my letter back. Then all alone\nAt the prefixed hour of her waking\nCame I to take her from her kindred’s vault,\nMeaning to keep her closely at my cell\nTill I conveniently could send to Romeo.\nBut when I came, some minute ere the time\nOf her awaking, here untimely lay\nThe noble Paris and true Romeo dead.\nShe wakes; and I entreated her come forth\nAnd bear this work of heaven with patience.\nBut then a noise did scare me from the tomb;\nAnd she, too desperate, would not go with me,\nBut, as it seems, did violence on herself.\nAll this I know; and to the marriage\nHer Nurse is privy. And if ought in this\nMiscarried by my fault, let my old life\nBe sacrific’d, some hour before his time,\nUnto the rigour of severest law.\n\nPRINCE.\nWe still have known thee for a holy man.\nWhere’s Romeo’s man? What can he say to this?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI brought my master news of Juliet’s death,\nAnd then in post he came from Mantua\nTo this same place, to this same monument.\nThis letter he early bid me give his father,\nAnd threaten’d me with death, going in the vault,\nIf I departed not, and left him there.\n\nPRINCE.\nGive me the letter, I will look on it.\nWhere is the County’s Page that rais’d the watch?\nSirrah, what made your master in this place?\n\nPAGE.\nHe came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave,\nAnd bid me stand aloof, and so I did.\nAnon comes one with light to ope the tomb,\nAnd by and by my master drew on him,\nAnd then I ran away to call the watch.\n\nPRINCE.\nThis letter doth make good the Friar’s words,\nTheir course of love, the tidings of her death.\nAnd here he writes that he did buy a poison\nOf a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal\nCame to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.\nWhere be these enemies? Capulet, Montague,\nSee what a scourge is laid upon your hate,\nThat heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!\nAnd I, for winking at your discords too,\nHave lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d.\n\nCAPULET.\nO brother Montague, give me thy hand.\nThis is my daughter’s jointure, for no more\nCan I demand.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nBut I can give thee more,\nFor I will raise her statue in pure gold,\nThat whiles Verona by that name is known,\nThere shall no figure at such rate be set\nAs that of true and faithful Juliet.\n\nCAPULET.\nAs rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie,\nPoor sacrifices of our enmity.\n\nPRINCE.\nA glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun for sorrow will not show his head.\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things.\nSome shall be pardon’d, and some punished,\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n\n" +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the\nUnited States without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. 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Thus, we do not\nnecessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper\nedition.\n\nMost people start at our website which has the main PG search\nfacility: www.gutenberg.org\n\n" +- "This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap index b5cbcf5e..c7850d22 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap @@ -30,8 +30,9 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG" - " EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\n" - "THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND " -- "JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents" -- "\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\n" +- "JULIET\n\n\n\n" +- "by William Shakespeare\n\n\n" +- "Contents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\n" - "ACT I\nScene I. A public place.\n" - "Scene II. A Street.\n" - "Scene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\n" @@ -67,7 +68,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Scene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n" - "Scene III. " - A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to -- " the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ\n\n" +- " the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n" +- " Dramatis Personæ\n\n" - "ESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\n" - "MERCUTIO, kinsman to the" - " Prince, and friend to Romeo.\n" @@ -131,7 +133,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - ";\n" - "The which, if you with patient ears attend,\n" - "What here shall miss, our toil shall strive" -- " to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I\n\n" +- " to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT I\n\n" - "SCENE I. A public place.\n\n" - " Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and " - "bucklers.\n\n" @@ -1460,8 +1463,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "_]\n\n" - "NURSE.\nAnon, anon!\n" - "Come let’s away, the strangers all are gone" -- ".\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n" -- " Enter Chorus.\n\n" +- ".\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\n" - "CHORUS.\n" - Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie - ",\n" @@ -2689,7 +2692,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "For, by your leaves, you shall not stay" - " alone\n" - "Till holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n" -- " [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT III\n\n" +- " [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT III\n\n" - "SCENE I. A public Place.\n\n" - " Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page" - " and Servants.\n\n" @@ -4199,7 +4203,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - I’ll to the Friar to know his remedy - ".\n" - "If all else fail, myself have power to die" -- ".\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\n" +- ".\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT IV\n\n" - "SCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n" - " Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\n" - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\n" @@ -4956,15 +4961,16 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - ‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have - " no gold for\nsounding.\n" - " ‘Then music with her silver sound\n" -- " With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n" -- " [_Exit._]\n\n" +- " With speedy help doth lend redress.’" +- "\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n" - "FIRST MUSICIAN.\n" - "What a pestilent knave is this same!\n\n" - "SECOND MUSICIAN.\n" - "Hang him, Jack. " - "Come, we’ll in here, tarry for" - " the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n" -- " [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V\n\n" +- " [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n" +- "ACT V\n\n" - "SCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n" - " Enter Romeo.\n\n" - "ROMEO.\n" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap index 7e13bb26..a0f763ee 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap @@ -5,11 +5,13 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt --- - "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster\n\n" - "This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\n" -- "Author: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n" +- "Author: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\n" +- "CONTENTS\n\n" - " Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n" - " Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return\n\n" - " Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n" -- " Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\nChapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n" +- " Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n" - "“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”\n\n" - "“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. " - "Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\nthat was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”\n\n“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.\n\n" @@ -76,7 +78,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,\nand the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.\n\n" - "Miss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more.\n\n" - "“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,\n" -- "since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n\n\n" +- "since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n\n\n" - "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,\n" - "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.\n\n" - "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. " @@ -163,7 +166,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n" - "“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.\n\n" - "“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_.\nThere’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,\n" -- "yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n\n\n" +- "yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n\n\n" - "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.\n" - "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.\n" - "Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never.\n\n" @@ -223,7 +227,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "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 façade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun.\n\n" - "“Too late to go out,” said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. “All the galleries are shut.”\n\n“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.”\n\nHer two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:\n\n" - "“I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won’t you be better on your feet?”\n\n“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan.\n\n“Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!”\n\nBut 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.\n\n" -- "“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.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\n" +- "“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.”\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\n" - "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?\n" - "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.\nIndirectly, 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.\n\n" - "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.\n" @@ -259,7 +264,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "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;\n" - "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.\n\n“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”\n\n" -- "“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n\n\n" +- "“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n\n\n" - "It was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. " - "They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one.\n\n" - "For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure,\n" @@ -331,7 +337,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. " - "Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something,\nand though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god.\n\n" - "“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\n" -- "They passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them.\n\n\n" +- "They passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them.\n\n\n" - "It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab. " - "And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guard against imposition. " - "But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god.\n\n" @@ -396,7 +403,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Eccolo!” he exclaimed.\n\nAt the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end.\n\n“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above.\n“Courage and love.”\n\n" - "She did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view,\nand violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth.\n\n" - "Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.\nBut he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.\n\nGeorge had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.\n\n" -- "Before she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII They Return\n\n\n" +- "Before she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VII They Return\n\n\n" - "Some complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye.\n" - "Charlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. " - "Pan had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. " @@ -458,7 +466,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,\nthough she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her.\n\n" - "To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.\n\nWhether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:\n\n“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”\n\n" - "Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\n" -- "In the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval\n\n\n" +- "In the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VIII Medieval\n\n\n" - "The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,”\n" - "or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;\nwithin, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man.\n\n" - "Two pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. " @@ -542,7 +551,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present.\n\n" - "So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne,\n" - "putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped.\n" -- "Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art\n\n\n" +- "Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art\n\n\n" - "A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\nfor naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man.\n\n" - "Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers.\n\n" - "At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been.\n\n“Do you go to much of this sort of thing?” he asked when they were driving home.\n\n" @@ -567,7 +577,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything. " - "The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.\nHoneychurch?”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil,\nwho was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again.\n\n" - "Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n" -- "“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\nLet us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\n" +- "“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\n" +- "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\n" - "The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.\n" - "Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. " - "The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil.\n\n" @@ -616,7 +627,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can’t run at you, you know.”\n\nAt that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.\nAs he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them.\n\n" - "Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. " - "Lucy was standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.\n\nThey left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.\n\n" -- "“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X Cecil as a Humourist\n\n\n" +- "“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter X Cecil as a Humourist\n\n\n" - "The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,\nand, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter.\n" - "Other houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility. " - "“I cannot think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction—which few honest solicitors despise—of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable.\n\n" @@ -665,7 +677,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time.\nNo, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—”\n\n" - "“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”\n\nHe stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”\n\nHer face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago.\n\n" - "“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”\n\nShe left him.\n\n“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows.\n\n" -- "No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n\n\n" +- "No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n\n\n" - "The Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,\n" - "met Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr. " - "Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die.\n\n" @@ -678,7 +691,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.\n\n“TUNBRIDGE WELLS,\n“_September_.\n\n\n“DEAREST LUCIA,\n\n\n" - "“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house. " - "He _said_ he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune,\n" -- "and I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\nLucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n" +- "and I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\nLucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n" - "“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,\n" - "and cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,\n" - "they would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.\nAs for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January.\n\n" @@ -697,7 +711,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to London. " - "I don’t believe in these London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”\n\n“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.\n\n" - "As she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek.\n\n“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”\n\n" -- "The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII Twelfth Chapter\n\n\n" +- "The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XII Twelfth Chapter\n\n\n" - "It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.\n" - "All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n“M’m.”\n\n" - "“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in.\n\n" @@ -751,7 +766,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy.” They turned. “Oh, look—don’t look! Oh, poor Mr.\nBeebe! How unfortunate again—”\n\nFor Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.\n\n" - "“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”\n\n“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”\n\n" - "“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”\n\n“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.\n\nHe regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed.\n\n" -- "That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n\n\n" +- "That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n\n\n" - "How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. " - "She was prepared for all of these.\nBut she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star.\n\n" - "Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. “I will bow,” she had thought. “I will not shake hands with him.\n" @@ -794,7 +810,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”\n\n“From your own account, you told her as much.”\n\n" - "“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—”\n\nThe ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.\n\n" - "“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”\n\n" -- "Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n\n\n" +- "Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n\n\n" - "Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week.\n\n" - "Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. " - "When she talked to George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.” " @@ -829,7 +846,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him,\n" - "and has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden.” She took hold of her guest by the arm. " - "“Suppose we don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.”\n\n" -- "Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\n" +- "Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\n" - "The Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. " - "Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells.\n\n" - "The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her,\n" @@ -872,7 +890,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. " - "The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning,\n" - "would never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. " -- "Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.\n\n" +- "Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n" +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.\n\n" - "Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,\n" - "and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. " - "Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.\n\nSTART: FULL LICENSE\n\nTHE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK\n\n" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap index 281ef9b4..1b57ce27 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap @@ -3,77 +3,98 @@ source: tests/text_splitter_snapshots.rs expression: chunks input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt --- -- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return\n\n Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\nChapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”\n\n“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\nthat was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”\n\n“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.\n\n“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!”\n\n“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a view.”\n\nLucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me:\nof course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—” “You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.\n\n“No, no. You must have it.”\n\n“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”\n\n“She would never forgive _me_.”\n\nThe ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:\n\n“I have a view, I have a view.”\n\n" -- "Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would “do” till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility.\nWhat exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”\n\n“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view too.”\n\n“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.\n\n“What I mean,” he continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll have yours. We’ll change.”\n\nThe better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said “Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question.”\n\n“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the table.\n\n“Because it is quite out of the question, thank you.”\n\n“You see, we don’t like to take—” began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.\n\n“But why?” he persisted. “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son,\nsaying, “George, persuade them!”\n\n“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” said the son. “There’s nothing else to say.”\n\nHe did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as “quite a scene,” and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with—well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour.\n\nMiss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, “Are you all like this?” And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating “We are not; we are genteel.”\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear,” she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured.\n\nLucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite.\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will make a change.”\n\nHardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table,\ncheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: “Oh, oh! Why, it’s Mr.\nBeebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now,\nhowever bad the rooms are. Oh!”\n\nMiss Bartlett said, with more restraint:\n\n“How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter’s that very cold Easter.”\n\nThe clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by Lucy.\n\n“I _am_ so glad to see you,” said the girl, who was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her cousin had permitted it. “Just fancy how small the world is. Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny.”\n\n" -- "“Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street,” said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, “and she happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the living—”\n\n“Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn’t know that I knew you at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: ‘Mr. Beebe is—’”\n\n“Quite right,” said the clergyman. “I move into the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood.”\n\n“Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner.” Mr. Beebe bowed.\n\n“There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it’s not often we get him to ch—— The church is rather far off, I mean.”\n\n“Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.”\n\n“I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it.”\n\nHe preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and he was first in the field. “Don’t neglect the country round,” his advice concluded. “The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort.”\n\n“No!” cried a voice from the top of the table. “Mr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato.”\n\n“That lady looks so clever,” whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. “We are in luck.”\n\nAnd, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams,\nhow to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter,\nhow much the place would grow upon them. The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusiastically, that they would do. Whichever way they looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of the clever lady, crying: “Prato! They must go to Prato.\nThat place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know.”\n\nThe young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do.\nLucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.\n\nThe father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow,\nbut by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across something.\n\nShe hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains—curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and supported by ’Enery, her little boy,\nand Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South.\nAnd even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really Italy?\n\nMiss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr.\nBeebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. “We are most grateful to you,” she was saying. “The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly _mauvais quart d’heure_.”\n\nHe expressed his regret.\n\n“Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?”\n\n“Emerson.”\n\n“Is he a friend of yours?”\n\n“We are friendly—as one is in pensions.”\n\n“Then I will say no more.”\n\nHe pressed her very slightly, and she said more.\n\n“I am, as it were,” she concluded, “the chaperon of my young cousin,\nLucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate.\nI hope I acted for the best.”\n\n" -- "“You acted very naturally,” said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: “All the same, I don’t think much harm would have come of accepting.”\n\n“No _harm_, of course. But we could not be under an obligation.”\n\n“He is rather a peculiar man.” Again he hesitated, and then said gently: “I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit—if it is one—of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult—at least, I find it difficult—to understand people who speak the truth.”\n\nLucy was pleased, and said: “I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice.”\n\n“I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect—I may say I hope—you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people’s backs up. He has no tact and no manners—I don’t mean by that that he has bad manners—and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it.”\n\n“Am I to conclude,” said Miss Bartlett, “that he is a Socialist?”\n\nMr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips.\n\n“And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?”\n\n“I hardly know George, for he hasn’t learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father’s mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist.”\n\n“Oh, you relieve me,” said Miss Bartlett. “So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?”\n\n“Not at all,” he answered; “I never suggested that.”\n\n“But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?”\n\nHe replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary,\nand got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room.\n\n“Was I a bore?” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. “Why didn’t you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I’m sure. I do hope I haven’t monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time.”\n\n“He is nice,” exclaimed Lucy. “Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman.”\n\n“My dear Lucia—”\n\n“Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man.”\n\n“Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe.”\n\n“I’m sure she will; and so will Freddy.”\n\n“I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times.”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy despondently.\n\nThere was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added “I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion.”\n\nAnd the girl again thought: “I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor.”\n\n" -- "Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister’s health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea,\nthough one better than something else.\n\n“But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English.”\n\n“Yet our rooms smell,” said poor Lucy. “We dread going to bed.”\n\n“Ah, then you look into the court.” She sighed. “If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner.”\n\n“I think he was meaning to be kind.”\n\n“Undoubtedly he was,” said Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin’s account.”\n\n“Of course,” said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl.\n\nLucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it.\n\n“About old Mr. Emerson—I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time—beautiful?”\n\n“Beautiful?” said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. “Are not beauty and delicacy the same?”\n\n“So one would have thought,” said the other helplessly. “But things are so difficult, I sometimes think.”\n\nShe proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant.\n\n“Miss Bartlett,” he cried, “it’s all right about the rooms. I’m so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased.”\n\n“Oh, Charlotte,” cried Lucy to her cousin, “we must have the rooms now.\nThe old man is just as nice and kind as he can be.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent.\n\n“I fear,” said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, “that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference.”\n\nGravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: “My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then,\nMr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?”\n\nShe raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message.\n\n“Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events.”\n\nMr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously:\n\n“Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead.”\n\nThe young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs.\n\n“My father,” he said, “is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy.\n\n“Poor young man!” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.\n\n“How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite.”\n\n" -- "“In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready,” said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary.\n\n“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. “Gentlemen sometimes do not realize—” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy,\nshe committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History.\nFor she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said:\n\n“I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move.”\n\n“How you do do everything,” said Lucy.\n\n“Naturally, dear. It is my affair.”\n\n“But I would like to help you.”\n\n“No, dear.”\n\nCharlotte’s energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet—there was a rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.\n\n“I want to explain,” said Miss Bartlett, “why it is that I have taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you;\nbut I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it.”\n\nLucy was bewildered.\n\n“If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this.”\n\n“Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure,” said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues.\n\nMiss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,\nand the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.\n\nMiss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more.\n\n“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,\nsince it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n\n\nIt 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,\nto 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.\n\n" -- "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,\nundersized 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.\n\nOver 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.\n\nA conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar lines. Miss Bartlett was,\nafter 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,\nof 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!\n\nAt this point the clever lady broke in.\n\n“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.”\n\nMiss 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.\n\n“I will take you by a dear dirty back way, Miss Honeychurch, and if you bring me luck, we shall have an adventure.”\n\nLucy said that this was most kind, and at once opened the Baedeker, to see where Santa Croce was.\n\n“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.”\n\nThis sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried over her breakfast, and started with her new friend in high spirits. Italy was coming at last.\nThe Cockney Signora and her works had vanished like a bad dream.\n\nMiss 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:\n\n“A smell! a true Florentine smell! Every city, let me teach you, has its own smell.”\n\n“Is it a very nice smell?” said Lucy, who had inherited from her mother a distaste to dirt.\n\n" -- "“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!”\n\nSo Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of the city of Florence,\nshort, 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,\nonly increased the sense of festivity.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Indeed, I’m not!” exclaimed Lucy. “We are Radicals, too, out and out.\nMy father always voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he was so dreadful about Ireland.”\n\n“I see, I see. And now you have gone over to the enemy.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“Shameful! A manufacturing district, I suppose?”\n\n“No—in the Surrey hills. About five miles from Dorking, looking over the Weald.”\n\nMiss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened her trot.\n\n“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?”\n\n“Very well indeed.”\n\n“And old Mrs. Butterworth the philanthropist?”\n\n“Why, she rents a field of us! How funny!”\n\nMiss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky, and murmured: “Oh, you have property in Surrey?”\n\n“Hardly any,” said Lucy, fearful of being thought a snob. “Only thirty acres—just the garden, all downhill, and some fields.”\n\nMiss 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:\n\n“Bless us! Bless us and save us! We’ve lost the way.”\n\nCertainly 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.\n\n“Lost! lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we have taken a wrong turning. How those horrid Conservatives would jeer at us!\nWhat are we to do? Two lone females in an unknown town. Now, this is what _I_ call an adventure.”\n\nLucy, who wanted to see Santa Croce, suggested, as a possible solution,\nthat they should ask the way there.\n\n“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.”\n\nAccordingly they drifted through a series of those grey-brown streets,\nneither commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of the city abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent of Lady Louisa,\nand 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.\n\n" -- "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,\nlarge and dusty, on the farther side of which rose a black-and-white façade of surpassing ugliness. Miss Lavish spoke to it dramatically. It was Santa Croce. The adventure was over.\n\n“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!”\n\n“We sat opposite them at dinner last night. They have given us their rooms. They were so very kind.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“What would you ask us?”\n\nMiss 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:\n\n“There goes my local-colour box! I must have a word with him!”\n\nAnd 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.\n\nLucy 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,\ntalking 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.\n\n" +- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return\n\n Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n" +- "“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”\n\n“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\nthat was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”\n\n“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.\n\n“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!”\n\n“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a view.”\n\nLucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me:\nof course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—” “You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.\n\n“No, no. You must have it.”\n\n“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”\n\n“She would never forgive _me_.”\n\nThe ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:\n\n“I have a view, I have a view.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would “do” till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility.\nWhat exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”\n\n“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view too.”\n\n“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.\n\n“What I mean,” he continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll have yours. We’ll change.”\n\nThe better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said “Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question.”\n\n“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the table.\n\n“Because it is quite out of the question, thank you.”\n\n“You see, we don’t like to take—” began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.\n\n“But why?” he persisted. “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son,\nsaying, “George, persuade them!”\n\n“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” said the son. “There’s nothing else to say.”\n\n" +- "He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as “quite a scene,” and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with—well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour.\n\nMiss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, “Are you all like this?” And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating “We are not; we are genteel.”\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear,” she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured.\n\nLucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite.\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will make a change.”\n\nHardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table,\ncheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: “Oh, oh! Why, it’s Mr.\nBeebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now,\nhowever bad the rooms are. Oh!”\n\nMiss Bartlett said, with more restraint:\n\n“How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter’s that very cold Easter.”\n\nThe clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by Lucy.\n\n“I _am_ so glad to see you,” said the girl, who was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her cousin had permitted it. “Just fancy how small the world is. Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny.”\n\n“Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street,” said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, “and she happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the living—”\n\n“Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn’t know that I knew you at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: ‘Mr. Beebe is—’”\n\n“Quite right,” said the clergyman. “I move into the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood.”\n\n“Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner.” Mr. Beebe bowed.\n\n“There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it’s not often we get him to ch—— The church is rather far off, I mean.”\n\n“Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.”\n\n“I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it.”\n\nHe preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and he was first in the field. “Don’t neglect the country round,” his advice concluded. “The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort.”\n\n“No!” cried a voice from the top of the table. “Mr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato.”\n\n“That lady looks so clever,” whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. “We are in luck.”\n\n" +- "And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams,\nhow to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter,\nhow much the place would grow upon them. The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusiastically, that they would do. Whichever way they looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of the clever lady, crying: “Prato! They must go to Prato.\nThat place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know.”\n\nThe young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do.\nLucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.\n\nThe father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow,\nbut by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across something.\n\nShe hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains—curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and supported by ’Enery, her little boy,\nand Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South.\nAnd even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really Italy?\n\nMiss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr.\nBeebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. “We are most grateful to you,” she was saying. “The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly _mauvais quart d’heure_.”\n\nHe expressed his regret.\n\n“Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?”\n\n“Emerson.”\n\n“Is he a friend of yours?”\n\n“We are friendly—as one is in pensions.”\n\n“Then I will say no more.”\n\nHe pressed her very slightly, and she said more.\n\n“I am, as it were,” she concluded, “the chaperon of my young cousin,\nLucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate.\nI hope I acted for the best.”\n\n“You acted very naturally,” said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: “All the same, I don’t think much harm would have come of accepting.”\n\n“No _harm_, of course. But we could not be under an obligation.”\n\n“He is rather a peculiar man.” Again he hesitated, and then said gently: “I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit—if it is one—of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult—at least, I find it difficult—to understand people who speak the truth.”\n\nLucy was pleased, and said: “I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice.”\n\n“I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect—I may say I hope—you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people’s backs up. He has no tact and no manners—I don’t mean by that that he has bad manners—and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it.”\n\n“Am I to conclude,” said Miss Bartlett, “that he is a Socialist?”\n\nMr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips.\n\n“And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?”\n\n" +- "“I hardly know George, for he hasn’t learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father’s mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist.”\n\n“Oh, you relieve me,” said Miss Bartlett. “So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?”\n\n“Not at all,” he answered; “I never suggested that.”\n\n“But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?”\n\nHe replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary,\nand got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room.\n\n“Was I a bore?” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. “Why didn’t you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I’m sure. I do hope I haven’t monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time.”\n\n“He is nice,” exclaimed Lucy. “Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman.”\n\n“My dear Lucia—”\n\n“Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man.”\n\n“Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe.”\n\n“I’m sure she will; and so will Freddy.”\n\n“I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times.”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy despondently.\n\nThere was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added “I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion.”\n\nAnd the girl again thought: “I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor.”\n\nFortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister’s health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea,\nthough one better than something else.\n\n“But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English.”\n\n“Yet our rooms smell,” said poor Lucy. “We dread going to bed.”\n\n“Ah, then you look into the court.” She sighed. “If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner.”\n\n“I think he was meaning to be kind.”\n\n“Undoubtedly he was,” said Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin’s account.”\n\n“Of course,” said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl.\n\nLucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it.\n\n“About old Mr. Emerson—I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time—beautiful?”\n\n“Beautiful?” said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. “Are not beauty and delicacy the same?”\n\n“So one would have thought,” said the other helplessly. “But things are so difficult, I sometimes think.”\n\nShe proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant.\n\n" +- "“Miss Bartlett,” he cried, “it’s all right about the rooms. I’m so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased.”\n\n“Oh, Charlotte,” cried Lucy to her cousin, “we must have the rooms now.\nThe old man is just as nice and kind as he can be.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent.\n\n“I fear,” said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, “that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference.”\n\nGravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: “My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then,\nMr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?”\n\nShe raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message.\n\n“Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events.”\n\nMr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously:\n\n“Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead.”\n\nThe young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs.\n\n“My father,” he said, “is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy.\n\n“Poor young man!” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.\n\n“How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite.”\n\n“In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready,” said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary.\n\n“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. “Gentlemen sometimes do not realize—” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy,\nshe committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History.\nFor she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said:\n\n“I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move.”\n\n“How you do do everything,” said Lucy.\n\n“Naturally, dear. It is my affair.”\n\n“But I would like to help you.”\n\n“No, dear.”\n\nCharlotte’s energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet—there was a rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.\n\n“I want to explain,” said Miss Bartlett, “why it is that I have taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you;\nbut I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it.”\n\nLucy was bewildered.\n\n“If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this.”\n\n“Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure,” said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues.\n\n" +- "Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,\nand the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.\n\nMiss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more.\n\n“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,\nsince it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n\n\n" +- "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,\nto 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.\n\nOver 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,\nundersized 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.\n\nOver 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.\n\nA conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar lines. Miss Bartlett was,\nafter 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,\nof 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!\n\nAt this point the clever lady broke in.\n\n“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.”\n\nMiss 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.\n\n“I will take you by a dear dirty back way, Miss Honeychurch, and if you bring me luck, we shall have an adventure.”\n\nLucy said that this was most kind, and at once opened the Baedeker, to see where Santa Croce was.\n\n“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.”\n\nThis sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried over her breakfast, and started with her new friend in high spirits. Italy was coming at last.\nThe Cockney Signora and her works had vanished like a bad dream.\n\n" +- "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:\n\n“A smell! a true Florentine smell! Every city, let me teach you, has its own smell.”\n\n“Is it a very nice smell?” said Lucy, who had inherited from her mother a distaste to dirt.\n\n“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!”\n\nSo Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of the city of Florence,\nshort, 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,\nonly increased the sense of festivity.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Indeed, I’m not!” exclaimed Lucy. “We are Radicals, too, out and out.\nMy father always voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he was so dreadful about Ireland.”\n\n“I see, I see. And now you have gone over to the enemy.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“Shameful! A manufacturing district, I suppose?”\n\n“No—in the Surrey hills. About five miles from Dorking, looking over the Weald.”\n\nMiss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened her trot.\n\n“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?”\n\n“Very well indeed.”\n\n“And old Mrs. Butterworth the philanthropist?”\n\n“Why, she rents a field of us! How funny!”\n\nMiss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky, and murmured: “Oh, you have property in Surrey?”\n\n“Hardly any,” said Lucy, fearful of being thought a snob. “Only thirty acres—just the garden, all downhill, and some fields.”\n\nMiss 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:\n\n“Bless us! Bless us and save us! We’ve lost the way.”\n\nCertainly 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.\n\n“Lost! lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we have taken a wrong turning. How those horrid Conservatives would jeer at us!\nWhat are we to do? Two lone females in an unknown town. Now, this is what _I_ call an adventure.”\n\nLucy, who wanted to see Santa Croce, suggested, as a possible solution,\nthat they should ask the way there.\n\n“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.”\n\n" +- "Accordingly they drifted through a series of those grey-brown streets,\nneither commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of the city abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent of Lady Louisa,\nand 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.\n\nThe 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,\nlarge and dusty, on the farther side of which rose a black-and-white façade of surpassing ugliness. Miss Lavish spoke to it dramatically. It was Santa Croce. The adventure was over.\n\n“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!”\n\n“We sat opposite them at dinner last night. They have given us their rooms. They were so very kind.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“What would you ask us?”\n\nMiss 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:\n\n“There goes my local-colour box! I must have a word with him!”\n\nAnd 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.\n\nLucy 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,\ntalking 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.\n\n" - "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,\nnot 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.\nRuskin, and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop.\nProtestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the prelate’s upturned toes.\n\n“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!”\n\nThe 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.\n\n“Look at him!” said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. “Here’s a mess: a baby hurt,\ncold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?”\n\nThe child’s legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr.\nEmerson 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.\n\n“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—”\n\nHe paused for a phrase.\n\n“Niente,” said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers.\n\n“I’m not sure she understands English,” suggested Lucy.\n\nIn her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and,\nif possible, to erase Miss Bartlett’s civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms.\n\n“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?”\n\n“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.”\n\n“Why shouldn’t you?” said Mr. Emerson.\n\n“Yes, why shouldn’t you come by yourself?” said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time.\n\n“But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker.”\n\n“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.”\n\nLucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her.\n\n“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.\n\n“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.\nI hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience.”\n\n" - "“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;\nbut 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.”\n\nNow, 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.\nEmerson 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.\n\n“I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which they are.”\n\nThe 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.\n\nThe 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.\n\n“Remember,” he was saying, “the facts about this church of Santa Croce;\nhow 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,\nmore pathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!”\n\n“No!” exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church.\n“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.”\n\nHe was referring to the fresco of the “Ascension of St. John.” Inside,\nthe 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.\n\n“Now, did this happen, or didn’t it? Yes or no?”\n\nGeorge replied:\n\n“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.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint,\nwhoever he is, going up. It did happen like that, if it happened at all.”\n\n“Pardon me,” said a frigid voice. “The chapel is somewhat small for two parties. We will incommode you no longer.”\n\nThe lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock,\nfor 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.\n\n“Stop!” cried Mr. Emerson. “There’s plenty of room for us all. Stop!”\n\nThe procession disappeared without a word.\n\nSoon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis.\n\n“George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate.”\n\nGeorge went into the next chapel and returned, saying “Perhaps he is. I don’t remember.”\n\n“Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It’s that Mr.\nEager. 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.”\n\n“He will not come back,” said George.\n\n" - "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.\n\n“My father has that effect on nearly everyone,” he informed her. “He will try to be kind.”\n\n“I hope we all try,” said she, smiling nervously.\n\n“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.”\n\n“How silly of them!” said Lucy, though in her heart she sympathized; “I think that a kind action done tactfully—”\n\n“Tact!”\n\nHe threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wrong answer. She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel.\nFor 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,\nof 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,\nand she could re-enter the world of rapid talk, which was alone familiar to her.\n\n“Were you snubbed?” asked his son tranquilly.\n\n“But we have spoilt the pleasure of I don’t know how many people. They won’t come back.”\n\n“...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.\n\n“Don’t let us spoil yours,” he continued to Lucy. “Have you looked at those saints?”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy. “They are lovely. Do you know which is the tombstone that is praised in Ruskin?”\n\nHe did not know, and suggested that they should try to guess it.\nGeorge, 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.\n\n“Why will he look at that fresco?” he said uneasily. “I saw nothing in it.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“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.”\n\nLucy again felt that this did not do.\n\n“In Hell,” he repeated. “He’s unhappy.”\n\n“Oh, dear!” said Lucy.\n\n“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.”\n\nShe 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.\n\n“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?”\n\nLucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said:\n\n" -- "“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.\nYou might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time.\nYou 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,\nand 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.”\n\nTo this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer.\n\n“I only know what it is that’s wrong with him; not why it is.”\n\n“And what is it?” asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.\n\n“The old trouble; things won’t fit.”\n\n“What things?”\n\n“The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?”\n\nIn his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:\n\n“‘From far, from eve and morning,\n And yon twelve-winded sky,\nThe stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I’\n\n\nGeorge 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.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch assented.\n\n“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.”\n\nSuddenly 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,\nor a Yes, or something!\n\n“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.”\n\nThe old man’s face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand.\nThis 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,\nbefore she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.\n\n“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_.\nThere’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,\nyes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n\n\n" +- "“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.\nYou might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time.\nYou 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,\nand 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.”\n\nTo this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer.\n\n“I only know what it is that’s wrong with him; not why it is.”\n\n“And what is it?” asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.\n\n“The old trouble; things won’t fit.”\n\n“What things?”\n\n“The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?”\n\nIn his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:\n\n“‘From far, from eve and morning,\n And yon twelve-winded sky,\nThe stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I’\n\n\nGeorge 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.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch assented.\n\n“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.”\n\nSuddenly 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,\nor a Yes, or something!\n\n“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.”\n\nThe old man’s face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand.\nThis 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,\nbefore she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.\n\n“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_.\nThere’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,\nyes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n\n\n" - "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.\nThe 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.\nPerhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never.\n\nShe was no dazzling _exécutante;_ 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.\nPassion 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.\nBut 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.\n\nA 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.\n\nMr. 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,\nunder 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.\nBeebe who started the stamping; it was all that one could do.\n\n“Who is she?” he asked the vicar afterwards.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Introduce me.”\n\n“She will be delighted. She and Miss Bartlett are full of the praises of your sermon.”\n\n“My sermon?” cried Mr. Beebe. “Why ever did she listen to it?”\n\nWhen he was introduced he understood why, for Miss Honeychurch,\ndisjoined 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:\n\n“If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very exciting both for us and for her.”\n\nLucy at once re-entered daily life.\n\n" - "“Oh, what a funny thing! Some one said just the same to mother, and she said she trusted I should never live a duet.”\n\n“Doesn’t Mrs. Honeychurch like music?”\n\n“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.\nOnce, 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—”\n\n“Of course,” said he, wondering why she bothered to explain.\n\n“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.\n\nThe street and the river were dirty yellow, the bridge was dirty grey,\nand 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.\n\n“What about music?” said Mr. Beebe.\n\n“Poor Charlotte will be sopped,” was Lucy’s reply.\n\nThe expedition was typical of Miss Bartlett, who would return cold,\ntired, 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.\n\n“Miss Lavish has led your cousin astray. She hopes to find the true Italy in the wet I believe.”\n\n“Miss Lavish is so original,” murmured Lucy. This was a stock remark,\nthe 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.\n\n“Is it true,” continued Lucy in awe-struck tone, “that Miss Lavish is writing a book?”\n\n“They do say so.”\n\n“What is it about?”\n\n“It will be a novel,” replied Mr. Beebe, “dealing with modern Italy.\nLet me refer you for an account to Miss Catharine Alan, who uses words herself more admirably than any one I know.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“The two ladies, at all events, have made it up.”\n\nHe 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,\nbut Mr. Beebe was, from rather profound reasons, somewhat chilly in his attitude towards the other sex, and preferred to be interested rather than enthralled.\n\nLucy, 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.\n\n“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.”\n\nShe 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.\n\n“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.”\n\n" - "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,\nand 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.\nYet in their heart of hearts they are—how superficial! They have no conception of the intellectual life. How right is Signora Bertolini,\nwho 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!’”\n\nMiss Alan did not follow, but gathered that she was being mocked in an agreeable way. Her sister was a little disappointed in Mr. Beebe,\nhaving 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?\n\nIn 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.”\n\n“That belongs to Lavish.” said the clergyman. “A good fellow, Lavish,\nbut I wish she’d start a pipe.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Beebe,” said Miss Alan, divided between awe and mirth.\n“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.”\n\n“What was that?” asked Lucy.\n\nMr. 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,\nthen 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.”\n\nMiss 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.\n\n“All the same, she is a little too—I hardly like to say unwomanly, but she behaved most strangely when the Emersons arrived.”\n\nMr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an anecdote which he knew she would be unable to finish in the presence of a gentleman.\n\n“I don’t know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss Pole,\nthe lady who has so much yellow hair, takes lemonade. That old Mr.\nEmerson, who puts things very strangely—”\n\nHer 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:\n\n" - "“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;\nit 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!\nI 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.\nCome, too.’ Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation,\nand she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas,\nand 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.”\n\n“Let me finish the story,” said Mr. Beebe, who had returned.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Whatever happened?” cried Lucy.\n\n“No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe—old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know.”\n\nMr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself.\n\n“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?”\n\nThe little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr.\nBeebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:\n\n“I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets.”\n\n“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.”\n\n" -- "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,\nwho stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett,\nsmarting 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,\nhe knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner.\n\nLucy, 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.\n\n“But aren’t they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?” said the little lady inquisitively.\n\n“Only once. Charlotte didn’t like it, and said something—quite politely, of course.”\n\n“Most right of her. They don’t understand our ways. They must find their level.”\n\nMr. 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.\n\nEvening 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 façade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun.\n\n“Too late to go out,” said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. “All the galleries are shut.”\n\n“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.”\n\nHer two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:\n\n“I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won’t you be better on your feet?”\n\n“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan.\n\n“Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!”\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\nMr. 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?\nCharlotte 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.\nIndirectly, 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.\n\n" -- "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.\nBut 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.\n\nLucy 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.\n\nThere she bought a photograph of Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.” Venus,\nbeing 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.\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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,\nhalf 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.\n\nShe 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,\nstill dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home.\n\nThen something did happen.\n\nTwo 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.\n\n" -- "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,\nfell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.\n\nShe thought: “Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“Oh, what have I done?” she murmured, and opened her eyes.\n\nGeorge 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.\n\nThey 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:\n\n“Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“You fainted.”\n\n“I—I am very sorry.”\n\n“How are you now?”\n\n“Perfectly well—absolutely well.” And she began to nod and smile.\n\n“Then let us come home. There’s no point in our stopping.”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you.”\n\nHis hand was still extended.\n\n“Oh, my photographs!” she exclaimed suddenly.\n\n“What photographs?”\n\n“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?”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“Miss Honeychurch!”\n\nShe stopped with her hand on her heart.\n\n“You sit still; you aren’t fit to go home alone.”\n\n“Yes, I am, thank you so very much.”\n\n“No, you aren’t. You’d go openly if you were.”\n\n“But I had rather—”\n\n“Then I don’t fetch your photographs.”\n\n“I had rather be alone.”\n\nHe 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.”\n\nIn the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day,\nand joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,\n“Oh, what have I done?”—the thought that she, as well as the dying man,\nhad crossed some spiritual boundary.\n\nHe 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,\nshe walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.\n\n“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?”\n\nHe had thrown something into the stream.\n\n“What did you throw in?”\n\n“Things I didn’t want,” he said crossly.\n\n“Mr. Emerson!”\n\n“Well?”\n\n“Where are the photographs?”\n\nHe was silent.\n\n“I believe it was my photographs that you threw away.”\n\n“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.\n“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.”\n\nSomething warned Lucy that she must stop him.\n\n" -- "“It has happened,” he repeated, “and I mean to find out what it is.”\n\n“Mr. Emerson—”\n\nHe turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.\n\n“I want to ask you something before we go in.”\n\nThey 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:\n\n“I have behaved ridiculously.”\n\nHe was following his own thoughts.\n\n“I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me.”\n\n“I nearly fainted myself,” he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.\n\n“Well, I owe you a thousand apologies.”\n\n“Oh, all right.”\n\n“And—this is the real point—you know how silly people are gossiping—ladies especially, I am afraid—you understand what I mean?”\n\n“I’m afraid I don’t.”\n\n“I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?”\n\n“Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right—all right.”\n\n“Thank you so much. And would you—”\n\nShe 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;\nhis 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.\n\n“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”\n\n“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n\n\nIt was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one.\n\nFor good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure,\nnot that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events,\ncontradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.\n\nAt breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties—all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.\n\n“No, Charlotte!” cried the girl, with real warmth. “It’s very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather.”\n\n" -- "“Very well, dear,” said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her.\n\nShe slipped her arm into her cousin’s, and they started off along the Lung’ Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was “How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!”\n\nLucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.\n\n“Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice.”\n\nSerious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle—queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper—but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett’s insinuations.\n\nBut though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones,\na Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts.\n\nThe exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.\n\n“Oh, let me congratulate you!” said Miss Bartlett. “After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!”\n\n“Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning.” Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.\n\n“But perhaps you would rather not?”\n\n“I’m sorry—if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not.”\n\nThe elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.\n\n“It is I who am sorry,” said Miss Lavish “literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there’s no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn’t pry.”\n\nShe marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o’clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.\n\n“What is the heroine’s name?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Leonora,” said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.\n\n“I do hope she’s nice.”\n\nThat desideratum would not be omitted.\n\n“And what is the plot?”\n\nLove, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.\n\n“I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,” Miss Lavish concluded. “It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist.”\n\n“Oh, you wicked woman,” cried Miss Bartlett. “I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons.”\n\nMiss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile.\n\n“I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen.\nIt is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday’s is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life.”\n\nThere was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square.\n\n“She is my idea of a really clever woman,” said Miss Bartlett. “That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel.”\n\n" -- "Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an _ingenué_.\n\n“She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word,”\ncontinued Miss Bartlett slowly. “None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman—Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!”\n\n“Ah, not for me,” said the chaplain blandly, “for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time.”\n\n“We were chatting to Miss Lavish.”\n\nHis brow contracted.\n\n“So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!” The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. “I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week—a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano.\nThere is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour’s ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful—far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures.\nThat man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us.”\n\nMiss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of,\nand saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them.\nLiving in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole’s slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook.\n\nTherefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of.\nBetween the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that—how Lucy would enjoy it!\n\nA few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett—even if culminating in a residential tea-party—was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere.\n\n“So we shall be a _partie carrée_,” said the chaplain. “In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town! Beautiful as it is, it is the town.”\n\nThey assented.\n\n“This very square—so I am told—witnessed yesterday the most sordid of tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola there is something portentous in such desecration—portentous and humiliating.”\n\n“Humiliating indeed,” said Miss Bartlett. “Miss Honeychurch happened to be passing through as it happened. She can hardly bear to speak of it.”\nShe glanced at Lucy proudly.\n\n“And how came we to have you here?” asked the chaplain paternally.\n\nMiss Bartlett’s recent liberalism oozed away at the question. “Do not blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The fault is mine: I left her unchaperoned.”\n\n“So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?” His voice suggested sympathetic reproof but at the same time indicated that a few harrowing details would not be unacceptable. His dark, handsome face drooped mournfully towards her to catch her reply.\n\n“Practically.”\n\n“One of our pension acquaintances kindly brought her home,” said Miss Bartlett, adroitly concealing the sex of the preserver.\n\n" -- "“For her also it must have been a terrible experience. I trust that neither of you was at all—that it was not in your immediate proximity?”\n\nOf the many things Lucy was noticing to-day, not the least remarkable was this: the ghoulish fashion in which respectable people will nibble after blood. George Emerson had kept the subject strangely pure.\n\n“He died by the fountain, I believe,” was her reply.\n\n“And you and your friend—”\n\n“Were over at the Loggia.”\n\n“That must have saved you much. You have not, of course, seen the disgraceful illustrations which the gutter Press—This man is a public nuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly well, and yet he goes on worrying me to buy his vulgar views.”\n\nSurely the vendor of photographs was in league with Lucy—in the eternal league of Italy with youth. He had suddenly extended his book before Miss Bartlett and Mr. Eager, binding their hands together by a long glossy ribbon of churches, pictures, and views.\n\n“This is too much!” cried the chaplain, striking petulantly at one of Fra Angelico’s angels. She tore. A shrill cry rose from the vendor. The book it seemed, was more valuable than one would have supposed.\n\n“Willingly would I purchase—” began Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Ignore him,” said Mr. Eager sharply, and they all walked rapidly away from the square.\n\nBut an Italian can never be ignored, least of all when he has a grievance. His mysterious persecution of Mr. Eager became relentless;\nthe air rang with his threats and lamentations. He appealed to Lucy;\nwould not she intercede? He was poor—he sheltered a family—the tax on bread. He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed, he was dissatisfied,\nhe did not leave them until he had swept their minds clean of all thoughts whether pleasant or unpleasant.\n\nShopping was the topic that now ensued. Under the chaplain’s guidance they selected many hideous presents and mementoes—florid little picture-frames that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other little frames, more severe, that stood on little easels, and were carven out of oak; a blotting book of vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheap mosaic brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, would never tell from real; pins, pots, heraldic saucers, brown art-photographs; Eros and Psyche in alabaster; St. Peter to match—all of which would have cost less in London.\n\nThis successful morning left no pleasant impressions on Lucy. She had been a little frightened, both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she knew not why. And as they frightened her, she had, strangely enough,\nceased to respect them. She doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist. She doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality and culture as she had been led to suppose. They were tried by some new test, and they were found wanting. As for Charlotte—as for Charlotte she was exactly the same. It might be possible to be nice to her; it was impossible to love her.\n\n“The son of a labourer; I happen to know it for a fact. A mechanic of some sort himself when he was young; then he took to writing for the Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton.”\n\nThey were talking about the Emersons.\n\n“How wonderfully people rise in these days!” sighed Miss Bartlett,\nfingering a model of the leaning Tower of Pisa.\n\n“Generally,” replied Mr. Eager, “one has only sympathy for their success. The desire for education and for social advance—in these things there is something not wholly vile. There are some working men whom one would be very willing to see out here in Florence—little as they would make of it.”\n\n“Is he a journalist now?” Miss Bartlett asked.\n\n“He is not; he made an advantageous marriage.”\n\nHe uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning, and ended with a sigh.\n\n“Oh, so he has a wife.”\n\n“Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder—yes I wonder how he has the effrontery to look me in the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with me. He was in my London parish long ago. The other day in Santa Croce,\nwhen he was with Miss Honeychurch, I snubbed him. Let him beware that he does not get more than a snub.”\n\n“What?” cried Lucy, flushing.\n\n“Exposure!” hissed Mr. Eager.\n\n" -- "He tried to change the subject; but in scoring a dramatic point he had interested his audience more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett was full of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she wished never to see the Emersons again, was not disposed to condemn them on a single word.\n\n“Do you mean,” she asked, “that he is an irreligious man? We know that already.”\n\n“Lucy, dear—” said Miss Bartlett, gently reproving her cousin’s penetration.\n\n“I should be astonished if you knew all. The boy—an innocent child at the time—I will exclude. God knows what his education and his inherited qualities may have made him.”\n\n“Perhaps,” said Miss Bartlett, “it is something that we had better not hear.”\n\n“To speak plainly,” said Mr. Eager, “it is. I will say no more.” For the first time Lucy’s rebellious thoughts swept out in words—for the first time in her life.\n\n“You have said very little.”\n\n“It was my intention to say very little,” was his frigid reply.\n\nHe gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal indignation.\nShe turned towards him from the shop counter; her breast heaved quickly. He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of her lips. It was intolerable that she should disbelieve him.\n\n“Murder, if you want to know,” he cried angrily. “That man murdered his wife!”\n\n“How?” she retorted.\n\n“To all intents and purposes he murdered her. That day in Santa Croce—did they say anything against me?”\n\n“Not a word, Mr. Eager—not a single word.”\n\n“Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to you. But I suppose it is only their personal charms that makes you defend them.”\n\n“I’m not defending them,” said Lucy, losing her courage, and relapsing into the old chaotic methods. “They’re nothing to me.”\n\n“How could you think she was defending them?” said Miss Bartlett, much discomfited by the unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly listening.\n\n“She will find it difficult. For that man has murdered his wife in the sight of God.”\n\nThe addition of God was striking. But the chaplain was really trying to qualify a rash remark. A silence followed which might have been impressive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bartlett hastily purchased the Leaning Tower, and led the way into the street.\n\n“I must be going,” said he, shutting his eyes and taking out his watch.\n\nMiss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, and spoke with enthusiasm of the approaching drive.\n\n“Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off?”\n\nLucy was recalled to her manners, and after a little exertion the complacency of Mr. Eager was restored.\n\n“Bother the drive!” exclaimed the girl, as soon as he had departed. “It is just the drive we had arranged with Mr. Beebe without any fuss at all. Why should he invite us in that absurd manner? We might as well invite him. We are each paying for ourselves.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, was launched by this remark into unexpected thoughts.\n\n“If that is so, dear—if the drive we and Mr. Beebe are going with Mr.\nEager is really the same as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then I foresee a sad kettle of fish.”\n\n“How?”\n\n“Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish to come, too.”\n\n“That will mean another carriage.”\n\n“Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it herself. The truth must be told; she is too unconventional for him.”\n\nThey were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank. Lucy stood by the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to answer,\nor at all events to formulate the questions rioting in her brain. The well-known world had broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic city where people thought and did the most extraordinary things.\nMurder, accusations of murder, a lady clinging to one man and being rude to another—were these the daily incidents of her streets? Was there more in her frank beauty than met the eye—the power, perhaps, to evoke passions, good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment?\n\n" -- "Happy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture with admirable delicacy “where things might lead to,” but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: “Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr.\nEager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor out altogether—which they could scarcely do—but in any case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!”\n\n“It is indeed,” replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic.\n\n“What do you think about it?” asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress.\n\n“I don’t know what I think, nor what I want.”\n\n“Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn’t boring you. Speak the word,\nand, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow.”\n\n“Thank you, Charlotte,” said Lucy, and pondered over the offer.\n\nThere were letters for her at the bureau—one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother’s letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald—all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveller returns.\n\n“And the news?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome,” said Lucy, giving the news that interested her least. “Do you know the Vyses?”\n\n“Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Piazza Signoria.”\n\n“They’re nice people, the Vyses. So clever—my idea of what’s really clever. Don’t you long to be in Rome?”\n\n“I die for it!”\n\nThe Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something,\nand though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god.\n\n“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them.\n\n\n" +- "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,\nwho stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett,\nsmarting 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,\nhe knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner.\n\nLucy, 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.\n\n“But aren’t they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?” said the little lady inquisitively.\n\n“Only once. Charlotte didn’t like it, and said something—quite politely, of course.”\n\n“Most right of her. They don’t understand our ways. They must find their level.”\n\nMr. 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.\n\nEvening 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 façade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun.\n\n“Too late to go out,” said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. “All the galleries are shut.”\n\n“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.”\n\nHer two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:\n\n“I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won’t you be better on your feet?”\n\n“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan.\n\n“Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!”\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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.”\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\n" +- "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?\nCharlotte 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.\nIndirectly, 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.\n\nThere 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.\nBut 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.\n\nLucy 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.\n\nThere she bought a photograph of Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.” Venus,\nbeing 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.\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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,\nhalf 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.\n\n" +- "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,\nstill dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home.\n\nThen something did happen.\n\nTwo 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.\n\nThat 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,\nfell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.\n\nShe thought: “Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“Oh, what have I done?” she murmured, and opened her eyes.\n\nGeorge 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.\n\nThey 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:\n\n“Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“You fainted.”\n\n“I—I am very sorry.”\n\n“How are you now?”\n\n“Perfectly well—absolutely well.” And she began to nod and smile.\n\n“Then let us come home. There’s no point in our stopping.”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you.”\n\nHis hand was still extended.\n\n“Oh, my photographs!” she exclaimed suddenly.\n\n“What photographs?”\n\n“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?”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“Miss Honeychurch!”\n\nShe stopped with her hand on her heart.\n\n“You sit still; you aren’t fit to go home alone.”\n\n“Yes, I am, thank you so very much.”\n\n“No, you aren’t. You’d go openly if you were.”\n\n“But I had rather—”\n\n“Then I don’t fetch your photographs.”\n\n“I had rather be alone.”\n\nHe 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.”\n\nIn the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day,\nand joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,\n“Oh, what have I done?”—the thought that she, as well as the dying man,\nhad crossed some spiritual boundary.\n\nHe 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,\nshe walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.\n\n“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?”\n\nHe had thrown something into the stream.\n\n“What did you throw in?”\n\n“Things I didn’t want,” he said crossly.\n\n“Mr. Emerson!”\n\n“Well?”\n\n“Where are the photographs?”\n\nHe was silent.\n\n" +- "“I believe it was my photographs that you threw away.”\n\n“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.\n“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.”\n\nSomething warned Lucy that she must stop him.\n\n“It has happened,” he repeated, “and I mean to find out what it is.”\n\n“Mr. Emerson—”\n\nHe turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.\n\n“I want to ask you something before we go in.”\n\nThey 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:\n\n“I have behaved ridiculously.”\n\nHe was following his own thoughts.\n\n“I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me.”\n\n“I nearly fainted myself,” he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.\n\n“Well, I owe you a thousand apologies.”\n\n“Oh, all right.”\n\n“And—this is the real point—you know how silly people are gossiping—ladies especially, I am afraid—you understand what I mean?”\n\n“I’m afraid I don’t.”\n\n“I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?”\n\n“Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right—all right.”\n\n“Thank you so much. And would you—”\n\nShe 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;\nhis 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.\n\n“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”\n\n“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n\n\n" +- "It was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one.\n\nFor good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure,\nnot that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events,\ncontradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.\n\nAt breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties—all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.\n\n“No, Charlotte!” cried the girl, with real warmth. “It’s very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather.”\n\n“Very well, dear,” said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her.\n\nShe slipped her arm into her cousin’s, and they started off along the Lung’ Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was “How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!”\n\nLucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.\n\n“Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice.”\n\nSerious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle—queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper—but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett’s insinuations.\n\nBut though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones,\na Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts.\n\nThe exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.\n\n“Oh, let me congratulate you!” said Miss Bartlett. “After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!”\n\n“Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning.” Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.\n\n“But perhaps you would rather not?”\n\n“I’m sorry—if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not.”\n\nThe elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.\n\n“It is I who am sorry,” said Miss Lavish “literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there’s no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn’t pry.”\n\n" +- "She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o’clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.\n\n“What is the heroine’s name?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Leonora,” said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.\n\n“I do hope she’s nice.”\n\nThat desideratum would not be omitted.\n\n“And what is the plot?”\n\nLove, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.\n\n“I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,” Miss Lavish concluded. “It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist.”\n\n“Oh, you wicked woman,” cried Miss Bartlett. “I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons.”\n\nMiss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile.\n\n“I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen.\nIt is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday’s is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life.”\n\nThere was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square.\n\n“She is my idea of a really clever woman,” said Miss Bartlett. “That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel.”\n\nLucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an _ingenué_.\n\n“She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word,”\ncontinued Miss Bartlett slowly. “None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman—Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!”\n\n“Ah, not for me,” said the chaplain blandly, “for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time.”\n\n“We were chatting to Miss Lavish.”\n\nHis brow contracted.\n\n“So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!” The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. “I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week—a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano.\nThere is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour’s ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful—far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures.\nThat man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us.”\n\nMiss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of,\nand saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them.\nLiving in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole’s slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook.\n\n" +- "Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of.\nBetween the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that—how Lucy would enjoy it!\n\nA few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett—even if culminating in a residential tea-party—was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere.\n\n“So we shall be a _partie carrée_,” said the chaplain. “In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town! Beautiful as it is, it is the town.”\n\nThey assented.\n\n“This very square—so I am told—witnessed yesterday the most sordid of tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola there is something portentous in such desecration—portentous and humiliating.”\n\n“Humiliating indeed,” said Miss Bartlett. “Miss Honeychurch happened to be passing through as it happened. She can hardly bear to speak of it.”\nShe glanced at Lucy proudly.\n\n“And how came we to have you here?” asked the chaplain paternally.\n\nMiss Bartlett’s recent liberalism oozed away at the question. “Do not blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The fault is mine: I left her unchaperoned.”\n\n“So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?” His voice suggested sympathetic reproof but at the same time indicated that a few harrowing details would not be unacceptable. His dark, handsome face drooped mournfully towards her to catch her reply.\n\n“Practically.”\n\n“One of our pension acquaintances kindly brought her home,” said Miss Bartlett, adroitly concealing the sex of the preserver.\n\n“For her also it must have been a terrible experience. I trust that neither of you was at all—that it was not in your immediate proximity?”\n\nOf the many things Lucy was noticing to-day, not the least remarkable was this: the ghoulish fashion in which respectable people will nibble after blood. George Emerson had kept the subject strangely pure.\n\n“He died by the fountain, I believe,” was her reply.\n\n“And you and your friend—”\n\n“Were over at the Loggia.”\n\n“That must have saved you much. You have not, of course, seen the disgraceful illustrations which the gutter Press—This man is a public nuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly well, and yet he goes on worrying me to buy his vulgar views.”\n\nSurely the vendor of photographs was in league with Lucy—in the eternal league of Italy with youth. He had suddenly extended his book before Miss Bartlett and Mr. Eager, binding their hands together by a long glossy ribbon of churches, pictures, and views.\n\n“This is too much!” cried the chaplain, striking petulantly at one of Fra Angelico’s angels. She tore. A shrill cry rose from the vendor. The book it seemed, was more valuable than one would have supposed.\n\n“Willingly would I purchase—” began Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Ignore him,” said Mr. Eager sharply, and they all walked rapidly away from the square.\n\nBut an Italian can never be ignored, least of all when he has a grievance. His mysterious persecution of Mr. Eager became relentless;\nthe air rang with his threats and lamentations. He appealed to Lucy;\nwould not she intercede? He was poor—he sheltered a family—the tax on bread. He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed, he was dissatisfied,\nhe did not leave them until he had swept their minds clean of all thoughts whether pleasant or unpleasant.\n\n" +- "Shopping was the topic that now ensued. Under the chaplain’s guidance they selected many hideous presents and mementoes—florid little picture-frames that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other little frames, more severe, that stood on little easels, and were carven out of oak; a blotting book of vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheap mosaic brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, would never tell from real; pins, pots, heraldic saucers, brown art-photographs; Eros and Psyche in alabaster; St. Peter to match—all of which would have cost less in London.\n\nThis successful morning left no pleasant impressions on Lucy. She had been a little frightened, both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she knew not why. And as they frightened her, she had, strangely enough,\nceased to respect them. She doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist. She doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality and culture as she had been led to suppose. They were tried by some new test, and they were found wanting. As for Charlotte—as for Charlotte she was exactly the same. It might be possible to be nice to her; it was impossible to love her.\n\n“The son of a labourer; I happen to know it for a fact. A mechanic of some sort himself when he was young; then he took to writing for the Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton.”\n\nThey were talking about the Emersons.\n\n“How wonderfully people rise in these days!” sighed Miss Bartlett,\nfingering a model of the leaning Tower of Pisa.\n\n“Generally,” replied Mr. Eager, “one has only sympathy for their success. The desire for education and for social advance—in these things there is something not wholly vile. There are some working men whom one would be very willing to see out here in Florence—little as they would make of it.”\n\n“Is he a journalist now?” Miss Bartlett asked.\n\n“He is not; he made an advantageous marriage.”\n\nHe uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning, and ended with a sigh.\n\n“Oh, so he has a wife.”\n\n“Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder—yes I wonder how he has the effrontery to look me in the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with me. He was in my London parish long ago. The other day in Santa Croce,\nwhen he was with Miss Honeychurch, I snubbed him. Let him beware that he does not get more than a snub.”\n\n“What?” cried Lucy, flushing.\n\n“Exposure!” hissed Mr. Eager.\n\nHe tried to change the subject; but in scoring a dramatic point he had interested his audience more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett was full of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she wished never to see the Emersons again, was not disposed to condemn them on a single word.\n\n“Do you mean,” she asked, “that he is an irreligious man? We know that already.”\n\n“Lucy, dear—” said Miss Bartlett, gently reproving her cousin’s penetration.\n\n“I should be astonished if you knew all. The boy—an innocent child at the time—I will exclude. God knows what his education and his inherited qualities may have made him.”\n\n“Perhaps,” said Miss Bartlett, “it is something that we had better not hear.”\n\n“To speak plainly,” said Mr. Eager, “it is. I will say no more.” For the first time Lucy’s rebellious thoughts swept out in words—for the first time in her life.\n\n“You have said very little.”\n\n“It was my intention to say very little,” was his frigid reply.\n\nHe gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal indignation.\nShe turned towards him from the shop counter; her breast heaved quickly. He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of her lips. It was intolerable that she should disbelieve him.\n\n“Murder, if you want to know,” he cried angrily. “That man murdered his wife!”\n\n“How?” she retorted.\n\n“To all intents and purposes he murdered her. That day in Santa Croce—did they say anything against me?”\n\n“Not a word, Mr. Eager—not a single word.”\n\n“Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to you. But I suppose it is only their personal charms that makes you defend them.”\n\n“I’m not defending them,” said Lucy, losing her courage, and relapsing into the old chaotic methods. “They’re nothing to me.”\n\n“How could you think she was defending them?” said Miss Bartlett, much discomfited by the unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly listening.\n\n" +- "“She will find it difficult. For that man has murdered his wife in the sight of God.”\n\nThe addition of God was striking. But the chaplain was really trying to qualify a rash remark. A silence followed which might have been impressive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bartlett hastily purchased the Leaning Tower, and led the way into the street.\n\n“I must be going,” said he, shutting his eyes and taking out his watch.\n\nMiss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, and spoke with enthusiasm of the approaching drive.\n\n“Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off?”\n\nLucy was recalled to her manners, and after a little exertion the complacency of Mr. Eager was restored.\n\n“Bother the drive!” exclaimed the girl, as soon as he had departed. “It is just the drive we had arranged with Mr. Beebe without any fuss at all. Why should he invite us in that absurd manner? We might as well invite him. We are each paying for ourselves.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, was launched by this remark into unexpected thoughts.\n\n“If that is so, dear—if the drive we and Mr. Beebe are going with Mr.\nEager is really the same as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then I foresee a sad kettle of fish.”\n\n“How?”\n\n“Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish to come, too.”\n\n“That will mean another carriage.”\n\n“Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it herself. The truth must be told; she is too unconventional for him.”\n\nThey were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank. Lucy stood by the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to answer,\nor at all events to formulate the questions rioting in her brain. The well-known world had broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic city where people thought and did the most extraordinary things.\nMurder, accusations of murder, a lady clinging to one man and being rude to another—were these the daily incidents of her streets? Was there more in her frank beauty than met the eye—the power, perhaps, to evoke passions, good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment?\n\nHappy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture with admirable delicacy “where things might lead to,” but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: “Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr.\nEager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor out altogether—which they could scarcely do—but in any case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!”\n\n“It is indeed,” replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic.\n\n“What do you think about it?” asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress.\n\n“I don’t know what I think, nor what I want.”\n\n“Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn’t boring you. Speak the word,\nand, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow.”\n\n“Thank you, Charlotte,” said Lucy, and pondered over the offer.\n\nThere were letters for her at the bureau—one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother’s letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald—all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveller returns.\n\n“And the news?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n" +- "“Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome,” said Lucy, giving the news that interested her least. “Do you know the Vyses?”\n\n“Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Piazza Signoria.”\n\n“They’re nice people, the Vyses. So clever—my idea of what’s really clever. Don’t you long to be in Rome?”\n\n“I die for it!”\n\nThe Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something,\nand though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god.\n\n“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them.\n\n\n" - "It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guard against imposition. But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god.\n\nPhaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus enabling himself to drive with his arm round her waist. She did not mind. Mr.\nEager, who sat with his back to the horses, saw nothing of the indecorous proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy. The other two occupants of the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and Miss Lavish. For a dreadful thing had happened: Mr. Beebe, without consulting Mr. Eager, had doubled the size of the party. And though Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how the people were to sit, at the critical moment when the carriages came round they lost their heads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while Miss Bartlett, with George Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind.\n\nIt was hard on the poor chaplain to have his _partie carrée_ thus transformed. Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated it,\nwas now impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain style about them, and Mr. Beebe, though unreliable, was a man of parts. But a shoddy lady writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife in the sight of God—they should enter no villa at his introduction.\n\nLucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and nervous amid these explosive ingredients, attentive to Mr. Eager, repressive towards Miss Lavish, watchful of old Mr. Emerson, hitherto fortunately asleep,\nthanks to a heavy lunch and the drowsy atmosphere of Spring. She looked on the expedition as the work of Fate. But for it she would have avoided George Emerson successfully. In an open manner he had shown that he wished to continue their intimacy. She had refused, not because she disliked him, but because she did not know what had happened, and suspected that he did know. And this frightened her.\n\nFor the real event—whatever it was—had taken place, not in the Loggia,\nbut by the river. To behave wildly at the sight of death is pardonable.\nBut to discuss it afterwards, to pass from discussion into silence, and through silence into sympathy, that is an error, not of a startled emotion, but of the whole fabric. There was really something blameworthy (she thought) in their joint contemplation of the shadowy stream, in the common impulse which had turned them to the house without the passing of a look or word. This sense of wickedness had been slight at first. She had nearly joined the party to the Torre del Gallo. But each time that she avoided George it became more imperative that she should avoid him again. And now celestial irony, working through her cousin and two clergymen, did not suffer her to leave Florence till she had made this expedition with him through the hills.\n\nMeanwhile Mr. Eager held her in civil converse; their little tiff was over.\n\n“So, Miss Honeychurch, you are travelling? As a student of art?”\n\n“Oh, dear me, no—oh, no!”\n\n“Perhaps as a student of human nature,” interposed Miss Lavish, “like myself?”\n\n“Oh, no. I am here as a tourist.”\n\n" - "“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Eager. “Are you indeed? If you will not think me rude, we residents sometimes pity you poor tourists not a little—handed about like a parcel of goods from Venice to Florence, from Florence to Rome, living herded together in pensions or hotels, quite unconscious of anything that is outside Baedeker, their one anxiety to get ‘done’\nor ‘through’ and go on somewhere else. The result is, they mix up towns, rivers, palaces in one inextricable whirl. You know the American girl in Punch who says: ‘Say, poppa, what did we see at Rome?’ And the father replies: ‘Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the yaller dog.’ There’s travelling for you. Ha! ha! ha!”\n\n“I quite agree,” said Miss Lavish, who had several times tried to interrupt his mordant wit. “The narrowness and superficiality of the Anglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace.”\n\n“Quite so. Now, the English colony at Florence, Miss Honeychurch—and it is of considerable size, though, of course, not all equally—a few are here for trade, for example. But the greater part are students. Lady Helen Laverstock is at present busy over Fra Angelico. I mention her name because we are passing her villa on the left. No, you can only see it if you stand—no, do not stand; you will fall. She is very proud of that thick hedge. Inside, perfect seclusion. One might have gone back six hundred years. Some critics believe that her garden was the scene of The Decameron, which lends it an additional interest, does it not?”\n\n“It does indeed!” cried Miss Lavish. “Tell me, where do they place the scene of that wonderful seventh day?”\n\nBut Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honeychurch that on the right lived Mr. Someone Something, an American of the best type—so rare!—and that the Somebody Elses were farther down the hill. “Doubtless you know her monographs in the series of ‘Mediæval Byways’? He is working at Gemistus Pletho. Sometimes as I take tea in their beautiful grounds I hear, over the wall, the electric tram squealing up the new road with its loads of hot, dusty, unintelligent tourists who are going to ‘do’\nFiesole in an hour in order that they may say they have been there, and I think—think—I think how little they think what lies so near them.”\n\nDuring this speech the two figures on the box were sporting with each other disgracefully. Lucy had a spasm of envy. Granted that they wished to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to do so. They were probably the only people enjoying the expedition. The carriage swept with agonizing jolts up through the Piazza of Fiesole and into the Settignano road.\n\n“Piano! piano!” said Mr. Eager, elegantly waving his hand over his head.\n\n“Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene,” crooned the driver, and whipped his horses up again.\n\nNow Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on the subject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or was he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind.\nAs the pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr.\nEmerson was thrown against the chaplain with the regularity of a machine.\n\n“Piano! piano!” said he, with a martyred look at Lucy.\n\nAn extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. Phaethon, who for some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded.\n\nA little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was most unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered to disentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his _pourboire_, the girl was immediately to get down.\n\n“She is my sister,” said he, turning round on them with piteous eyes.\n\nMr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar.\n\nPhaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation, but at its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated,\nand patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish,\nthough unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism.\n\n" - "“Most certainly I would let them be,” she cried. “But I dare say I shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the conventions all my life. This is what _I_ call an adventure.”\n\n“We must not submit,” said Mr. Eager. “I knew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook’s tourists.”\n\n“Surely no!” said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing.\n\nThe other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly.\n\n“Leave them alone,” Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. “Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers—A king might envy us, and if we part them it’s more like sacrilege than anything I know.”\n\nHere the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect.\n\nMr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream,\nwith unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager’s mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker,\nand more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.\n\n“Signorina!” said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy?\n\n“Signorina!” echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why?\n\nFor a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box.\n\n“Victory at last!” said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again.\n\n“It is not victory,” said Mr. Emerson. “It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy.”\n\nMr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son.\n\n“We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul.”\n\nMiss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character.\n\n“He was not driving us well,” she said. “He jolted us.”\n\n“That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now.\nCan you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I’d be frightened of the girl,\ntoo. It doesn’t do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?”\n\nMiss Lavish bristled.\n\n“Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?”\n\n“The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line—so I heard yesterday—which runs like this: ‘Don’t go fighting against the Spring.’”\n\nMr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition.\n\n“Non fate guerra al Maggio,” he murmured. “‘War not with the May’ would render a correct meaning.”\n\n“The point is, we have warred with it. Look.” He pointed to the Val d’Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.\n“Fifty miles of Spring, and we’ve come up to admire them. Do you suppose there’s any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both.”\n\n" - "No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated,\nwet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d’Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become equally enthusiastic.\n\nBut it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting.\nAnd the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest.\n\nThe party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in common, were left to each other.\n\nThe two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered “the railway.” She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not very much hurt at her asking him.\n\n“The railway!” gasped Miss Lavish. “Oh, but I shall die! Of course it was the railway!” She could not control her mirth. “He is the image of a porter—on, on the South-Eastern.”\n\n“Eleanor, be quiet,” plucking at her vivacious companion. “Hush!\nThey’ll hear—the Emersons—”\n\n“I can’t stop. Let me go my wicked way. A porter—”\n\n“Eleanor!”\n\n“I’m sure it’s all right,” put in Lucy. “The Emersons won’t hear, and they wouldn’t mind if they did.”\n\nMiss Lavish did not seem pleased at this.\n\n“Miss Honeychurch listening!” she said rather crossly. “Pouf! Wouf! You naughty girl! Go away!”\n\n“Oh, Lucy, you ought to be with Mr. Eager, I’m sure.”\n\n“I can’t find them now, and I don’t want to either.”\n\n“Mr. Eager will be offended. It is your party.”\n\n“Please, I’d rather stop here with you.”\n\n“No, I agree,” said Miss Lavish. “It’s like a school feast; the boys have got separated from the girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish to converse on high topics unsuited for your ear.”\n\nThe girl was stubborn. As her time at Florence drew to its close she was only at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent. Such a one was Miss Lavish, and such for the moment was Charlotte. She wished she had not called attention to herself; they were both annoyed at her remark and seemed determined to get rid of her.\n\n“How tired one gets,” said Miss Bartlett. “Oh, I do wish Freddy and your mother could be here.”\n\nUnselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely usurped the functions of enthusiasm. Lucy did not look at the view either. She would not enjoy anything till she was safe at Rome.\n\n“Then sit you down,” said Miss Lavish. “Observe my foresight.”\n\nWith many a smile she produced two of those mackintosh squares that protect the frame of the tourist from damp grass or cold marble steps.\nShe sat on one; who was to sit on the other?\n\n" - "“Lucy; without a moment’s doubt, Lucy. The ground will do for me.\nReally I have not had rheumatism for years. If I do feel it coming on I shall stand. Imagine your mother’s feelings if I let you sit in the wet in your white linen.” She sat down heavily where the ground looked particularly moist. “Here we are, all settled delightfully. Even if my dress is thinner it will not show so much, being brown. Sit down, dear;\nyou are too unselfish; you don’t assert yourself enough.” She cleared her throat. “Now don’t be alarmed; this isn’t a cold. It’s the tiniest cough, and I have had it three days. It’s nothing to do with sitting here at all.”\n\nThere was only one way of treating the situation. At the end of five minutes Lucy departed in search of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager, vanquished by the mackintosh square.\n\nShe addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in the carriages, perfuming the cushions with cigars. The miscreant, a bony young man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with the courtesy of a host and the assurance of a relative.\n\n“Dove?” said Lucy, after much anxious thought.\n\nHis face lit up. Of course he knew where. Not so far either. His arm swept three-fourths of the horizon. He should just think he did know where. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead and then pushed them towards her, as if oozing with visible extract of knowledge.\n\nMore seemed necessary. What was the Italian for “clergyman”?\n\n“Dove buoni uomini?” said she at last.\n\nGood? Scarcely the adjective for those noble beings! He showed her his cigar.\n\n“Uno—piu—piccolo,” was her next remark, implying “Has the cigar been given to you by Mr. Beebe, the smaller of the two good men?”\n\nShe was correct as usual. He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it to make it stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded his hat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than a quarter of a minute was ready to conduct her. Italians are born knowing the way.\nIt would seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but as a chess-board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces as well as the squares. Any one can find places, but the finding of people is a gift from God.\n\nHe only stopped once, to pick her some great blue violets. She thanked him with real pleasure. In the company of this common man the world was beautiful and direct. For the first time she felt the influence of Spring. His arm swept the horizon gracefully; violets, like other things, existed in great profusion there; “would she like to see them?”\n\n“Ma buoni uomini.”\n\nHe bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceeded briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. They were nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing round them, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into countless pieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the pliant boughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not a twig, was unimportant to her.\n\n“What is that?”\n\nThere was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The voice of Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian’s ignorance is sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She could not make him understand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view was forming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, other hills.\n\n“Eccolo!” he exclaimed.\n\nAt the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end.\n\n“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above.\n“Courage and love.”\n\nShe did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view,\nand violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth.\n\n" -- "Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.\nBut he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.\n\nGeorge had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.\n\nBefore she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII They Return\n\n\nSome complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye.\nCharlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon had lost the game.\n\nThat last fact was undeniable. He climbed on to the box shivering, with his collar up, prophesying the swift approach of bad weather. “Let us go immediately,” he told them. “The signorino will walk.”\n\n“All the way? He will be hours,” said Mr. Beebe.\n\n“Apparently. I told him it was unwise.” He would look no one in the face; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him. He alone had played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the others had used scraps of their intelligence. He alone had divined what things were, and what he wished them to be. He alone had interpreted the message that Lucy had received five days before from the lips of a dying man. Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave—she could interpret it also. Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly,\nand perhaps too late.\n\nThe thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, seldom affect the lives of his employers. He was the most competent of Miss Bartlett’s opponents,\nbut infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the town, he and his insight and his knowledge would trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in the bushes; he might make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what have we to do with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed downwards towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious. They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.\n\nRain and darkness came on together. The two ladies huddled together under an inadequate parasol. There was a lightning flash, and Miss Lavish who was nervous, screamed from the carriage in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally:\n\n“Courage, Miss Honeychurch, courage and faith. If I might say so, there is something almost blasphemous in this horror of the elements. Are we seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all this immense electrical display, is simply called into existence to extinguish you or me?”\n\n“No—of course—”\n\n“Even from the scientific standpoint the chances against our being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage—courage and faith.”\n\nUnder the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin’s hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles,\ngained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination.\n\nShe renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence.\n\n“Mr. Eager!” called Mr. Beebe. “We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?”\n\n" -- "“George!” cried Mr. Emerson. “Ask your driver which way George went.\nThe boy may lose his way. He may be killed.”\n\n“Go, Mr. Eager,” said Miss Bartlett, “don’t ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe—, he is nearly demented.”\n\n“He may be killed!” cried the old man. “He may be killed!”\n\n“Typical behaviour,” said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. “In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down.”\n\n“What does he know?” whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone.\n“Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?”\n\n“Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But—” she pointed at the driver—“_he_ knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?” She took out her purse. “It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all.” Tapping Phaethon’s back with her guide-book,\nshe said, “Silenzio!” and offered him a franc.\n\n“Va bene,” he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him.\n\nThere was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity,\nwhich fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good.\n\nThe older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that,\neven if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers,\nthrough miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin.\n\n“Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I—I thought I was developing.”\n\n“Do not cry, dearest. Take your time.”\n\n“I have been obstinate and silly—worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river—Oh, but he isn’t killed—he wouldn’t be killed, would he?”\n\nThe thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone.\n\n“I trust not. One would always pray against that.”\n\n“He is really—I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before.\nBut this time I’m not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book.”\n\n“In a book?”\n\n“Heroes—gods—the nonsense of schoolgirls.”\n\n“And then?”\n\n“But, Charlotte, you know what happened then.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy’s body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.\n\n“I want to be truthful,” she whispered. “It is so hard to be absolutely truthful.”\n\n“Don’t be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room.”\n\nSo they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased,\nand Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of—Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love.\n\nThe luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.\n\n" -- "“At last,” thought she, “I shall understand myself. I shan’t again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don’t know what.”\n\nMiss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage.\nWhen it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:\n\n“Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair.”\n\nWith some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said “So what is to be done?”\n\nShe was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.\n\n“What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle.”\n\nThe rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett’s toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.\n\n“It has been raining for nearly four hours,” she said at last.\n\nMiss Bartlett ignored the remark.\n\n“How do you propose to silence him?”\n\n“The driver?”\n\n“My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson.”\n\nLucy began to pace up and down the room.\n\n“I don’t understand,” she said at last.\n\nShe understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.\n\n“How are you going to stop him talking about it?”\n\n“I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do.”\n\n“I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves.”\n\n“Exploits?” cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.\n\n“My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.\n\n“Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man,\nbut obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?”\n\nAn idea rushed across Lucy’s brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.\n\n“I propose to speak to him,” said she.\n\nMiss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.\n\n“You see, Charlotte, your kindness—I shall never forget it. But—as you said—it is my affair. Mine and his.”\n\n“And you are going to _implore_ him, to _beg_ him to keep silence?”\n\n“Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit.”\n\n“But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be—how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy gravely.\n\nSomething in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.\n\n“What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy again.\n\n“When he insulted you, how would you have replied?”\n\n“I hadn’t time to think. You came.”\n\n“Yes, but won’t you tell me now what you would have done?”\n\n“I should have—” She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness.\nShe could not think what she would have done.\n\n" -- "“Come away from the window, dear,” said Miss Bartlett. “You will be seen from the road.”\n\nLucy obeyed. She was in her cousin’s power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him.\n\nMiss Bartlett became plaintive.\n\n“Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister’s insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman.”\n\nAs she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:\n\n“It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try.”\n\n“What train?”\n\n“The train to Rome.” She looked at her gloves critically.\n\nThe girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.\n\n“When does the train to Rome go?”\n\n“At eight.”\n\n“Signora Bertolini would be upset.”\n\n“We must face that,” said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.\n\n“She will make us pay for a whole week’s pension.”\n\n“I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses’ hotel. Isn’t afternoon tea given there for nothing?”\n\n“Yes, but they pay extra for wine.” After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream.\n\nThey began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished,\nbegan to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte,\nwho was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk,\nvainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old.\nThe girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause.\nShe only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier,\nthe world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love.\nThe impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin’s side and took her in her arms.\n\nMiss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:\n\n“Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?”\n\nLucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:\n\n“Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!”\n\n“You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself,\ntoo. I know well how much I vex you at every turn.”\n\n“But no—”\n\nMiss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.\n\n“Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned—only fit to pack and unpack your things.”\n\n“Please—”\n\n“My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events.”\n\n“You mustn’t say these things,” said Lucy softly.\n\nShe still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other,\nheart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.\n\n“I have been a failure,” said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy’s trunk instead of strapping her own. “Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster.”\n\n" -- "“But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn’t a disaster either.”\n\n“It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?”\n\n“Every right.”\n\n“When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her.”\n\nLucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:\n\n“Why need mother hear of it?”\n\n“But you tell her everything?”\n\n“I suppose I do generally.”\n\n“I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it.\nUnless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her.”\n\nThe girl would not be degraded to this.\n\n“Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one.”\n\nHer promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room.\n\nFor a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin’s voice had intervened, and, ever since,\nit was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now,\ncould be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time—indeed,\nfor years—she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better—a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most.\n\nLucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity,\nof her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul.\n\nThe door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,\nthough she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her.\n\nTo reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.\n\nWhether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:\n\n“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”\n\nSoon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\nIn the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval\n\n\nThe drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,”\nor might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;\nwithin, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man.\n\n" -- "Two pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.\n\n“Where aren’t they?” said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy’s brother. “I tell you I’m getting fairly sick.”\n\n“For goodness’ sake go out of my drawing-room, then?” cried Mrs.\nHoneychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally.\n\nFreddy did not move or reply.\n\n“I think things are coming to a head,” she observed, rather wanting her son’s opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.\n\n“Time they did.”\n\n“I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more.”\n\n“It’s his third go, isn’t it?”\n\n“Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind.”\n\n“I didn’t mean to be unkind.” Then he added: “But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don’t know how girls manage things, but she can’t have said ‘No’ properly before, or she wouldn’t have to say it again now. Over the whole thing—I can’t explain—I do feel so uncomfortable.”\n\n“Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!”\n\n“I feel—never mind.”\n\nHe returned to his work.\n\n“Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: ‘Dear Mrs.\nVyse.’”\n\n“Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter.”\n\n“I said: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it,\nand I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But—’” She stopped reading, “I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can’t get on without me.”\n\n“Nor me.”\n\n“You?”\n\nFreddy nodded.\n\n“What do you mean?”\n\n“He asked me for my permission also.”\n\nShe exclaimed: “How very odd of him!”\n\n“Why so?” asked the son and heir. “Why shouldn’t my permission be asked?”\n\n“What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?”\n\n“I said to Cecil, ‘Take her or leave her; it’s no business of mine!’”\n\n“What a helpful answer!” But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.\n\n“The bother is this,” began Freddy.\n\nThen he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was.\nMrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.\n\n“Freddy, you must come. There they still are!”\n\n“I don’t see you ought to go peeping like that.”\n\n“Peeping like that! Can’t I look out of my own window?”\n\nBut she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, “Still page 322?” Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased.\n\n“The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully.”\nHe gave a nervous gulp. “Not content with ‘permission’, which I did give—that is to say, I said, ‘I don’t mind’—well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn’t off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn’t it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer—he said it would strengthen his hand.”\n\n“I hope you gave a careful answer, dear.”\n\n“I answered ‘No’” said the boy, grinding his teeth. “There! Fly into a stew! I can’t help it—had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me.”\n\n“Ridiculous child!” cried his mother. “You think you’re so holy and truthful, but really it’s only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?”\n\n" -- "“Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn’t say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn’t mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot’s in it.\nOh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work.”\n\n“No,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, “I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house.”\n\n“Not a bit!” he pleaded. “I only let out I didn’t like him. I don’t hate him, but I don’t like him. What I mind is that he’ll tell Lucy.”\n\nHe glanced at the curtains dismally.\n\n“Well, _I_ like him,” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “I know his mother; he’s good, he’s clever, he’s rich, he’s well connected—Oh, you needn’t kick the piano! He’s well connected—I’ll say it again if you like: he’s well connected.” She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: “And he has beautiful manners.”\n\n“I liked him till just now. I suppose it’s having him spoiling Lucy’s first week at home; and it’s also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe?” said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. “I don’t see how Mr. Beebe comes in.”\n\n“You know Mr. Beebe’s funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said: ‘Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.’ I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said ‘Oh, he’s like me—better detached.’ I couldn’t make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn’t been so pleasant, at least—I can’t explain.”\n\n“You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties.”\n\nThe explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one’s own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow’s cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.\n\n“Will this do?” called his mother. “‘Dear Mrs. Vyse,—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.’ Then I put in at the top, ‘and I have told Lucy so.’ I must write the letter out again—‘and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.’\nI said that because I didn’t want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned.\nShe goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid’s dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably—”\n\n“Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?”\n\n“Don’t interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes—‘Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.’ No, I’ll cross that last bit out—it looks patronizing. I’ll stop at ‘because she tells me everything.’ Or shall I cross that out,\ntoo?”\n\n“Cross it out, too,” said Freddy.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left it in.\n\n“Then the whole thing runs: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse.—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know—’”\n\n“Look out!” cried Freddy.\n\nThe curtains parted.\n\n" -- "Cecil’s first movement was one of irritation. He couldn’t bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture.\nInstinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world.\n\nCecil entered.\n\nAppearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral.\nWell educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision,\nworshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow’s cap.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!” she exclaimed—“oh, Cecil, do tell me!”\n\n“I promessi sposi,” said he.\n\nThey stared at him anxiously.\n\n“She has accepted me,” he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human.\n\n“I am so glad,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences.\n\n“Welcome as one of the family!” said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. “This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy.”\n\n“I hope so,” replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling.\n\n“We mothers—” simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic—all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room;\nlooking very cross and almost handsome?\n\n“I say, Lucy!” called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag.\n\nLucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother’s face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, “Steady on!”\n\n“Not a kiss for me?” asked her mother.\n\nLucy kissed her also.\n\n“Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?” Cecil suggested. “And I’d stop here and tell my mother.”\n\n“We go with Lucy?” said Freddy, as if taking orders.\n\n“Yes, you go with Lucy.”\n\nThey passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace,\nand descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend—he knew their ways—past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed,\nuntil they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed.\n\nSmiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that had led to such a happy conclusion.\n\n" +- "Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.\nBut he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.\n\nGeorge had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.\n\nBefore she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VII They Return\n\n\n" +- "Some complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye.\nCharlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon had lost the game.\n\nThat last fact was undeniable. He climbed on to the box shivering, with his collar up, prophesying the swift approach of bad weather. “Let us go immediately,” he told them. “The signorino will walk.”\n\n“All the way? He will be hours,” said Mr. Beebe.\n\n“Apparently. I told him it was unwise.” He would look no one in the face; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him. He alone had played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the others had used scraps of their intelligence. He alone had divined what things were, and what he wished them to be. He alone had interpreted the message that Lucy had received five days before from the lips of a dying man. Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave—she could interpret it also. Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly,\nand perhaps too late.\n\nThe thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, seldom affect the lives of his employers. He was the most competent of Miss Bartlett’s opponents,\nbut infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the town, he and his insight and his knowledge would trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in the bushes; he might make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what have we to do with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed downwards towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious. They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.\n\nRain and darkness came on together. The two ladies huddled together under an inadequate parasol. There was a lightning flash, and Miss Lavish who was nervous, screamed from the carriage in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally:\n\n“Courage, Miss Honeychurch, courage and faith. If I might say so, there is something almost blasphemous in this horror of the elements. Are we seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all this immense electrical display, is simply called into existence to extinguish you or me?”\n\n“No—of course—”\n\n“Even from the scientific standpoint the chances against our being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage—courage and faith.”\n\nUnder the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin’s hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles,\ngained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination.\n\nShe renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence.\n\n“Mr. Eager!” called Mr. Beebe. “We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?”\n\n“George!” cried Mr. Emerson. “Ask your driver which way George went.\nThe boy may lose his way. He may be killed.”\n\n“Go, Mr. Eager,” said Miss Bartlett, “don’t ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe—, he is nearly demented.”\n\n“He may be killed!” cried the old man. “He may be killed!”\n\n“Typical behaviour,” said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. “In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down.”\n\n" +- "“What does he know?” whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone.\n“Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?”\n\n“Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But—” she pointed at the driver—“_he_ knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?” She took out her purse. “It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all.” Tapping Phaethon’s back with her guide-book,\nshe said, “Silenzio!” and offered him a franc.\n\n“Va bene,” he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him.\n\nThere was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity,\nwhich fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good.\n\nThe older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that,\neven if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers,\nthrough miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin.\n\n“Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I—I thought I was developing.”\n\n“Do not cry, dearest. Take your time.”\n\n“I have been obstinate and silly—worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river—Oh, but he isn’t killed—he wouldn’t be killed, would he?”\n\nThe thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone.\n\n“I trust not. One would always pray against that.”\n\n“He is really—I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before.\nBut this time I’m not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book.”\n\n“In a book?”\n\n“Heroes—gods—the nonsense of schoolgirls.”\n\n“And then?”\n\n“But, Charlotte, you know what happened then.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy’s body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.\n\n“I want to be truthful,” she whispered. “It is so hard to be absolutely truthful.”\n\n“Don’t be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room.”\n\nSo they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased,\nand Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of—Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love.\n\nThe luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.\n\n“At last,” thought she, “I shall understand myself. I shan’t again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don’t know what.”\n\n" +- "Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage.\nWhen it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:\n\n“Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair.”\n\nWith some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said “So what is to be done?”\n\nShe was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.\n\n“What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle.”\n\nThe rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett’s toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.\n\n“It has been raining for nearly four hours,” she said at last.\n\nMiss Bartlett ignored the remark.\n\n“How do you propose to silence him?”\n\n“The driver?”\n\n“My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson.”\n\nLucy began to pace up and down the room.\n\n“I don’t understand,” she said at last.\n\nShe understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.\n\n“How are you going to stop him talking about it?”\n\n“I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do.”\n\n“I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves.”\n\n“Exploits?” cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.\n\n“My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.\n\n“Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man,\nbut obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?”\n\nAn idea rushed across Lucy’s brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.\n\n“I propose to speak to him,” said she.\n\nMiss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.\n\n“You see, Charlotte, your kindness—I shall never forget it. But—as you said—it is my affair. Mine and his.”\n\n“And you are going to _implore_ him, to _beg_ him to keep silence?”\n\n“Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit.”\n\n“But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be—how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy gravely.\n\nSomething in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.\n\n“What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy again.\n\n“When he insulted you, how would you have replied?”\n\n“I hadn’t time to think. You came.”\n\n“Yes, but won’t you tell me now what you would have done?”\n\n“I should have—” She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness.\nShe could not think what she would have done.\n\n“Come away from the window, dear,” said Miss Bartlett. “You will be seen from the road.”\n\n" +- "Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin’s power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him.\n\nMiss Bartlett became plaintive.\n\n“Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister’s insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman.”\n\nAs she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:\n\n“It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try.”\n\n“What train?”\n\n“The train to Rome.” She looked at her gloves critically.\n\nThe girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.\n\n“When does the train to Rome go?”\n\n“At eight.”\n\n“Signora Bertolini would be upset.”\n\n“We must face that,” said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.\n\n“She will make us pay for a whole week’s pension.”\n\n“I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses’ hotel. Isn’t afternoon tea given there for nothing?”\n\n“Yes, but they pay extra for wine.” After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream.\n\nThey began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished,\nbegan to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte,\nwho was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk,\nvainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old.\nThe girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause.\nShe only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier,\nthe world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love.\nThe impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin’s side and took her in her arms.\n\nMiss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:\n\n“Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?”\n\nLucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:\n\n“Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!”\n\n“You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself,\ntoo. I know well how much I vex you at every turn.”\n\n“But no—”\n\nMiss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.\n\n“Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned—only fit to pack and unpack your things.”\n\n“Please—”\n\n“My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events.”\n\n“You mustn’t say these things,” said Lucy softly.\n\nShe still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other,\nheart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.\n\n“I have been a failure,” said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy’s trunk instead of strapping her own. “Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster.”\n\n“But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn’t a disaster either.”\n\n" +- "“It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?”\n\n“Every right.”\n\n“When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her.”\n\nLucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:\n\n“Why need mother hear of it?”\n\n“But you tell her everything?”\n\n“I suppose I do generally.”\n\n“I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it.\nUnless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her.”\n\nThe girl would not be degraded to this.\n\n“Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one.”\n\nHer promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room.\n\nFor a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin’s voice had intervened, and, ever since,\nit was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now,\ncould be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time—indeed,\nfor years—she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better—a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most.\n\nLucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity,\nof her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul.\n\nThe door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,\nthough she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her.\n\nTo reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.\n\nWhether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:\n\n“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”\n\nSoon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\nIn the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VIII Medieval\n\n\n" +- "The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,”\nor might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;\nwithin, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man.\n\nTwo pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.\n\n“Where aren’t they?” said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy’s brother. “I tell you I’m getting fairly sick.”\n\n“For goodness’ sake go out of my drawing-room, then?” cried Mrs.\nHoneychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally.\n\nFreddy did not move or reply.\n\n“I think things are coming to a head,” she observed, rather wanting her son’s opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.\n\n“Time they did.”\n\n“I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more.”\n\n“It’s his third go, isn’t it?”\n\n“Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind.”\n\n“I didn’t mean to be unkind.” Then he added: “But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don’t know how girls manage things, but she can’t have said ‘No’ properly before, or she wouldn’t have to say it again now. Over the whole thing—I can’t explain—I do feel so uncomfortable.”\n\n“Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!”\n\n“I feel—never mind.”\n\nHe returned to his work.\n\n“Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: ‘Dear Mrs.\nVyse.’”\n\n“Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter.”\n\n“I said: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it,\nand I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But—’” She stopped reading, “I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can’t get on without me.”\n\n“Nor me.”\n\n“You?”\n\nFreddy nodded.\n\n“What do you mean?”\n\n“He asked me for my permission also.”\n\nShe exclaimed: “How very odd of him!”\n\n“Why so?” asked the son and heir. “Why shouldn’t my permission be asked?”\n\n“What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?”\n\n“I said to Cecil, ‘Take her or leave her; it’s no business of mine!’”\n\n“What a helpful answer!” But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.\n\n“The bother is this,” began Freddy.\n\nThen he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was.\nMrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.\n\n“Freddy, you must come. There they still are!”\n\n“I don’t see you ought to go peeping like that.”\n\n“Peeping like that! Can’t I look out of my own window?”\n\nBut she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, “Still page 322?” Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased.\n\n“The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully.”\nHe gave a nervous gulp. “Not content with ‘permission’, which I did give—that is to say, I said, ‘I don’t mind’—well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn’t off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn’t it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer—he said it would strengthen his hand.”\n\n“I hope you gave a careful answer, dear.”\n\n" +- "“I answered ‘No’” said the boy, grinding his teeth. “There! Fly into a stew! I can’t help it—had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me.”\n\n“Ridiculous child!” cried his mother. “You think you’re so holy and truthful, but really it’s only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?”\n\n“Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn’t say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn’t mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot’s in it.\nOh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work.”\n\n“No,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, “I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house.”\n\n“Not a bit!” he pleaded. “I only let out I didn’t like him. I don’t hate him, but I don’t like him. What I mind is that he’ll tell Lucy.”\n\nHe glanced at the curtains dismally.\n\n“Well, _I_ like him,” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “I know his mother; he’s good, he’s clever, he’s rich, he’s well connected—Oh, you needn’t kick the piano! He’s well connected—I’ll say it again if you like: he’s well connected.” She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: “And he has beautiful manners.”\n\n“I liked him till just now. I suppose it’s having him spoiling Lucy’s first week at home; and it’s also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe?” said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. “I don’t see how Mr. Beebe comes in.”\n\n“You know Mr. Beebe’s funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said: ‘Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.’ I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said ‘Oh, he’s like me—better detached.’ I couldn’t make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn’t been so pleasant, at least—I can’t explain.”\n\n“You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties.”\n\nThe explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one’s own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow’s cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.\n\n“Will this do?” called his mother. “‘Dear Mrs. Vyse,—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.’ Then I put in at the top, ‘and I have told Lucy so.’ I must write the letter out again—‘and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.’\nI said that because I didn’t want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned.\nShe goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid’s dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably—”\n\n“Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?”\n\n“Don’t interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes—‘Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.’ No, I’ll cross that last bit out—it looks patronizing. I’ll stop at ‘because she tells me everything.’ Or shall I cross that out,\ntoo?”\n\n“Cross it out, too,” said Freddy.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left it in.\n\n" +- "“Then the whole thing runs: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse.—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know—’”\n\n“Look out!” cried Freddy.\n\nThe curtains parted.\n\nCecil’s first movement was one of irritation. He couldn’t bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture.\nInstinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world.\n\nCecil entered.\n\nAppearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral.\nWell educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision,\nworshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow’s cap.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!” she exclaimed—“oh, Cecil, do tell me!”\n\n“I promessi sposi,” said he.\n\nThey stared at him anxiously.\n\n“She has accepted me,” he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human.\n\n“I am so glad,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences.\n\n“Welcome as one of the family!” said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. “This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy.”\n\n“I hope so,” replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling.\n\n“We mothers—” simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic—all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room;\nlooking very cross and almost handsome?\n\n“I say, Lucy!” called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag.\n\nLucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother’s face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, “Steady on!”\n\n“Not a kiss for me?” asked her mother.\n\nLucy kissed her also.\n\n“Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?” Cecil suggested. “And I’d stop here and tell my mother.”\n\n“We go with Lucy?” said Freddy, as if taking orders.\n\n“Yes, you go with Lucy.”\n\nThey passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace,\nand descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend—he knew their ways—past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed,\nuntil they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed.\n\nSmiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that had led to such a happy conclusion.\n\n" - "He had known Lucy for several years, but only as a commonplace girl who happened to be musical. He could still remember his depression that afternoon at Rome, when she and her terrible cousin fell on him out of the blue, and demanded to be taken to St. Peter’s. That day she had seemed a typical tourist—shrill, crude, and gaunt with travel. But Italy worked some marvel in her. It gave her light, and—which he held more precious—it gave her shadow. Soon he detected in her a wonderful reticence. She was like a woman of Leonardo da Vinci’s, whom we love not so much for herself as for the things that she will not tell us.\nThe things are assuredly not of this life; no woman of Leonardo’s could have anything so vulgar as a “story.” She did develop most wonderfully day by day.\n\nSo it happened that from patronizing civility he had slowly passed if not to passion, at least to a profound uneasiness. Already at Rome he had hinted to her that they might be suitable for each other. It had touched him greatly that she had not broken away at the suggestion. Her refusal had been clear and gentle; after it—as the horrid phrase went—she had been exactly the same to him as before. Three months later, on the margin of Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked her again in bald, traditional language. She reminded him of a Leonardo more than ever; her sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic rock;\nat his words she had turned and stood between him and the light with immeasurable plains behind her. He walked home with her unashamed,\nfeeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things that really mattered were unshaken.\n\nSo now he had asked her once more, and, clear and gentle as ever, she had accepted him, giving no coy reasons for her delay, but simply saying that she loved him and would do her best to make him happy. His mother, too, would be pleased; she had counselled the step; he must write her a long account.\n\nGlancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy’s chemicals had come off on it, he moved to the writing table. There he saw “Dear Mrs. Vyse,”\nfollowed by many erasures. He recoiled without reading any more, and after a little hesitation sat down elsewhere, and pencilled a note on his knee.\n\nThen he lit another cigarette, which did not seem quite as divine as the first, and considered what might be done to make Windy Corner drawing-room more distinctive. With that outlook it should have been a successful room, but the trail of Tottenham Court Road was upon it; he could almost visualize the motor-vans of Messrs. Shoolbred and Messrs.\nMaple arriving at the door and depositing this chair, those varnished book-cases, that writing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch’s letter. He did not want to read that letter—his temptations never lay in that direction; but he worried about it none the less. It was his own fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and so he had asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for Freddy—“He is only a boy,” he reflected. “I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?”\n\nThe Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps—he did not put it very definitely—he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible.\n\n“Mr. Beebe!” said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy’s praise of him in her letters from Florence.\n\nCecil greeted him rather critically.\n\n“I’ve come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?”\n\n“I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here—Don’t sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it.”\n\n“Pfui!”\n\n“I know,” said Cecil. “I know. I can’t think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it.”\n\nFor Cecil considered the bone and the Maples’ furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired.\n\n“I’ve come for tea and for gossip. Isn’t this news?”\n\n“News? I don’t understand you,” said Cecil. “News?”\n\nMr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward.\n\n" - "“I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!”\n\n“Has he indeed?” said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder.\n\n“Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I’ll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you.”\n\n“I’m shockingly stupid over local affairs,” said the young man languidly. “I can’t even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference,\nor perhaps those aren’t the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don’t feel to exist on sufferance.”\n\nMr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert,\ndetermined to shift the subject.\n\n“Let me see, Mr. Vyse—I forget—what is your profession?”\n\n“I have no profession,” said Cecil. “It is another example of my decadence. My attitude—quite an indefensible one—is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don’t care a straw about, but somehow, I’ve not been able to begin.”\n\n“You are very fortunate,” said Mr. Beebe. “It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure.”\n\nHis voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also.\n\n“I am glad that you approve. I daren’t face the healthy person—for example, Freddy Honeychurch.”\n\n“Oh, Freddy’s a good sort, isn’t he?”\n\n“Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is.”\n\nCecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe’s mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science.\n\n“Where are the others?” said Mr. Beebe at last, “I insist on extracting tea before evening service.”\n\n“I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary—I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?”\n\n“I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs.”\n\n“The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small.”\n\nThey both laughed, and things began to go better.\n\n“The faults of Freddy—” Cecil continued.\n\n“Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable.”\n\n“She has none,” said the young man, with grave sincerity.\n\n“I quite agree. At present she has none.”\n\n“At present?”\n\n“I’m not cynical. I’m only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down,\nand music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good,\nheroically bad—too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad.”\n\nCecil found his companion interesting.\n\n“And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?”\n\n“Well, I must say I’ve only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn’t you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn’t wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be.”\n\n“In what way?”\n\n" - "Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace.\n\n“I could as easily tell you what tune she’ll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks.”\n\nThe sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself.\n\n“But the string never broke?”\n\n“No. I mightn’t have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall.”\n\n“It has broken now,” said the young man in low, vibrating tones.\n\nImmediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous,\ncontemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him?\n\n“Broken? What do you mean?”\n\n“I meant,” said Cecil stiffly, “that she is going to marry me.”\n\nThe clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice.\n\n“I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way.\nMr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me.” And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed.\n\nCecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered.\n\nOccasionally he could be quite crude.\n\n“I am sorry I have given you a shock,” he said dryly. “I fear that Lucy’s choice does not meet with your approval.”\n\n“Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. I know Miss Honeychurch only a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have discussed her so freely with any one; certainly not with you.”\n\n“You are conscious of having said something indiscreet?”\n\nMr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really, Mr. Vyse had the art of placing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to use the prerogatives of his profession.\n\n“No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it.\nShe has learnt—you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely—she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides.” It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. “She has learnt through you,” and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; “let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her.”\n\n“Grazie tante!” said Cecil, who did not like parsons.\n\n“Have you heard?” shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden. “Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?”\n\nFreddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact.\n\n“Indeed I have!” he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer—at all events not without apology. “Mrs.\nHoneychurch, I’m going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I’m too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them,\ngrave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my tea.”\n\n“You only asked for it just in time,” the lady retorted. “How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?”\n\nHe took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be serious any more.\n\n" -- "An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present.\n\nSo it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne,\nputting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped.\nFreddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art\n\n\nA few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\nfor naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man.\n\nCecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers.\n\nAt tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been.\n\n“Do you go to much of this sort of thing?” he asked when they were driving home.\n\n“Oh, now and then,” said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself.\n\n“Is it typical of country society?”\n\n“I suppose so. Mother, would it be?”\n\n“Plenty of society,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses.\n\nSeeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said:\n\n“To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous.”\n\n“I am so sorry that you were stranded.”\n\n“Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property—a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!”\n\n“One has to go through it, I suppose. They won’t notice us so much next time.”\n\n“But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement—horrid word in the first place—is a private matter, and should be treated as such.”\n\nYet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them,\nrejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different—personal love. Hence Cecil’s irritation and Lucy’s belief that his irritation was just.\n\n“How tiresome!” she said. “Couldn’t you have escaped to tennis?”\n\n“I don’t play tennis—at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato.”\n\n“Inglese Italianato?”\n\n“E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?”\n\nShe did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement,\nhad taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing.\n\n“Well,” said he, “I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them.”\n\n" -- "“We all have our limitations, I suppose,” said wise Lucy.\n\n“Sometimes they are forced on us, though,” said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.\n\n“How?”\n\n“It makes a difference doesn’t it, whether we fully fence ourselves in,\nor whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?”\n\nShe thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference.\n\n“Difference?” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. “I don’t see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place.”\n\n“We were speaking of motives,” said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred.\n\n“My dear Cecil, look here.” She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. “This is me. That’s Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here.”\n\n“We weren’t talking of real fences,” said Lucy, laughing.\n\n“Oh, I see, dear—poetry.”\n\nShe leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused.\n\n“I tell you who has no ‘fences,’ as you call them,” she said, “and that’s Mr. Beebe.”\n\n“A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless.”\n\nLucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil’s epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it.\n\n“Don’t you like Mr. Beebe?” she asked thoughtfully.\n\n“I never said so!” he cried. “I consider him far above the average. I only denied—” And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant.\n\n“Now, a clergyman that I do hate,” said she wanting to say something sympathetic, “a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere—not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things.”\n\n“What sort of things?”\n\n“There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife.”\n\n“Perhaps he had.”\n\n“No!”\n\n“Why ‘no’?”\n\n“He was such a nice old man, I’m sure.”\n\nCecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence.\n\n“Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague—said the old man had ‘practically’ murdered his wife—had murdered her in the sight of God.”\n\n“Hush, dear!” said Mrs. Honeychurch absently.\n\n“But isn’t it intolerable that a person whom we’re told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn’t that.”\n\n“Poor old man! What was his name?”\n\n“Harris,” said Lucy glibly.\n\n“Let’s hope that Mrs. Harris there warn’t no sich person,” said her mother.\n\nCecil nodded intelligently.\n\n“Isn’t Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?” he asked.\n\n“I don’t know. I hate him. I’ve heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I _hate_ him.”\n\n“My goodness gracious me, child!” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “You’ll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen.”\n\nHe smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy’s moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman’s power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, he thought—lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch’s mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.\n\n" -- "“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.\nHoneychurch?”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil,\nwho was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again.\n\nLucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\nLet us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\nThe woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.\nPretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil.\n\n“Cissie” was the name of one of these villas, “Albert” of the other.\nThese titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. “Albert”\nwas inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. “Cissie” was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions.\n\n“The place is ruined!” said the ladies mechanically. “Summer Street will never be the same again.”\n\nAs the carriage passed, “Cissie’s” door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.\n\n“Stop!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.\n“Here’s Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!”\n\nSir Harry Otway—who need not be described—came to the carriage and said “Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can’t, I really can’t turn out Miss Flack.”\n\n“Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew’s time?”\n\n“But what can I do?” He lowered his voice. “An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden.”\n\n“Turn her out,” said Cecil bravely.\n\n" -- "Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack’s intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm.\nHe called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,—a most reasonable and respectful man—who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ,\nhowever, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the façade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative.\n\nMr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, “and all the capitals different—one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack’s initials—every one different.” For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy.\n\nThis futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch’s carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well.\nHe had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever.\nAll he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for “Cissie”—someone really desirable.\n\n“The rent is absurdly low,” he told them, “and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves.”\n\nCecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.\n\n“You ought to find a tenant at once,” he said maliciously. “It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk.”\n\n“Exactly!” said Sir Harry excitedly. “That is exactly what I fear, Mr.\nVyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved—a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?”\n\n“Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,” said Lucy.\n\nCecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.\n\n“Sir Harry!” she exclaimed, “I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?”\n\n“My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?”\n\n“Yes; I met them abroad.”\n\n“Gentlewomen?” he asked tentatively.\n\n“Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week—Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I’m really not joking.\nThey are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?”\n\n“Indeed you may!” he cried. “Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities—please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents’ fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote—a tactful letter, you know—asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory—people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!”\n\nShe nodded.\n\n“My advice,” put in Mrs. Honeychurch, “is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It’s a sad thing, but I’d far rather let to some one who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down.”\n\n“I think I follow you,” said Sir Harry; “but it is, as you say, a very sad thing.”\n\n“The Misses Alan aren’t that!” cried Lucy.\n\n" -- "“Yes, they are,” said Cecil. “I haven’t met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood.”\n\n“Don’t listen to him, Sir Harry—he’s tiresome.”\n\n“It’s I who am tiresome,” he replied. “I oughtn’t to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help.”\n\n“Then may I write to my Misses Alan?”\n\n“Please!”\n\nBut his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:\n\n“Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man.”\n\n“Really—” he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.\n\n“Men don’t gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there’s an end of them—they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they’re vulgar,\nthey somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn’t spread so. Give me a man—of course, provided he’s clean.”\n\nSir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time,\nshould descend from the carriage and inspect “Cissie” for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale.\n\nCecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.\n\n“Mrs. Honeychurch,” he said, “what if we two walk home and leave you?”\n\n“Certainly!” was her cordial reply.\n\nSir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, “Aha! young people, young people!” and then hastened to unlock the house.\n\n“Hopeless vulgarian!” exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!”\n\n“I can’t help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man.”\n\n“He isn’t clever, but really he is nice.”\n\n“No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and every one—even your mother—is taken in.”\n\n“All that you say is quite true,” said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. “I wonder whether—whether it matters so very much.”\n\n“It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party.\nOh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he’ll get some vulgar tenant in that villa—some woman so really vulgar that he’ll notice it.\n_Gentlefolks!_ Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let’s forget him.”\n\nThis Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever,\nnor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, “It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy”? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps,\nduring the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.\n\n“Which way shall we go?” she asked him.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, she thought—was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad.\n\n“Are there two ways?”\n\n“Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we’re got up smart.”\n\n“I’d rather go through the wood,” said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. “Why is it,\nLucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?”\n\n“Haven’t I? The wood, then,” said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning.\n\nShe led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards.\n\n" -- "“I had got an idea—I dare say wrongly—that you feel more at home with me in a room.”\n\n“A room?” she echoed, hopelessly bewildered.\n\n“Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this.”\n\n“Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person.”\n\n“I don’t know that you aren’t. I connect you with a view—a certain type of view. Why shouldn’t you connect me with a room?”\n\nShe reflected a moment, and then said, laughing:\n\n“Do you know that you’re right? I do. I must be a poetess after all.\nWhen I think of you it’s always as in a room. How funny!”\n\nTo her surprise, he seemed annoyed.\n\n“A drawing-room, pray? With no view?”\n\n“Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?”\n\n“I’d rather,” he said reproachfully, “that you connected me with the open air.”\n\nShe said again, “Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?”\n\nAs no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm.\n\nPresently they came to a little clearing among the pines—another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool.\n\nShe exclaimed, “The Sacred Lake!”\n\n“Why do you call it that?”\n\n“I can’t remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It’s only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can’t get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it.”\n\n“And you?”\n\nHe meant, “Are you fond of it?” But she answered dreamily, “I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row.”\n\nAt another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool’s edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it,\nand she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green.\n\n“Who found you out?”\n\n“Charlotte,” she murmured. “She was stopping with us.\nCharlotte—Charlotte.”\n\n“Poor girl!”\n\nShe smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk, now appeared practical.\n\n“Lucy!”\n\n“Yes, I suppose we ought to be going,” was her reply.\n\n“Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before.”\n\nAt the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards him.\n\n“What, Cecil?”\n\n“Hitherto never—not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry me—”\n\nHe became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were observed. His courage had gone.\n\n“Yes?”\n\n“Up to now I have never kissed you.”\n\nShe was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately.\n\n“No—more you have,” she stammered.\n\n“Then I ask you—may I now?”\n\n“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can’t run at you, you know.”\n\nAt that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.\nAs he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them.\n\n" -- "Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. Lucy was standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.\n\nThey left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.\n\n“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X Cecil as a Humourist\n\n\nThe society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,\nand, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter.\nOther houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility. “I cannot think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction—which few honest solicitors despise—of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable.\n\nThe best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were rather dull,\nand Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy.\nHitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning—their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags,\norange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to speak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and identical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the London fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished.\nHer senses expanded; she felt that there was no one whom she might not get to like, that social barriers were irremovable, doubtless, but not particularly high. You jump over them just as you jump into a peasant’s olive-yard in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returned with new eyes.\n\nSo did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not to tolerance, but to irritation. He saw that the local society was narrow, but, instead of saying, “Does that very much matter?” he rebelled, and tried to substitute for it the society he called broad. He did not realize that Lucy had consecrated her environment by the thousand little civilities that create a tenderness in time, and that though her eyes saw its defects, her heart refused to despise it entirely. Nor did he realize a more important point—that if she was too great for this society, she was too great for all society, and had reached the stage where personal intercourse would alone satisfy her. A rebel she was, but not of the kind he understood—a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling-room, but equality beside the man she loved. For Italy was offering her the most priceless of all possessions—her own soul.\n\n" -- "Playing bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece to the rector, and aged thirteen—an ancient and most honourable game, which consists in striking tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over the net and immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs. Honeychurch; others are lost.\nThe sentence is confused, but the better illustrates Lucy’s state of mind, for she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the same time.\n\n“Oh, it has been such a nuisance—first he, then they—no one knowing what they wanted, and everyone so tiresome.”\n\n“But they really are coming now,” said Mr. Beebe. “I wrote to Miss Teresa a few days ago—she was wondering how often the butcher called,\nand my reply of once a month must have impressed her favourably. They are coming. I heard from them this morning.\n\n“I shall hate those Miss Alans!” Mrs. Honeychurch cried. “Just because they’re old and silly one’s expected to say ‘How sweet!’ I hate their ‘if’-ing and ‘but’-ing and ‘and’-ing. And poor Lucy—serve her right—worn to a shadow.”\n\nMr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and shouting over the tennis-court. Cecil was absent—one did not play bumble-puppy when he was there.\n\n“Well, if they are coming—No, Minnie, not Saturn.” Saturn was a tennis-ball whose skin was partially unsewn. When in motion his orb was encircled by a ring. “If they are coming, Sir Harry will let them move in before the twenty-ninth, and he will cross out the clause about whitewashing the ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in the fair wear and tear one.—That doesn’t count. I told you not Saturn.”\n\n“Saturn’s all right for bumble-puppy,” cried Freddy, joining them.\n“Minnie, don’t you listen to her.”\n\n“Saturn doesn’t bounce.”\n\n“Saturn bounces enough.”\n\n“No, he doesn’t.”\n\n“Well; he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil.”\n\n“Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Honeychurch.\n\n“But look at Lucy—complaining of Saturn, and all the time’s got the Beautiful White Devil in her hand, ready to plug it in. That’s right,\nMinnie, go for her—get her over the shins with the racquet—get her over the shins!”\n\nLucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand.\n\nMr. Beebe picked it up, and said: “The name of this ball is Vittoria Corombona, please.” But his correction passed unheeded.\n\nFreddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little girls to fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie from a well-mannered child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house Cecil heard them, and, though he was full of entertaining news, he did not come down to impart it, in case he got hurt. He was not a coward and bore necessary pain as well as any man. But he hated the physical violence of the young. How right it was! Sure enough it ended in a cry.\n\n“I wish the Miss Alans could see this,” observed Mr. Beebe, just as Lucy, who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted off her feet by her brother.\n\n“Who are the Miss Alans?” Freddy panted.\n\n“They have taken Cissie Villa.”\n\n“That wasn’t the name—”\n\nHere his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the grass. An interval elapses.\n\n“Wasn’t what name?” asked Lucy, with her brother’s head in her lap.\n\n“Alan wasn’t the name of the people Sir Harry’s let to.”\n\n“Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it.”\n\n“Nonsense yourself! I’ve this minute seen him. He said to me: ‘Ahem!\nHoneychurch,’”—Freddy was an indifferent mimic—“‘ahem! ahem! I have at last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.’ I said, ‘ooray, old boy!’\nand slapped him on the back.”\n\n“Exactly. The Miss Alans?”\n\n“Rather not. More like Anderson.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious, there isn’t going to be another muddle!” Mrs.\nHoneychurch exclaimed. “Do you notice, Lucy, I’m always right? I _said_ don’t interfere with Cissie Villa. I’m always right. I’m quite uneasy at being always right so often.”\n\n“It’s only another muddle of Freddy’s. Freddy doesn’t even know the name of the people he pretends have taken it instead.”\n\n" -- "“Yes, I do. I’ve got it. Emerson.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“Emerson. I’ll bet you anything you like.”\n\n“What a weathercock Sir Harry is,” said Lucy quietly. “I wish I had never bothered over it at all.”\n\nThen she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe,\nwhose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that _that_ was the proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong.\n\nMeanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch from the contemplation of her own abilities.\n\n“Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?”\n\n“I don’t know whether they’re any Emersons,” retorted Freddy, who was democratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he was naturally attracted by the idea of equality, and the undeniable fact that there are different kinds of Emersons annoyed him beyond measure.\n\n“I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy”—she was sitting up again—“I see you looking down your nose and thinking your mother’s a snob. But there is a right sort and a wrong sort, and it’s affectation to pretend there isn’t.”\n\n“Emerson’s a common enough name,” Lucy remarked.\n\nShe was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she could see the pine-clad promontories descending one beyond another into the Weald. The further one descended the garden, the more glorious was this lateral view.\n\n“I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were no relations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray, does that satisfy you?”\n\n“Oh, yes,” he grumbled. “And you will be satisfied, too, for they’re friends of Cecil; so”—elaborate irony—“you and the other country families will be able to call in perfect safety.”\n\n“_Cecil?_” exclaimed Lucy.\n\n“Don’t be rude, dear,” said his mother placidly. “Lucy, don’t screech.\nIt’s a new bad habit you’re getting into.”\n\n“But has Cecil—”\n\n“Friends of Cecil’s,” he repeated, “‘and so really dee-sire-rebel.\nAhem! Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.’”\n\nShe got up from the grass.\n\nIt was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized with her very much. While she believed that her snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She might well “screech” when she heard that it came partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was a tease—something worse than a tease: he took a malicious pleasure in thwarting people. The clergyman, knowing this, looked at Miss Honeychurch with more than his usual kindness.\n\nWhen she exclaimed, “But Cecil’s Emersons—they can’t possibly be the same ones—there is that—” he did not consider that the exclamation was strange, but saw in it an opportunity of diverting the conversation while she recovered her composure. He diverted it as follows:\n\n“The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don’t suppose it will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friends of Mr. Vyse’s. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerest people! For our part we liked them, didn’t we?” He appealed to Lucy.\n“There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets and filled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who have failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine’s great stories. ‘My dear sister loves flowers,’ it began. They found the whole room a mass of blue—vases and jugs—and the story ends with ‘So ungentlemanly and yet so beautiful.’ It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect those Florentine Emersons with violets.”\n\n“Fiasco’s done you this time,” remarked Freddy, not seeing that his sister’s face was very red. She could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe saw it, and continued to divert the conversation.\n\n“These particular Emersons consisted of a father and a son—the son a goodly, if not a good young man; not a fool, I fancy, but very immature—pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the father—such a sentimental darling, and people declared he had murdered his wife.”\n\n" -- "In his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have repeated such gossip,\nbut he was trying to shelter Lucy in her little trouble. He repeated any rubbish that came into his head.\n\n“Murdered his wife?” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “Lucy, don’t desert us—go on playing bumble-puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have been the oddest place. That’s the second murderer I’ve heard of as being there. Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop? By-the-by, we really must ask Charlotte here some time.”\n\nMr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He suggested that his hostess was mistaken. At the hint of opposition she warmed. She was perfectly sure that there had been a second tourist of whom the same story had been told. The name escaped her. What was the name? Oh, what was the name? She clasped her knees for the name. Something in Thackeray. She struck her matronly forehead.\n\nLucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in.\n\n“Oh, don’t go!” he cried, and tried to catch her by the ankles.\n\n“I must go,” she said gravely. “Don’t be silly. You always overdo it when you play.”\n\nAs she left them her mother’s shout of “Harris!” shivered the tranquil air, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had never put it right. Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves and made her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil’s, with a pair of nondescript tourists. Hitherto truth had come to her naturally. She saw that for the future she must be more vigilant, and be—absolutely truthful? Well, at all events, she must not tell lies. She hurried up the garden, still flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would soothe her, she was sure.\n\n“Cecil!”\n\n“Hullo!” he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed in high spirits. “I was hoping you’d come. I heard you all bear-gardening, but there’s better fun up here. I, even I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith’s right—the cause of Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don’t be angry! Don’t be angry! You’ll forgive me when you hear it all.”\n\nHe looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings at once.\n\n“I have heard,” she said. “Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing!\nCertainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I’d rather have nice friends of yours. But you oughtn’t to tease one so.”\n\n“Friends of mine?” he laughed. “But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come!\nCome here.” But she remained standing where she was. “Do you know where I met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up to see my mother last week.”\n\n“What an odd place to meet people!” she said nervously. “I don’t quite understand.”\n\n“In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca Signorelli—of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy.”\n\n“But, Cecil—” proceeded hilariously.\n\n“In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country cottage—the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends. I thought, ‘What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!’ and I took their address and a London reference, found they weren’t actual blackguards—it was great sport—and wrote to him, making out—”\n\n“Cecil! No, it’s not fair. I’ve probably met them before—”\n\nHe bore her down.\n\n“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time.\nNo, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—”\n\n“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”\n\nHe stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”\n\nHer face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago.\n\n" -- "“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”\n\nShe left him.\n\n“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows.\n\nNo, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n\n\nThe Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,\nmet Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die.\n\nLucy—to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows because there are hills—Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least.\nNow that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little thinking, and—so illogical are girls—the event remained rather greater and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa while she was safe in the London flat.\n\n“Cecil—Cecil darling,” she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept into his arms.\n\nCecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should,\nand looked up to him because he was a man.\n\n“So you do love me, little thing?” he murmured.\n\n“Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don’t know what I should do without you.”\n\nSeveral days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what Charlotte would call “the flight to Rome,” and in Rome it had increased amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy’s, and once, in the Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses—Mrs. Vyse was an acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.\n\n“TUNBRIDGE WELLS,\n“_September_.\n\n\n“DEAREST LUCIA,\n\n\n" -- "“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house. He _said_ he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune,\nand I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\nLucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,\nand cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,\nthey would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.\nAs for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January.\n\n“Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do not put ‘Private’ outside your envelope again. No one opens my letters.\n\n\n“Yours affectionately,\n“L. M. HONEYCHURCH.”\n\n\nSecrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil’s life if he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.\n“Emerson, not Harris”; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she stopped.\n\nShe and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool,\nand it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the past.\n\nThe grandchildren asked her to play the piano.\n\n" -- "She played Schumann. “Now some Beethoven” called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete—the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art—throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and “Too much Schumann” was not the remark that Mr.\nBeebe had passed to himself when she returned.\n\nWhen the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son.\nMrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another’s,\nhad been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd.\n\n“Make Lucy one of us,” she said, looking round intelligently at the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again.\n“Lucy is becoming wonderful—wonderful.”\n\n“Her music always was wonderful.”\n\n“Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made.”\n\n“Italy has done it.”\n\n“Perhaps,” she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. “It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January.\nShe is one of us already.”\n\n“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to London. I don’t believe in these London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”\n\n“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.\n\nAs she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek.\n\n“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”\n\nThe elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII Twelfth Chapter\n\n\nIt was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.\nAll that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n“M’m.”\n\n“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in.\n\n“I suggested we should hinder them,” said Mr. Beebe. “They are worth it.” Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. “Hullo!” he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible.\n\nA grave voice replied, “Hullo!”\n\n“I’ve brought someone to see you.”\n\n“I’ll be down in a minute.”\n\n" -- "The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books.\n\n“Are these people great readers?” Freddy whispered. “Are they that sort?”\n\n“I fancy they know how to read—a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German.\nUm—um—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, look at that,” said Freddy in awestruck tones.\n\nOn the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: “Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.”\n\n“I know. Isn’t it jolly? I like that. I’m certain that’s the old man’s doing.”\n\n“How very odd of him!”\n\n“Surely you agree?”\n\nBut Freddy was his mother’s son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture.\n\n“Pictures!” the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.\n“Giotto—they got that at Florence, I’ll be bound.”\n\n“The same as Lucy’s got.”\n\n“Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?”\n\n“She came back yesterday.”\n\n“I suppose she had a good time?”\n\n“Yes, very,” said Freddy, taking up a book. “She and Cecil are thicker than ever.”\n\n“That’s good hearing.”\n\n“I wish I wasn’t such a fool, Mr. Beebe.”\n\nMr. Beebe ignored the remark.\n\n“Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it’ll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books.”\n\n“So will you.”\n\n“Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards.\nCecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful.\nThere are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says—”\n\n“What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson—we think we’ll come another time.”\n\nGeorge ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking.\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour.”\n\nThen Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George’s face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, “How d’ye do? Come and have a bathe.”\n\n“Oh, all right,” said George, impassive.\n\nMr. Beebe was highly entertained.\n\n“‘How d’ye do? how d’ye do? Come and have a bathe,’” he chuckled.\n“That’s the best conversational opening I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with ‘How do you do? Come and have a bathe’? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal.”\n\n“I tell you that they shall be,” said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same.”\n\n“We are to raise ladies to our level?” the clergyman inquired.\n\n“The Garden of Eden,” pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, “which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies.”\n\nMr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.\n\n“In this—not in other things—we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden.”\n\n“I say, what about this bathe?” murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him.\n\n“I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage.”\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence.”\n\n" -- "“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry.\nMarriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr.\nVyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”\n\n“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. “I must—that is to say, I have to—have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope.”\n\n“_Call_, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country.”\n\nMr. Beebe came to the rescue.\n\n“Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days’ interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon.”\n\n“Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can’t believe he’s well.”\n\nGeorge bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture.\n\n“Do you really want this bathe?” Freddy asked him. “It is only a pond,\ndon’t you know. I dare say you are used to something better.”\n\n“Yes—I have said ‘Yes’ already.”\n\nMr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads.\n\n“And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?”\n\n“I did not. Miss Lavish told me.”\n\n“When I was a young man, I always meant to write a ‘History of Coincidence.’”\n\nNo enthusiasm.\n\n“Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn’t purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect.”\n\nTo his relief, George began to talk.\n\n“It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate—flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us—we settle nothing—”\n\n“You have not reflected at all,” rapped the clergyman. “Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don’t say, ‘I didn’t do this,’ for you did it, ten to one. Now I’ll cross-question you.\nWhere did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?”\n\n“Italy.”\n\n“And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?”\n\n“National Gallery.”\n\n“Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it.”\n\n“It is Fate that I am here,” persisted George. “But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy.”\n\nMr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George.\n\n“And so for this and for other reasons my ‘History of Coincidence’ is still to write.”\n\nSilence.\n\nWishing to round off the episode, he added; “We are all so glad that you have come.”\n\nSilence.\n\n“Here we are!” called Freddy.\n\n“Oh, good!” exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow.\n\n" -- "“In there’s the pond. I wish it was bigger,” he added apologetically.\n\nThey climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond,\nset in its little alp of green—only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool.\n\n“It’s distinctly successful, as ponds go,” said Mr. Beebe. “No apologies are necessary for the pond.”\n\nGeorge sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots.\n\n“Aren’t those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What’s the name of this aromatic plant?”\n\nNo one knew, or seemed to care.\n\n“These abrupt changes of vegetation—this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle—heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, aren’t you bathing?” called Freddy, as he stripped himself.\n\nMr. Beebe thought he was not.\n\n“Water’s wonderful!” cried Freddy, prancing in.\n\n“Water’s water,” murmured George. Wetting his hair first—a sure sign of apathy—he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.\n\n“Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,” went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud.\n\n“Is it worth it?” asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin.\n\nThe bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly.\n\n“Hee-poof—I’ve swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water’s wonderful,\nwater’s simply ripping.”\n\n“Water’s not so bad,” said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun.\n\n“Water’s wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do.”\n\n“Apooshoo, kouf.”\n\nMr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible,\nlooked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind—these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man?\n\n“I may as well wash too”; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water.\n\nIt was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Götterdämmerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit—for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out.\nHe smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool.\n\n“Race you round it, then,” cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run—a memorable sight.\n\nThey ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the sward, proclaiming:\n\n“No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in the end.”\n\n“A try! A try!” yelled Freddy, snatching up George’s bundle and placing it beside an imaginary goal-post.\n\n“Socker rules,” George retorted, scattering Freddy’s bundle with a kick.\n\n“Goal!”\n\n" -- "“Goal!”\n\n“Pass!”\n\n“Take care my watch!” cried Mr. Beebe.\n\nClothes flew in all directions.\n\n“Take care my hat! No, that’s enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!”\n\nBut the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair.\n\n“That’ll do!” shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. “Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!”\n\nYells, and widening circles over the dappled earth.\n\n“Hi! hi! _Ladies!_”\n\nNeither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe’s last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch,\nCecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth.\nFreddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe’s hat.\n\n“Gracious alive!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch. “Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too!\nWhatever has happened?”\n\n“Come this way immediately,” commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed.\n\n“Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil,\nMr. Beebe’s waistcoat—”\n\nNo business of ours, said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently “minded.”\n\n“I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond.”\n\n“This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way.”\n\nThey followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.\n\n“Well, _I_ can’t help it,” said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. “I can’t be trodden on, can I?”\n\n“Good gracious me, dear; so it’s you! What miserable management! Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?”\n\n“Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow’s got to dry, and if another fellow—”\n\n“Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy.” They turned. “Oh, look—don’t look! Oh, poor Mr.\nBeebe! How unfortunate again—”\n\nFor Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.\n\n“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”\n\n“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”\n\n“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”\n\n“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.\n\nHe regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed.\n\nThat evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n\n\n" +- "An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present.\n\nSo it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne,\nputting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped.\nFreddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art\n\n\n" +- "A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\nfor naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man.\n\nCecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers.\n\nAt tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been.\n\n“Do you go to much of this sort of thing?” he asked when they were driving home.\n\n“Oh, now and then,” said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself.\n\n“Is it typical of country society?”\n\n“I suppose so. Mother, would it be?”\n\n“Plenty of society,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses.\n\nSeeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said:\n\n“To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous.”\n\n“I am so sorry that you were stranded.”\n\n“Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property—a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!”\n\n“One has to go through it, I suppose. They won’t notice us so much next time.”\n\n“But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement—horrid word in the first place—is a private matter, and should be treated as such.”\n\nYet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them,\nrejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different—personal love. Hence Cecil’s irritation and Lucy’s belief that his irritation was just.\n\n“How tiresome!” she said. “Couldn’t you have escaped to tennis?”\n\n“I don’t play tennis—at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato.”\n\n“Inglese Italianato?”\n\n“E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?”\n\nShe did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement,\nhad taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing.\n\n“Well,” said he, “I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them.”\n\n“We all have our limitations, I suppose,” said wise Lucy.\n\n“Sometimes they are forced on us, though,” said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.\n\n“How?”\n\n“It makes a difference doesn’t it, whether we fully fence ourselves in,\nor whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?”\n\nShe thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference.\n\n“Difference?” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. “I don’t see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place.”\n\n“We were speaking of motives,” said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred.\n\n“My dear Cecil, look here.” She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. “This is me. That’s Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here.”\n\n“We weren’t talking of real fences,” said Lucy, laughing.\n\n“Oh, I see, dear—poetry.”\n\nShe leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused.\n\n“I tell you who has no ‘fences,’ as you call them,” she said, “and that’s Mr. Beebe.”\n\n“A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless.”\n\nLucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil’s epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it.\n\n“Don’t you like Mr. Beebe?” she asked thoughtfully.\n\n" +- "“I never said so!” he cried. “I consider him far above the average. I only denied—” And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant.\n\n“Now, a clergyman that I do hate,” said she wanting to say something sympathetic, “a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere—not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things.”\n\n“What sort of things?”\n\n“There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife.”\n\n“Perhaps he had.”\n\n“No!”\n\n“Why ‘no’?”\n\n“He was such a nice old man, I’m sure.”\n\nCecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence.\n\n“Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague—said the old man had ‘practically’ murdered his wife—had murdered her in the sight of God.”\n\n“Hush, dear!” said Mrs. Honeychurch absently.\n\n“But isn’t it intolerable that a person whom we’re told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn’t that.”\n\n“Poor old man! What was his name?”\n\n“Harris,” said Lucy glibly.\n\n“Let’s hope that Mrs. Harris there warn’t no sich person,” said her mother.\n\nCecil nodded intelligently.\n\n“Isn’t Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?” he asked.\n\n“I don’t know. I hate him. I’ve heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I _hate_ him.”\n\n“My goodness gracious me, child!” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “You’ll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen.”\n\nHe smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy’s moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman’s power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, he thought—lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch’s mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.\n\n“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.\nHoneychurch?”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil,\nwho was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again.\n\nLucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\n" +- "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\nThe woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.\nPretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil.\n\n“Cissie” was the name of one of these villas, “Albert” of the other.\nThese titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. “Albert”\nwas inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. “Cissie” was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions.\n\n“The place is ruined!” said the ladies mechanically. “Summer Street will never be the same again.”\n\nAs the carriage passed, “Cissie’s” door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.\n\n“Stop!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.\n“Here’s Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!”\n\nSir Harry Otway—who need not be described—came to the carriage and said “Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can’t, I really can’t turn out Miss Flack.”\n\n“Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew’s time?”\n\n“But what can I do?” He lowered his voice. “An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden.”\n\n“Turn her out,” said Cecil bravely.\n\nSir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack’s intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm.\nHe called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,—a most reasonable and respectful man—who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ,\nhowever, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the façade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative.\n\nMr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, “and all the capitals different—one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack’s initials—every one different.” For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy.\n\nThis futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch’s carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well.\nHe had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever.\nAll he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for “Cissie”—someone really desirable.\n\n“The rent is absurdly low,” he told them, “and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves.”\n\nCecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.\n\n" +- "“You ought to find a tenant at once,” he said maliciously. “It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk.”\n\n“Exactly!” said Sir Harry excitedly. “That is exactly what I fear, Mr.\nVyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved—a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?”\n\n“Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,” said Lucy.\n\nCecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.\n\n“Sir Harry!” she exclaimed, “I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?”\n\n“My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?”\n\n“Yes; I met them abroad.”\n\n“Gentlewomen?” he asked tentatively.\n\n“Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week—Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I’m really not joking.\nThey are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?”\n\n“Indeed you may!” he cried. “Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities—please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents’ fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote—a tactful letter, you know—asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory—people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!”\n\nShe nodded.\n\n“My advice,” put in Mrs. Honeychurch, “is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It’s a sad thing, but I’d far rather let to some one who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down.”\n\n“I think I follow you,” said Sir Harry; “but it is, as you say, a very sad thing.”\n\n“The Misses Alan aren’t that!” cried Lucy.\n\n“Yes, they are,” said Cecil. “I haven’t met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood.”\n\n“Don’t listen to him, Sir Harry—he’s tiresome.”\n\n“It’s I who am tiresome,” he replied. “I oughtn’t to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help.”\n\n“Then may I write to my Misses Alan?”\n\n“Please!”\n\nBut his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:\n\n“Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man.”\n\n“Really—” he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.\n\n“Men don’t gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there’s an end of them—they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they’re vulgar,\nthey somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn’t spread so. Give me a man—of course, provided he’s clean.”\n\nSir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time,\nshould descend from the carriage and inspect “Cissie” for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale.\n\nCecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.\n\n“Mrs. Honeychurch,” he said, “what if we two walk home and leave you?”\n\n“Certainly!” was her cordial reply.\n\nSir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, “Aha! young people, young people!” and then hastened to unlock the house.\n\n“Hopeless vulgarian!” exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!”\n\n" +- "“I can’t help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man.”\n\n“He isn’t clever, but really he is nice.”\n\n“No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and every one—even your mother—is taken in.”\n\n“All that you say is quite true,” said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. “I wonder whether—whether it matters so very much.”\n\n“It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party.\nOh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he’ll get some vulgar tenant in that villa—some woman so really vulgar that he’ll notice it.\n_Gentlefolks!_ Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let’s forget him.”\n\nThis Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever,\nnor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, “It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy”? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps,\nduring the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.\n\n“Which way shall we go?” she asked him.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, she thought—was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad.\n\n“Are there two ways?”\n\n“Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we’re got up smart.”\n\n“I’d rather go through the wood,” said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. “Why is it,\nLucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?”\n\n“Haven’t I? The wood, then,” said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning.\n\nShe led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards.\n\n“I had got an idea—I dare say wrongly—that you feel more at home with me in a room.”\n\n“A room?” she echoed, hopelessly bewildered.\n\n“Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this.”\n\n“Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person.”\n\n“I don’t know that you aren’t. I connect you with a view—a certain type of view. Why shouldn’t you connect me with a room?”\n\nShe reflected a moment, and then said, laughing:\n\n“Do you know that you’re right? I do. I must be a poetess after all.\nWhen I think of you it’s always as in a room. How funny!”\n\nTo her surprise, he seemed annoyed.\n\n“A drawing-room, pray? With no view?”\n\n“Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?”\n\n“I’d rather,” he said reproachfully, “that you connected me with the open air.”\n\nShe said again, “Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?”\n\nAs no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm.\n\nPresently they came to a little clearing among the pines—another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool.\n\nShe exclaimed, “The Sacred Lake!”\n\n“Why do you call it that?”\n\n“I can’t remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It’s only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can’t get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it.”\n\n“And you?”\n\n" +- "He meant, “Are you fond of it?” But she answered dreamily, “I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row.”\n\nAt another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool’s edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it,\nand she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green.\n\n“Who found you out?”\n\n“Charlotte,” she murmured. “She was stopping with us.\nCharlotte—Charlotte.”\n\n“Poor girl!”\n\nShe smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk, now appeared practical.\n\n“Lucy!”\n\n“Yes, I suppose we ought to be going,” was her reply.\n\n“Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before.”\n\nAt the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards him.\n\n“What, Cecil?”\n\n“Hitherto never—not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry me—”\n\nHe became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were observed. His courage had gone.\n\n“Yes?”\n\n“Up to now I have never kissed you.”\n\nShe was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately.\n\n“No—more you have,” she stammered.\n\n“Then I ask you—may I now?”\n\n“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can’t run at you, you know.”\n\nAt that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.\nAs he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them.\n\nSuch was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. Lucy was standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.\n\nThey left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.\n\n“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter X Cecil as a Humourist\n\n\n" +- "The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,\nand, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter.\nOther houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility. “I cannot think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction—which few honest solicitors despise—of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable.\n\nThe best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were rather dull,\nand Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy.\nHitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning—their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags,\norange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to speak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and identical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the London fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished.\nHer senses expanded; she felt that there was no one whom she might not get to like, that social barriers were irremovable, doubtless, but not particularly high. You jump over them just as you jump into a peasant’s olive-yard in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returned with new eyes.\n\nSo did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not to tolerance, but to irritation. He saw that the local society was narrow, but, instead of saying, “Does that very much matter?” he rebelled, and tried to substitute for it the society he called broad. He did not realize that Lucy had consecrated her environment by the thousand little civilities that create a tenderness in time, and that though her eyes saw its defects, her heart refused to despise it entirely. Nor did he realize a more important point—that if she was too great for this society, she was too great for all society, and had reached the stage where personal intercourse would alone satisfy her. A rebel she was, but not of the kind he understood—a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling-room, but equality beside the man she loved. For Italy was offering her the most priceless of all possessions—her own soul.\n\nPlaying bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece to the rector, and aged thirteen—an ancient and most honourable game, which consists in striking tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over the net and immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs. Honeychurch; others are lost.\nThe sentence is confused, but the better illustrates Lucy’s state of mind, for she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the same time.\n\n“Oh, it has been such a nuisance—first he, then they—no one knowing what they wanted, and everyone so tiresome.”\n\n“But they really are coming now,” said Mr. Beebe. “I wrote to Miss Teresa a few days ago—she was wondering how often the butcher called,\nand my reply of once a month must have impressed her favourably. They are coming. I heard from them this morning.\n\n“I shall hate those Miss Alans!” Mrs. Honeychurch cried. “Just because they’re old and silly one’s expected to say ‘How sweet!’ I hate their ‘if’-ing and ‘but’-ing and ‘and’-ing. And poor Lucy—serve her right—worn to a shadow.”\n\nMr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and shouting over the tennis-court. Cecil was absent—one did not play bumble-puppy when he was there.\n\n" +- "“Well, if they are coming—No, Minnie, not Saturn.” Saturn was a tennis-ball whose skin was partially unsewn. When in motion his orb was encircled by a ring. “If they are coming, Sir Harry will let them move in before the twenty-ninth, and he will cross out the clause about whitewashing the ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in the fair wear and tear one.—That doesn’t count. I told you not Saturn.”\n\n“Saturn’s all right for bumble-puppy,” cried Freddy, joining them.\n“Minnie, don’t you listen to her.”\n\n“Saturn doesn’t bounce.”\n\n“Saturn bounces enough.”\n\n“No, he doesn’t.”\n\n“Well; he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil.”\n\n“Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Honeychurch.\n\n“But look at Lucy—complaining of Saturn, and all the time’s got the Beautiful White Devil in her hand, ready to plug it in. That’s right,\nMinnie, go for her—get her over the shins with the racquet—get her over the shins!”\n\nLucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand.\n\nMr. Beebe picked it up, and said: “The name of this ball is Vittoria Corombona, please.” But his correction passed unheeded.\n\nFreddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little girls to fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie from a well-mannered child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house Cecil heard them, and, though he was full of entertaining news, he did not come down to impart it, in case he got hurt. He was not a coward and bore necessary pain as well as any man. But he hated the physical violence of the young. How right it was! Sure enough it ended in a cry.\n\n“I wish the Miss Alans could see this,” observed Mr. Beebe, just as Lucy, who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted off her feet by her brother.\n\n“Who are the Miss Alans?” Freddy panted.\n\n“They have taken Cissie Villa.”\n\n“That wasn’t the name—”\n\nHere his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the grass. An interval elapses.\n\n“Wasn’t what name?” asked Lucy, with her brother’s head in her lap.\n\n“Alan wasn’t the name of the people Sir Harry’s let to.”\n\n“Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it.”\n\n“Nonsense yourself! I’ve this minute seen him. He said to me: ‘Ahem!\nHoneychurch,’”—Freddy was an indifferent mimic—“‘ahem! ahem! I have at last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.’ I said, ‘ooray, old boy!’\nand slapped him on the back.”\n\n“Exactly. The Miss Alans?”\n\n“Rather not. More like Anderson.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious, there isn’t going to be another muddle!” Mrs.\nHoneychurch exclaimed. “Do you notice, Lucy, I’m always right? I _said_ don’t interfere with Cissie Villa. I’m always right. I’m quite uneasy at being always right so often.”\n\n“It’s only another muddle of Freddy’s. Freddy doesn’t even know the name of the people he pretends have taken it instead.”\n\n“Yes, I do. I’ve got it. Emerson.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“Emerson. I’ll bet you anything you like.”\n\n“What a weathercock Sir Harry is,” said Lucy quietly. “I wish I had never bothered over it at all.”\n\nThen she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe,\nwhose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that _that_ was the proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong.\n\nMeanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch from the contemplation of her own abilities.\n\n“Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?”\n\n“I don’t know whether they’re any Emersons,” retorted Freddy, who was democratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he was naturally attracted by the idea of equality, and the undeniable fact that there are different kinds of Emersons annoyed him beyond measure.\n\n“I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy”—she was sitting up again—“I see you looking down your nose and thinking your mother’s a snob. But there is a right sort and a wrong sort, and it’s affectation to pretend there isn’t.”\n\n“Emerson’s a common enough name,” Lucy remarked.\n\n" +- "She was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she could see the pine-clad promontories descending one beyond another into the Weald. The further one descended the garden, the more glorious was this lateral view.\n\n“I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were no relations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray, does that satisfy you?”\n\n“Oh, yes,” he grumbled. “And you will be satisfied, too, for they’re friends of Cecil; so”—elaborate irony—“you and the other country families will be able to call in perfect safety.”\n\n“_Cecil?_” exclaimed Lucy.\n\n“Don’t be rude, dear,” said his mother placidly. “Lucy, don’t screech.\nIt’s a new bad habit you’re getting into.”\n\n“But has Cecil—”\n\n“Friends of Cecil’s,” he repeated, “‘and so really dee-sire-rebel.\nAhem! Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.’”\n\nShe got up from the grass.\n\nIt was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized with her very much. While she believed that her snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She might well “screech” when she heard that it came partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was a tease—something worse than a tease: he took a malicious pleasure in thwarting people. The clergyman, knowing this, looked at Miss Honeychurch with more than his usual kindness.\n\nWhen she exclaimed, “But Cecil’s Emersons—they can’t possibly be the same ones—there is that—” he did not consider that the exclamation was strange, but saw in it an opportunity of diverting the conversation while she recovered her composure. He diverted it as follows:\n\n“The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don’t suppose it will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friends of Mr. Vyse’s. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerest people! For our part we liked them, didn’t we?” He appealed to Lucy.\n“There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets and filled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who have failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine’s great stories. ‘My dear sister loves flowers,’ it began. They found the whole room a mass of blue—vases and jugs—and the story ends with ‘So ungentlemanly and yet so beautiful.’ It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect those Florentine Emersons with violets.”\n\n“Fiasco’s done you this time,” remarked Freddy, not seeing that his sister’s face was very red. She could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe saw it, and continued to divert the conversation.\n\n“These particular Emersons consisted of a father and a son—the son a goodly, if not a good young man; not a fool, I fancy, but very immature—pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the father—such a sentimental darling, and people declared he had murdered his wife.”\n\nIn his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have repeated such gossip,\nbut he was trying to shelter Lucy in her little trouble. He repeated any rubbish that came into his head.\n\n“Murdered his wife?” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “Lucy, don’t desert us—go on playing bumble-puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have been the oddest place. That’s the second murderer I’ve heard of as being there. Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop? By-the-by, we really must ask Charlotte here some time.”\n\nMr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He suggested that his hostess was mistaken. At the hint of opposition she warmed. She was perfectly sure that there had been a second tourist of whom the same story had been told. The name escaped her. What was the name? Oh, what was the name? She clasped her knees for the name. Something in Thackeray. She struck her matronly forehead.\n\nLucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in.\n\n“Oh, don’t go!” he cried, and tried to catch her by the ankles.\n\n“I must go,” she said gravely. “Don’t be silly. You always overdo it when you play.”\n\n" +- "As she left them her mother’s shout of “Harris!” shivered the tranquil air, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had never put it right. Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves and made her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil’s, with a pair of nondescript tourists. Hitherto truth had come to her naturally. She saw that for the future she must be more vigilant, and be—absolutely truthful? Well, at all events, she must not tell lies. She hurried up the garden, still flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would soothe her, she was sure.\n\n“Cecil!”\n\n“Hullo!” he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed in high spirits. “I was hoping you’d come. I heard you all bear-gardening, but there’s better fun up here. I, even I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith’s right—the cause of Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don’t be angry! Don’t be angry! You’ll forgive me when you hear it all.”\n\nHe looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings at once.\n\n“I have heard,” she said. “Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing!\nCertainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I’d rather have nice friends of yours. But you oughtn’t to tease one so.”\n\n“Friends of mine?” he laughed. “But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come!\nCome here.” But she remained standing where she was. “Do you know where I met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up to see my mother last week.”\n\n“What an odd place to meet people!” she said nervously. “I don’t quite understand.”\n\n“In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca Signorelli—of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy.”\n\n“But, Cecil—” proceeded hilariously.\n\n“In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country cottage—the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends. I thought, ‘What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!’ and I took their address and a London reference, found they weren’t actual blackguards—it was great sport—and wrote to him, making out—”\n\n“Cecil! No, it’s not fair. I’ve probably met them before—”\n\nHe bore her down.\n\n“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time.\nNo, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—”\n\n“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”\n\nHe stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”\n\nHer face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago.\n\n“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”\n\nShe left him.\n\n“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows.\n\nNo, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n\n\nThe Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,\nmet Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die.\n\nLucy—to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows because there are hills—Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least.\nNow that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little thinking, and—so illogical are girls—the event remained rather greater and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa while she was safe in the London flat.\n\n“Cecil—Cecil darling,” she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept into his arms.\n\nCecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should,\nand looked up to him because he was a man.\n\n“So you do love me, little thing?” he murmured.\n\n“Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don’t know what I should do without you.”\n\nSeveral days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what Charlotte would call “the flight to Rome,” and in Rome it had increased amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy’s, and once, in the Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses—Mrs. Vyse was an acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.\n\n“TUNBRIDGE WELLS,\n“_September_.\n\n\n“DEAREST LUCIA,\n\n\n“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house. He _said_ he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune,\nand I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\nLucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,\nand cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,\nthey would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.\nAs for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January.\n\n“Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do not put ‘Private’ outside your envelope again. No one opens my letters.\n\n\n“Yours affectionately,\n“L. M. HONEYCHURCH.”\n\n\n" +- "Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil’s life if he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.\n“Emerson, not Harris”; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she stopped.\n\nShe and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool,\nand it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the past.\n\nThe grandchildren asked her to play the piano.\n\nShe played Schumann. “Now some Beethoven” called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete—the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art—throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and “Too much Schumann” was not the remark that Mr.\nBeebe had passed to himself when she returned.\n\nWhen the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son.\nMrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another’s,\nhad been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd.\n\n“Make Lucy one of us,” she said, looking round intelligently at the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again.\n“Lucy is becoming wonderful—wonderful.”\n\n“Her music always was wonderful.”\n\n“Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made.”\n\n“Italy has done it.”\n\n“Perhaps,” she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. “It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January.\nShe is one of us already.”\n\n“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to London. I don’t believe in these London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”\n\n“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.\n\nAs she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek.\n\n“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”\n\n" +- "The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XII Twelfth Chapter\n\n\n" +- "It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.\nAll that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n“M’m.”\n\n“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in.\n\n“I suggested we should hinder them,” said Mr. Beebe. “They are worth it.” Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. “Hullo!” he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible.\n\nA grave voice replied, “Hullo!”\n\n“I’ve brought someone to see you.”\n\n“I’ll be down in a minute.”\n\nThe passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books.\n\n“Are these people great readers?” Freddy whispered. “Are they that sort?”\n\n“I fancy they know how to read—a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German.\nUm—um—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, look at that,” said Freddy in awestruck tones.\n\nOn the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: “Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.”\n\n“I know. Isn’t it jolly? I like that. I’m certain that’s the old man’s doing.”\n\n“How very odd of him!”\n\n“Surely you agree?”\n\nBut Freddy was his mother’s son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture.\n\n“Pictures!” the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.\n“Giotto—they got that at Florence, I’ll be bound.”\n\n“The same as Lucy’s got.”\n\n“Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?”\n\n“She came back yesterday.”\n\n“I suppose she had a good time?”\n\n“Yes, very,” said Freddy, taking up a book. “She and Cecil are thicker than ever.”\n\n“That’s good hearing.”\n\n“I wish I wasn’t such a fool, Mr. Beebe.”\n\nMr. Beebe ignored the remark.\n\n“Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it’ll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books.”\n\n“So will you.”\n\n“Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards.\nCecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful.\nThere are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says—”\n\n“What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson—we think we’ll come another time.”\n\nGeorge ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking.\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour.”\n\nThen Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George’s face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, “How d’ye do? Come and have a bathe.”\n\n“Oh, all right,” said George, impassive.\n\nMr. Beebe was highly entertained.\n\n“‘How d’ye do? how d’ye do? Come and have a bathe,’” he chuckled.\n“That’s the best conversational opening I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with ‘How do you do? Come and have a bathe’? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal.”\n\n“I tell you that they shall be,” said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same.”\n\n“We are to raise ladies to our level?” the clergyman inquired.\n\n" +- "“The Garden of Eden,” pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, “which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies.”\n\nMr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.\n\n“In this—not in other things—we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden.”\n\n“I say, what about this bathe?” murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him.\n\n“I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage.”\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence.”\n\n“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry.\nMarriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr.\nVyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”\n\n“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. “I must—that is to say, I have to—have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope.”\n\n“_Call_, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country.”\n\nMr. Beebe came to the rescue.\n\n“Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days’ interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon.”\n\n“Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can’t believe he’s well.”\n\nGeorge bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture.\n\n“Do you really want this bathe?” Freddy asked him. “It is only a pond,\ndon’t you know. I dare say you are used to something better.”\n\n“Yes—I have said ‘Yes’ already.”\n\nMr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads.\n\n“And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?”\n\n“I did not. Miss Lavish told me.”\n\n“When I was a young man, I always meant to write a ‘History of Coincidence.’”\n\nNo enthusiasm.\n\n“Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn’t purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect.”\n\nTo his relief, George began to talk.\n\n“It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate—flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us—we settle nothing—”\n\n“You have not reflected at all,” rapped the clergyman. “Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don’t say, ‘I didn’t do this,’ for you did it, ten to one. Now I’ll cross-question you.\nWhere did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?”\n\n“Italy.”\n\n“And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?”\n\n“National Gallery.”\n\n" +- "“Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it.”\n\n“It is Fate that I am here,” persisted George. “But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy.”\n\nMr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George.\n\n“And so for this and for other reasons my ‘History of Coincidence’ is still to write.”\n\nSilence.\n\nWishing to round off the episode, he added; “We are all so glad that you have come.”\n\nSilence.\n\n“Here we are!” called Freddy.\n\n“Oh, good!” exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow.\n\n“In there’s the pond. I wish it was bigger,” he added apologetically.\n\nThey climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond,\nset in its little alp of green—only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool.\n\n“It’s distinctly successful, as ponds go,” said Mr. Beebe. “No apologies are necessary for the pond.”\n\nGeorge sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots.\n\n“Aren’t those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What’s the name of this aromatic plant?”\n\nNo one knew, or seemed to care.\n\n“These abrupt changes of vegetation—this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle—heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, aren’t you bathing?” called Freddy, as he stripped himself.\n\nMr. Beebe thought he was not.\n\n“Water’s wonderful!” cried Freddy, prancing in.\n\n“Water’s water,” murmured George. Wetting his hair first—a sure sign of apathy—he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.\n\n“Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,” went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud.\n\n“Is it worth it?” asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin.\n\nThe bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly.\n\n“Hee-poof—I’ve swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water’s wonderful,\nwater’s simply ripping.”\n\n“Water’s not so bad,” said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun.\n\n“Water’s wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do.”\n\n“Apooshoo, kouf.”\n\nMr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible,\nlooked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind—these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man?\n\n“I may as well wash too”; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water.\n\n" +- "It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Götterdämmerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit—for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out.\nHe smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool.\n\n“Race you round it, then,” cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run—a memorable sight.\n\nThey ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the sward, proclaiming:\n\n“No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in the end.”\n\n“A try! A try!” yelled Freddy, snatching up George’s bundle and placing it beside an imaginary goal-post.\n\n“Socker rules,” George retorted, scattering Freddy’s bundle with a kick.\n\n“Goal!”\n\n“Goal!”\n\n“Pass!”\n\n“Take care my watch!” cried Mr. Beebe.\n\nClothes flew in all directions.\n\n“Take care my hat! No, that’s enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!”\n\nBut the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair.\n\n“That’ll do!” shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. “Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!”\n\nYells, and widening circles over the dappled earth.\n\n“Hi! hi! _Ladies!_”\n\nNeither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe’s last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch,\nCecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth.\nFreddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe’s hat.\n\n“Gracious alive!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch. “Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too!\nWhatever has happened?”\n\n“Come this way immediately,” commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed.\n\n“Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil,\nMr. Beebe’s waistcoat—”\n\nNo business of ours, said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently “minded.”\n\n“I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond.”\n\n“This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way.”\n\nThey followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.\n\n“Well, _I_ can’t help it,” said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. “I can’t be trodden on, can I?”\n\n“Good gracious me, dear; so it’s you! What miserable management! Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?”\n\n“Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow’s got to dry, and if another fellow—”\n\n“Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy.” They turned. “Oh, look—don’t look! Oh, poor Mr.\nBeebe! How unfortunate again—”\n\n" +- "For Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.\n\n“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”\n\n“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”\n\n“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”\n\n“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.\n\nHe regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed.\n\nThat evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n\n\n" - "How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these.\nBut she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star.\n\nIndoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. “I will bow,” she had thought. “I will not shake hands with him.\nThat will be just the proper thing.” She had bowed—but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world.\n\nSo ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and made long, clever answers where “Yes” or “No” would have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed,\nthough not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover.\n\n“Lucy,” said her mother, when they got home, “is anything the matter with Cecil?”\n\nThe question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with charity and restraint.\n\n“No, I don’t think so, mother; Cecil’s all right.”\n\n“Perhaps he’s tired.”\n\nLucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired.\n\n“Because otherwise”—she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering displeasure—“because otherwise I cannot account for him.”\n\n“I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that.”\n\n“Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid fever. No—it is just the same thing everywhere.”\n\n“Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?”\n\n“Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?”\n\n“Cecil has a very high standard for people,” faltered Lucy, seeing trouble ahead. “It’s part of his ideals—it is really that that makes him sometimes seem—”\n\n“Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the better,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet.\n\n“Now, mother! I’ve seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!”\n\n“Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way.\nNo. It is the same with Cecil all over.”\n\n“By-the-by—I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I was away in London.”\n\nThis attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs.\nHoneychurch resented it.\n\n“Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him.\nWhenever I speak he winces;—I see him, Lucy; it is useless to contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture;\nyour father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly remember.”\n\n“I—I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn’t to. But he does not mean to be uncivil—he once explained—it is the _things_ that upset him—he is easily upset by ugly things—he is not uncivil to _people_.”\n\n“Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?”\n\n“You can’t expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as we do.”\n\n“Then why didn’t he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering and spoiling everyone’s pleasure?”\n\n" - "“We mustn’t be unjust to people,” faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations had clashed—Cecil hinted that they might—and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song.\n\nShe remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy—she knew not why—wished that the trouble could have come at any other time.\n\n“Go and dress, dear; you’ll be late.”\n\n“All right, mother—”\n\n“Don’t say ‘All right’ and stop. Go.”\n\nShe obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to herself, “Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?” It seemed to her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to have mentioned Miss Bartlett’s letter. She must be more careful;\nher mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?—and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved.\n\n“I say, those are topping people.”\n\n“My dear baby, how tiresome you’ve been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it’s much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban.”\n\n“I say, is anything on to-morrow week?”\n\n“Not that I know of.”\n\n“Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis.”\n\n“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Freddy, I wouldn’t do that with all this muddle.”\n\n“What’s wrong with the court? They won’t mind a bump or two, and I’ve ordered new balls.”\n\n“I meant _it’s_ better not. I really mean it.”\n\nHe seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: “Lucy, what a noise you’re making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?” and Freddy ran away.\n\n“Yes. I really can’t stop. I must dress too.”\n\n“How’s Charlotte?”\n\n“All right.”\n\n“Lucy!”\n\nThe unfortunate girl returned.\n\n“You’ve a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one’s sentences.\nDid Charlotte mention her boiler?”\n\n“Her _what?_”\n\n“Don’t you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?”\n\n“I can’t remember all Charlotte’s worries,” said Lucy bitterly. “I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil.”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: “Come here, old lady—thank you for putting away my bonnet—kiss me.” And,\nthough nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect.\n\nSo the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner.\nAt the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods—perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own.\n\nDinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry.\nNothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said:\n\n“Lucy, what’s Emerson like?”\n\n“I saw him in Florence,” said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply.\n\n“Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?”\n\n" - "“Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here.”\n\n“He is the clever sort, like myself,” said Cecil.\n\nFreddy looked at him doubtfully.\n\n“How well did you know them at the Bertolini?” asked Mrs. Honeychurch.\n\n“Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did.”\n\n“Oh, that reminds me—you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter.”\n\n“One thing and another,” said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie. “Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she’d come up and see us, and mercifully didn’t.”\n\n“Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind.”\n\n“She was a novelist,” said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one,\nfor nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: “If books must be written, let them be written by men”; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at “This year, next year, now, never,”\nwith his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother’s wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost—that touch of lips on her cheek—had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once.\nBut it had begotten a spectral family—Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett’s letter, Mr. Beebe’s memories of violets—and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil’s very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness.\n\n“I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte’s. How is she?”\n\n“I tore the thing up.”\n\n“Didn’t she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?”\n\n“Oh, yes I suppose so—no—not very cheerful, I suppose.”\n\n“Then, depend upon it, it _is_ the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one’s mind. I would rather anything else—even a misfortune with the meat.”\n\nCecil laid his hand over his eyes.\n\n“So would I,” asserted Freddy, backing his mother up—backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance.\n\n“And I have been thinking,” she added rather nervously, “surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while the plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long.”\n\nIt was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother’s goodness to her upstairs.\n\n“Mother, no!” she pleaded. “It’s impossible. We can’t have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we’re squeezed to death as it is. Freddy’s got a friend coming Tuesday, there’s Cecil, and you’ve promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can’t be done.”\n\n“Nonsense! It can.”\n\n“If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise.”\n\n“Minnie can sleep with you.”\n\n“I won’t have her.”\n\n“Then, if you’re so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy.”\n\n“Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett,” moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes.\n\n“It’s impossible,” repeated Lucy. “I don’t want to make difficulties,\nbut it really isn’t fair on the maids to fill up the house so.”\n\nAlas!\n\n“The truth is, dear, you don’t like Charlotte.”\n\n“No, I don’t. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven’t seen her lately, and don’t realize how tiresome she can be,\nthough so good. So please, mother, don’t worry us this last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come.”\n\n“Hear, hear!” said Cecil.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling than she usually permitted herself, replied: “This isn’t very kind of you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are,\nand however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like to grow old.”\n\nCecil crumbled his bread.\n\n" -- "“I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on my bike,” put in Freddy. “She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right.”\n\n“I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return.”\n\nBut Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”\n\n“From your own account, you told her as much.”\n\n“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—”\n\nThe ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.\n\n“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”\n\nCecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n\n\nOf course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week.\n\nLucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.” Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed.\n\nIt is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, “She loves young Emerson.” A reader in Lucy’s place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome “nerves”\nor any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?\n\nBut the external situation—she will face that bravely.\n\nThe meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,\nand George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy,\nand was glad that he did not seem shy either.\n\n“A nice fellow,” said Mr. Beebe afterwards “He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully.”\n\nLucy said, “He seems in better spirits. He laughs more.”\n\n“Yes,” replied the clergyman. “He is waking up.”\n\n" -- "That was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs.\nHoneychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o’clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea.\n\n“I shall never forgive myself,” said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain. “I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate.”\n\n“Our visitors never do such dreadful things,” said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: “Just what I’ve been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour.”\n\n“I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor,” said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove.\n\n“All right, if you’d really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver.”\n\nMiss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: “But who am I to give the sovereign to?”\n\n“Let’s leave it all till mother comes back,” suggested Lucy.\n\n“No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts.”\n\nHere Freddy’s friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett’s quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance,\nand turned round.\n\nBut this did not do, either.\n\n“Please—please—I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost.”\n\n“Freddy owes me fifteen shillings,” interposed Cecil. “So it will work out right if you give the pound to me.”\n\n“Fifteen shillings,” said Miss Bartlett dubiously. “How is that, Mr.\nVyse?”\n\n“Because, don’t you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths.\nFor a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle.\n\n“But I don’t see that!” exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. “I don’t see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid.”\n\n“Because of the fifteen shillings and the five,” they said solemnly.\n“Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see.”\n\n“But I don’t see—”\n\nThey tried to stifle her with cake.\n\n“No, thank you. I’m done. I don’t see why—Freddy, don’t poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother’s hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd’s ten shillings? Ow! No, I don’t see and I never shall see why Miss What’s-her-name shouldn’t pay that bob for the driver.”\n\n“I had forgotten the driver,” said Miss Bartlett, reddening. “Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?”\n\n“I’ll get it,” said the young hostess, rising with decision.\n\n“Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I’ll get Euphemia to change it, and we’ll start the whole thing again from the beginning.”\n\n" -- "“Lucy—Lucy—what a nuisance I am!” protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: “Have you told him about him yet?”\n\n“No, I haven’t,” replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. “Let me see—a sovereign’s worth of silver.”\n\nShe escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett’s sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul.\n\n“No, I haven’t told Cecil or any one,” she remarked, when she returned.\n“I promised you I shouldn’t. Here is your money—all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St.\nJohn ascending, which had been framed.\n\n“How dreadful!” she murmured, “how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source.”\n\n“Oh, no, Charlotte,” said the girl, entering the battle. “George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?”\n\nMiss Bartlett considered. “For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth.”\n\nLucy shuddered a little. “We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren’t careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?”\n\n“We must think of every possibility.”\n\n“Oh, it’s all right.”\n\n“Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know.”\n\n“I don’t care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it.”\n\n“To contradict it?”\n\n“No, to laugh at it.” But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched.\n\n“Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different.”\n\n“Now, Charlotte!” She struck at her playfully. “You kind, anxious thing. What _would_ you have me do? First you say ‘Don’t tell’; and then you say, ‘Tell’. Which is it to be? Quick!”\n\nMiss Bartlett sighed “I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me.”\n\n“Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don’t.”\n\nFor the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon.\n\n“Dear, one moment—we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?”\n\n“Yes, I have.”\n\n“What happened?”\n\n“We met at the Rectory.”\n\n“What line is he taking up?”\n\n“No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won’t be any nuisance, Charlotte.”\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion.”\n\nLucy paused. “Cecil said one day—and I thought it so profound—that there are two kinds of cads—the conscious and the subconscious.” She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil’s profundity.\nThrough the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith’s library. Her mother must have returned from the station.\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad,” droned Miss Bartlett.\n\n" -- "“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him,\nand has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden.” She took hold of her guest by the arm. “Suppose we don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.”\n\nLucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\nThe Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells.\n\nThe garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her,\nno nonsense”—“Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!”—“Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?” For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church.\n\nThe sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan;\non George Emerson cleaning his father’s boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly,\nas though acknowledging the caress.\n\nPresently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies—an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little—not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills.\n\n“Lucy! Lucy! What’s that book? Who’s been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?”\n\n“It’s only the library book that Cecil’s been reading.”\n\n“But pick it up, and don’t stand idling there like a flamingo.”\n\n" -- "Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, “What! you aren’t forgetting your Italy already?” And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun.\n\n“Lucy—have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?”\n\nShe hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster.\n\n“It’s a special collection—I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book’s all warped.\n(Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press.\nMinnie!”\n\n“Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch—” from the upper regions.\n\n“Minnie, don’t be late. Here comes the horse”—it was always the horse,\nnever the carriage. “Where’s Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte—How I do detest blouses! Minnie!”\n\nPaganism is infectious—more infectious than diphtheria or piety—and the Rector’s niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn’t see why. Why shouldn’t she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs.\nHoneychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs.\n\n“Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change—nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me—”\n\n“Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame.”\n\n“If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?” said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued,\nand then they drove off.\n\n“Good-bye! Be good!” called out Cecil.\n\nLucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of “church and so on” they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different.\n\nShe saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden.\n\n“Introduce me,” said her mother. “Unless the young man considers that he knows me already.”\n\nHe probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic,\nand asked him how he liked his new house.\n\n“Very much,” he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice;\nshe had never known him offended before. He added: “We find, though,\nthat the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out.\nWomen mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it.”\n\n“I believe that there was some misunderstanding,” said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily.\n\n“Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person,”\nsaid George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. “He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed.”\n\n" -- "“And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?” He appealed to Lucy.\n\n“Oh, stop now you have come,” said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned,\nthough his name was never mentioned.\n\n“So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind.”\n\n“There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world,” said George,\nwatching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages.\n\n“Yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. “That’s exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?”\n\n“There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,” he continued in measured tones. “We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm—yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you’re clever!”\n\n“Eh—?”\n\n“I see you’re going to be clever. I hope you didn’t go behaving like that to poor Freddy.”\n\nGeorge’s eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well.\n\n“No, I didn’t,” he said. “He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first.”\n\n“What _do_ you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don’t explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday—?”\n\n“George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday—”\n\n“Very well, George doesn’t mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That’s settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased.”\n\nHe thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days.\n\nShe turned to George: “And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans.”\n\n“I know,” said George, and put his arm round his father’s neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape—a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection.\n\nMiss Bartlett approached.\n\n“You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett,” said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly.\n“You met her with my daughter in Florence.”\n\n“Yes, indeed!” said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine.\nIt was the old, old battle of the room with the view.\n\nGeorge did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: “I—I’ll come up to tennis if I can manage it,” and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno.\n\n“George, don’t go,” cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. “George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon.”\n\nLucy caught her cousin’s eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. “Yes,” she said, raising her voice, “I do hope he will.” Then she went to the carriage and murmured, “The old man hasn’t been told; I knew it was all right.” Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away.\n\n" -- "Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy’s spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses’ hoofs sang a tune to her: “He has not told, he has not told.” Her brain expanded the melody: “He has not told his father—to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone.” She raised her hand to her cheek. “He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did!\nBut he has not told. He will not tell.”\n\nShe longed to shout the words: “It is all right. It’s a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear.” She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded.\n\nOnly three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:\n\n“The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously.”\n\n“How are my protégés?” asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them,\nand had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes.\n\n“Protégés!” she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl’s soul yearned.\n\n“You shall see for yourself how your protégés are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don’t—” She nearly said, “Don’t protect him.” But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte.\n\nLunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning,\nwould never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\nMost people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" +- "“I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on my bike,” put in Freddy. “She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right.”\n\n“I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return.”\n\nBut Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”\n\n“From your own account, you told her as much.”\n\n“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—”\n\nThe ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.\n\n“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”\n\nCecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n\n\n" +- "Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week.\n\nLucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.” Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed.\n\nIt is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, “She loves young Emerson.” A reader in Lucy’s place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome “nerves”\nor any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?\n\nBut the external situation—she will face that bravely.\n\nThe meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,\nand George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy,\nand was glad that he did not seem shy either.\n\n“A nice fellow,” said Mr. Beebe afterwards “He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully.”\n\nLucy said, “He seems in better spirits. He laughs more.”\n\n“Yes,” replied the clergyman. “He is waking up.”\n\nThat was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs.\nHoneychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o’clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea.\n\n“I shall never forgive myself,” said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain. “I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate.”\n\n“Our visitors never do such dreadful things,” said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: “Just what I’ve been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour.”\n\n“I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor,” said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove.\n\n“All right, if you’d really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver.”\n\nMiss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: “But who am I to give the sovereign to?”\n\n“Let’s leave it all till mother comes back,” suggested Lucy.\n\n“No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts.”\n\nHere Freddy’s friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett’s quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance,\nand turned round.\n\nBut this did not do, either.\n\n" +- "“Please—please—I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost.”\n\n“Freddy owes me fifteen shillings,” interposed Cecil. “So it will work out right if you give the pound to me.”\n\n“Fifteen shillings,” said Miss Bartlett dubiously. “How is that, Mr.\nVyse?”\n\n“Because, don’t you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths.\nFor a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle.\n\n“But I don’t see that!” exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. “I don’t see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid.”\n\n“Because of the fifteen shillings and the five,” they said solemnly.\n“Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see.”\n\n“But I don’t see—”\n\nThey tried to stifle her with cake.\n\n“No, thank you. I’m done. I don’t see why—Freddy, don’t poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother’s hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd’s ten shillings? Ow! No, I don’t see and I never shall see why Miss What’s-her-name shouldn’t pay that bob for the driver.”\n\n“I had forgotten the driver,” said Miss Bartlett, reddening. “Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?”\n\n“I’ll get it,” said the young hostess, rising with decision.\n\n“Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I’ll get Euphemia to change it, and we’ll start the whole thing again from the beginning.”\n\n“Lucy—Lucy—what a nuisance I am!” protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: “Have you told him about him yet?”\n\n“No, I haven’t,” replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. “Let me see—a sovereign’s worth of silver.”\n\nShe escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett’s sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul.\n\n“No, I haven’t told Cecil or any one,” she remarked, when she returned.\n“I promised you I shouldn’t. Here is your money—all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St.\nJohn ascending, which had been framed.\n\n“How dreadful!” she murmured, “how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source.”\n\n“Oh, no, Charlotte,” said the girl, entering the battle. “George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?”\n\nMiss Bartlett considered. “For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth.”\n\nLucy shuddered a little. “We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren’t careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?”\n\n“We must think of every possibility.”\n\n“Oh, it’s all right.”\n\n“Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know.”\n\n“I don’t care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it.”\n\n“To contradict it?”\n\n“No, to laugh at it.” But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched.\n\n“Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different.”\n\n“Now, Charlotte!” She struck at her playfully. “You kind, anxious thing. What _would_ you have me do? First you say ‘Don’t tell’; and then you say, ‘Tell’. Which is it to be? Quick!”\n\n" +- "Miss Bartlett sighed “I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me.”\n\n“Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don’t.”\n\nFor the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon.\n\n“Dear, one moment—we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?”\n\n“Yes, I have.”\n\n“What happened?”\n\n“We met at the Rectory.”\n\n“What line is he taking up?”\n\n“No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won’t be any nuisance, Charlotte.”\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion.”\n\nLucy paused. “Cecil said one day—and I thought it so profound—that there are two kinds of cads—the conscious and the subconscious.” She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil’s profundity.\nThrough the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith’s library. Her mother must have returned from the station.\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad,” droned Miss Bartlett.\n\n“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him,\nand has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden.” She took hold of her guest by the arm. “Suppose we don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.”\n\nLucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\n" +- "The Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells.\n\nThe garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her,\nno nonsense”—“Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!”—“Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?” For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church.\n\nThe sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan;\non George Emerson cleaning his father’s boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly,\nas though acknowledging the caress.\n\nPresently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies—an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little—not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills.\n\n“Lucy! Lucy! What’s that book? Who’s been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?”\n\n“It’s only the library book that Cecil’s been reading.”\n\n“But pick it up, and don’t stand idling there like a flamingo.”\n\nLucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, “What! you aren’t forgetting your Italy already?” And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun.\n\n“Lucy—have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?”\n\nShe hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster.\n\n“It’s a special collection—I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book’s all warped.\n(Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press.\nMinnie!”\n\n“Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch—” from the upper regions.\n\n“Minnie, don’t be late. Here comes the horse”—it was always the horse,\nnever the carriage. “Where’s Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte—How I do detest blouses! Minnie!”\n\nPaganism is infectious—more infectious than diphtheria or piety—and the Rector’s niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn’t see why. Why shouldn’t she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs.\nHoneychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs.\n\n" +- "“Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change—nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me—”\n\n“Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame.”\n\n“If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?” said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued,\nand then they drove off.\n\n“Good-bye! Be good!” called out Cecil.\n\nLucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of “church and so on” they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different.\n\nShe saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden.\n\n“Introduce me,” said her mother. “Unless the young man considers that he knows me already.”\n\nHe probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic,\nand asked him how he liked his new house.\n\n“Very much,” he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice;\nshe had never known him offended before. He added: “We find, though,\nthat the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out.\nWomen mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it.”\n\n“I believe that there was some misunderstanding,” said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily.\n\n“Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person,”\nsaid George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. “He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed.”\n\n“And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?” He appealed to Lucy.\n\n“Oh, stop now you have come,” said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned,\nthough his name was never mentioned.\n\n“So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind.”\n\n“There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world,” said George,\nwatching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages.\n\n“Yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. “That’s exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?”\n\n“There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,” he continued in measured tones. “We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm—yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you’re clever!”\n\n“Eh—?”\n\n“I see you’re going to be clever. I hope you didn’t go behaving like that to poor Freddy.”\n\nGeorge’s eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well.\n\n“No, I didn’t,” he said. “He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first.”\n\n“What _do_ you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don’t explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday—?”\n\n“George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday—”\n\n“Very well, George doesn’t mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That’s settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased.”\n\n" +- "He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days.\n\nShe turned to George: “And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans.”\n\n“I know,” said George, and put his arm round his father’s neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape—a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection.\n\nMiss Bartlett approached.\n\n“You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett,” said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly.\n“You met her with my daughter in Florence.”\n\n“Yes, indeed!” said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine.\nIt was the old, old battle of the room with the view.\n\nGeorge did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: “I—I’ll come up to tennis if I can manage it,” and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno.\n\n“George, don’t go,” cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. “George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon.”\n\nLucy caught her cousin’s eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. “Yes,” she said, raising her voice, “I do hope he will.” Then she went to the carriage and murmured, “The old man hasn’t been told; I knew it was all right.” Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away.\n\nSatisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy’s spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses’ hoofs sang a tune to her: “He has not told, he has not told.” Her brain expanded the melody: “He has not told his father—to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone.” She raised her hand to her cheek. “He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did!\nBut he has not told. He will not tell.”\n\nShe longed to shout the words: “It is all right. It’s a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear.” She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded.\n\nOnly three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:\n\n“The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously.”\n\n“How are my protégés?” asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them,\nand had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes.\n\n“Protégés!” she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl’s soul yearned.\n\n“You shall see for yourself how your protégés are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don’t—” She nearly said, “Don’t protect him.” But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte.\n\n" +- "Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning,\nwould never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n" +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\nMost people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@room_with_a_view.txt.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@room_with_a_view.txt.snap index d8aeb641..d35d5394 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@room_with_a_view.txt.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_default@room_with_a_view.txt.snap @@ -25,8 +25,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - " EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n" - "[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n" - "A Room With A View\n\n" -- "By E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS" -- "\n\n" +- "By E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\n" +- "CONTENTS\n\n" - " Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n" - " Chapter II. " - "In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n" @@ -63,7 +63,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "\n" - " Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson" - "\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages" -- "\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\nChapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n" +- "\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n" - "“The Signora had no business to do it,”" - " said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all" - ". " @@ -420,7 +421,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - ". " - “So you think I ought to have accepted their offer - "? " -- "You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?”\n\n" +- You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?” +- "\n\n" - "“Not at all,” he answered; “I" - " never suggested that.”\n\n" - "“But ought I not to apologize, at all events" @@ -525,7 +527,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - " at the same time—beautiful?”\n\n" - "“Beautiful?” " - "said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word." -- " “Are not beauty and delicacy the same?”\n\n" +- " “Are not beauty and delicacy the same?”" +- "\n\n" - "“So one would have thought,” said the other " - "helplessly. " - "“But things are so difficult, I sometimes think.”\n\n" @@ -1087,7 +1090,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Emerson to Lucy. " - "“Here’s a mess: a baby hurt,\n" - "cold, and frightened! " -- "But what else can you expect from a church?”\n\n" +- But what else can you expect from a church?” +- "\n\n" - The child’s legs had become as melting wax. - " Each time that old Mr.\n" - Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with @@ -1210,7 +1214,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Could anything be more majestic,\n" - "more pathetic, beautiful, true? " - "How little, we feel, avails knowledge and" -- " technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!”\n\n" +- " technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!”" +- "\n\n" - "“No!” exclaimed Mr. " - "Emerson, in much too loud a voice for" - " church.\n" @@ -2066,7 +2071,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Beebe, as they watched her from the" - " window, “and she knows it. " - I put it down to too much Beethoven.” -- "\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\n" +- "\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\n" - "Mr. Beebe was right. " - Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as after - " music. " @@ -2398,8 +2404,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Leaning her elbows on the parapet," - " she contemplated the River Arno,\n" - whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears -- ".\n\n\n\n\nChapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing" -- "\n\n\n" +- ".\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n\n\n" - It was a family saying that “you never knew - " which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” " - She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure @@ -3158,7 +3164,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Oh, dear me, no—oh, no" - "!”\n\n" - "“Perhaps as a student of human nature,” " -- "interposed Miss Lavish, “like myself?”\n\n" +- "interposed Miss Lavish, “like myself?”" +- "\n\n" - "“Oh, no. " - "I am here as a tourist.”\n\n" - "“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. " @@ -3370,8 +3377,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - " frightened of the girl,\n" - "too. " - It doesn’t do to injure young people. -- " Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?”\n\n" -- "Miss Lavish bristled.\n\n" +- " Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?”" +- "\n\nMiss Lavish bristled.\n\n" - "“Most certainly I have. " - "Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico," - " or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or" @@ -3598,8 +3605,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - ". " - His arm swept the horizon gracefully; violets - ", like other things, existed in great profusion" -- " there; “would she like to see them?”\n\n" -- "“Ma buoni uomini.”\n\n" +- " there; “would she like to see them?”" +- "\n\n“Ma buoni uomini.”\n\n" - "He bowed. Certainly. " - "Good men first, violets afterwards. " - "They proceeded briskly through the undergrowth, which" @@ -4001,7 +4008,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "But—as you said—it is my affair. " - "Mine and his.”\n\n" - “And you are going to _implore_ him -- ", to _beg_ him to keep silence?”\n\n" +- ", to _beg_ him to keep silence?”" +- "\n\n" - "“Certainly not. " - "There would be no difficulty. " - "Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no" @@ -4019,8 +4027,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“I can’t think,” said Lucy gravely.\n\n" - Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her - " question, intoning it more vigorously.\n\n" -- "“What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived?”\n\n" -- "“I can’t think,” said Lucy again.\n\n" +- “What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived?” +- "\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy again.\n\n" - "“When he insulted you, how would you have" - " replied?”\n\n" - "“I hadn’t time to think. You came.”\n\n" @@ -4260,7 +4268,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Go to bed at once, dear. " - "You need all the rest you can get.”\n\n" - "In the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO" -- "\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval\n\n\n" +- "\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter VIII Medieval\n\n\n" - The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been - " pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and" - " deserved protection from the August sun. " @@ -4305,7 +4314,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - ".\n\n“Time they did.”\n\n" - “I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once - " more.”\n\n" -- "“It’s his third go, isn’t it?”\n\n" +- "“It’s his third go, isn’t it?”" +- "\n\n" - “Freddy I do call the way you - " talk unkind.”\n\n" - "“I didn’t mean to be unkind.” " @@ -4341,7 +4351,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“You?”\n\nFreddy nodded.\n\n" - "“What do you mean?”\n\n" - "“He asked me for my permission also.”\n\n" -- "She exclaimed: “How very odd of him!”\n\n" +- "She exclaimed: “How very odd of him!”" +- "\n\n" - "“Why so?” " - "asked the son and heir. " - "“Why shouldn’t my permission be asked?”\n\n" @@ -4361,7 +4372,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - “I don’t see you ought to go peeping - " like that.”\n\n" - "“Peeping like that! " -- "Can’t I look out of my own window?”\n\n" +- Can’t I look out of my own window?” +- "\n\n" - "But she returned to the writing-table, observing," - " as she passed her son, “Still page " - "322?” " @@ -4493,7 +4505,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "-marks where you turn on the electric light." - " She keeps that flat abominably—”\n\n" - "“Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she" -- " live in a flat, or in the country?”\n\n" +- " live in a flat, or in the country?”" +- "\n\n" - "“Don’t interrupt so foolishly. " - "Where was I? " - Oh yes—‘Young people must decide for themselves @@ -4785,7 +4798,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - " Cissie and Albert,\n" - "determined to shift the subject.\n\n" - "“Let me see, Mr. " -- "Vyse—I forget—what is your profession?”\n\n" +- Vyse—I forget—what is your profession?” +- "\n\n" - "“I have no profession,” said Cecil. " - "“It is another example of my decadence. " - My attitude—quite an indefensible one—is that @@ -4971,7 +4985,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Honeychurch as she toiled up the " - "sloping garden. " - "“Oh, Mr. " -- "Beebe, have you heard the news?”\n\n" +- "Beebe, have you heard the news?”" +- "\n\n" - "Freddy, now full of geniality" - ", whistled the wedding march. " - "Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact.\n\n" @@ -4992,7 +5007,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "And now I want my tea.”\n\n" - "“You only asked for it just in time,” the" - " lady retorted. " -- "“How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?”\n\n" +- “How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?” +- "\n\n" - "He took his tone from her. " - "There was no more heavy beneficence, no" - " more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or" @@ -5039,8 +5055,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - " had been built, they also joined in the merry" - " ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should" - ", for the disclosure of some holier shrine of" -- " joy.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art" -- "\n\n\n" +- " joy.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "Chapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art\n\n\n" - A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. - " Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to" - " a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\n" @@ -5278,7 +5294,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“‘Come down, O maid, from " - "yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched" - " her knee with his own.\n\n" -- "She flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n" +- "She flushed again and said: “What height?”" +- "\n\n" - "“‘Come down, O maid, from " - "yonder mountain height,\n" - "What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\n" @@ -5338,7 +5355,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - " parasol.\n" - "“Here’s Sir Harry. " - "Now we shall know. " -- "Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!”\n\n" +- "Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!”" +- "\n\n" - Sir Harry Otway—who need not be described— - "came to the carriage and said “Mrs. " - "Honeychurch, I meant to. " @@ -5623,7 +5641,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“I don’t know that you aren’t. " - I connect you with a view—a certain type of - " view. " -- "Why shouldn’t you connect me with a room?”\n\n" +- Why shouldn’t you connect me with a room?” +- "\n\n" - "She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing" - ":\n\n" - "“Do you know that you’re right? " @@ -5705,7 +5724,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - " the thing most indelicately.\n\n" - "“No—more you have,” she stammered" - ".\n\n" -- "“Then I ask you—may I now?”\n\n" +- “Then I ask you—may I now?” +- "\n\n" - "“Of course, you may, Cecil. " - "You might before. " - "I can’t run at you, you know.”\n\n" @@ -6353,7 +6373,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows" - ":\n\n" - "“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, " -- "S.W.\n\n\n\n\n“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n" +- "S.W.\n\n\n\n\n" +- "“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n" - "“Many thanks for your warning. " - "When Mr. " - "Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made" @@ -6691,7 +6712,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - " laws with the Conservative attitude. " - "Ah, this wind! " - "You do well to bathe. " -- "Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”\n\n" +- "Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”" +- "\n\n" - "“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. " - "“I must—that is to say, I have to" - —have the pleasure of calling on you later on @@ -7901,7 +7923,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - " in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable" - " elsewhere, the dear sun.\n\n" - “Lucy—have you a sixpence -- " for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?”\n\n" +- " for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?”" +- "\n\n" - "She hastened in to her mother, who was" - " rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster.\n\n" - “It’s a special collection—I forget what for. diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap index f1cd05c2..e29bb04b 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-2.snap @@ -5,24 +5,25 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt --- - "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare" - "This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook." -- "Title: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents" -- "THE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House." +- "Title: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***" +- THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET +- "by William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House." - "ACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell." - "ACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden." -- "ACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ" -- "ESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris." +- "ACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets." +- "Dramatis Personæ\n\nESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris." - "MONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo." - "CAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\nGREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants." -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\nSCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\nTHE PROLOGUE" -- Enter Chorus. +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\nSCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua." +- "THE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus." - "CHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\nThe fearful passage of their death-mark’d love," -- "And the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers." -- "SAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike." -- "SAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall." -- "SAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men." -- "SAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it." -- "SAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee." -- "GREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list." +- "And the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]" +- "ACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar." +- "SAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away." +- "SAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall." +- "GREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\nSAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt." +- "GREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar." +- "SAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list." - "SAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo." - "SAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio." - "GREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt." @@ -129,7 +130,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "ROMEO.\nAy, so I fear; the more is my unrest.\n\nCAPULET.\nNay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,\nWe have a trifling foolish banquet towards.\nIs it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;\nI thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.\nMore torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.\nAh, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late,\nI’ll to my rest." - "[_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nCome hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?\n\nNURSE.\nThe son and heir of old Tiberio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that now is going out of door?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, that I think be young Petruchio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that follows here, that would not dance?\n\nNURSE.\nI know not." - "JULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\nJULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy." -- "NURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n Enter Chorus." +- "NURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT II\n\n Enter Chorus." - "CHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:" - "Being held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo." - "ROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed." @@ -238,7 +240,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot\nWill ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.\nA lover may bestride the gossamers\nThat idles in the wanton summer air\nAnd yet not fall; so light is vanity.\n\nJULIET.\nGood even to my ghostly confessor.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both." - "JULIET.\nAs much to him, else is his thanks too much.\n\nROMEO.\nAh, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy\nBe heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue\nUnfold the imagin’d happiness that both\nReceive in either by this dear encounter." - "JULIET.\nConceit more rich in matter than in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of ornament.\nThey are but beggars that can count their worth;\nBut my true love is grown to such excess,\nI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one." -- "[_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring." +- "[_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring." - "MERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?" - "MERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?" - "MERCUTIO.\nNay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would\nkill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a\nhair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel\nwith a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou\nhast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?" @@ -368,7 +371,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "NURSE.\nAnd from my soul too,\nOr else beshrew them both.\n\nJULIET.\nAmen.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat?\n\nJULIET.\nWell, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\nGo in, and tell my lady I am gone,\nHaving displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,\nTo make confession and to be absolv’d.\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, I will; and this is wisely done." - "[_Exit._]" - "JULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\nIf all else fail, myself have power to die." -- "[_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not." +- "[_Exit._]" +- "ACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not." - "PARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society." - "Now do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife.\n\nPARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next." - "JULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nI will confess to you that I love him.\n\nPARIS.\nSo will ye, I am sure, that you love me." @@ -434,7 +438,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "PETER.\nThen have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and\nput up my iron dagger. Answer me like men.\n ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound,\n And doleful dumps the mind oppress,\n Then music with her silver sound’—\nWhy ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you,\nSimon Catling?" - "FIRST MUSICIAN.\nMarry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.\n\nPETER.\nPrates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck?\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nI say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.\n\nPETER.\nPrates too! What say you, James Soundpost?\n\nTHIRD MUSICIAN.\nFaith, I know not what to say." - "PETER.\nO, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is\n‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for\nsounding.\n ‘Then music with her silver sound\n With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!" -- "SECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo." +- "SECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo." - "ROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips," - "That I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well." - "BALTHASAR.\nThen she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleeps in Capel’s monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you.\nO pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir." @@ -502,8 +507,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "PRINCE.\nThis letter doth make good the Friar’s words,\nTheir course of love, the tidings of her death.\nAnd here he writes that he did buy a poison\nOf a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal\nCame to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.\nWhere be these enemies? Capulet, Montague,\nSee what a scourge is laid upon your hate,\nThat heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!" - "And I, for winking at your discords too,\nHave lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d.\n\nCAPULET.\nO brother Montague, give me thy hand.\nThis is my daughter’s jointure, for no more\nCan I demand." - "MONTAGUE.\nBut I can give thee more,\nFor I will raise her statue in pure gold,\nThat whiles Verona by that name is known,\nThere shall no figure at such rate be set\nAs that of true and faithful Juliet.\n\nCAPULET.\nAs rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie,\nPoor sacrifices of our enmity." -- "PRINCE.\nA glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun for sorrow will not show his head.\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things.\nSome shall be pardon’d, and some punished,\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***" -- "Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed." +- "PRINCE.\nA glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun for sorrow will not show his head.\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things.\nSome shall be pardon’d, and some punished,\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed." - "Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the\nUnited States without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. 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Redistribution is subject to the trademark\nlicense, especially commercial redistribution.\n\nSTART: FULL LICENSE\n\nTHE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE\nPLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap index 7bd80e5c..222652a8 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt-3.snap @@ -3,28 +3,32 @@ source: tests/text_splitter_snapshots.rs expression: chunks input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt --- -- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook.\n\nTitle: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\nACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n\nACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n\nACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ\n\nESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\nMONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.\n\nCAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\nGREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\nSCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\nTHE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\nThe fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers." -- "SAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\nSAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?\n\nCAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go." -- "LADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants.\n\nPRINCE.\nRebellious subjects, enemies to peace,\nProfaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—\nWill they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts,\nThat quench the fire of your pernicious rage\nWith purple fountains issuing from your veins,\nOn pain of torture, from those bloody hands\nThrow your mistemper’d weapons to the ground\nAnd hear the sentence of your moved prince.\nThree civil brawls, bred of an airy word,\nBy thee, old Capulet, and Montague,\nHave thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,\nAnd made Verona’s ancient citizens\nCast by their grave beseeming ornaments,\nTo wield old partisans, in hands as old,\nCanker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.\nIf ever you disturb our streets again,\nYour lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.\nFor this time all the rest depart away:\nYou, Capulet, shall go along with me,\nAnd Montague, come you this afternoon,\nTo know our farther pleasure in this case,\nTo old Free-town, our common judgement-place.\nOnce more, on pain of death, all men depart.\n\n [_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt,\n Citizens and Servants._]\n\nMONTAGUE.\nWho set this ancient quarrel new abroach?\nSpeak, nephew, were you by when it began?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere were the servants of your adversary\nAnd yours, close fighting ere I did approach.\nI drew to part them, in the instant came\nThe fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d,\nWhich, as he breath’d defiance to my ears,\nHe swung about his head, and cut the winds,\nWho nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn.\nWhile we were interchanging thrusts and blows\nCame more and more, and fought on part and part,\nTill the Prince came, who parted either part.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nO where is Romeo, saw you him today?\nRight glad I am he was not at this fray.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMadam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun\nPeer’d forth the golden window of the east,\nA troubled mind drave me to walk abroad,\nWhere underneath the grove of sycamore\nThat westward rooteth from this city side,\nSo early walking did I see your son.\nTowards him I made, but he was ware of me,\nAnd stole into the covert of the wood.\nI, measuring his affections by my own,\nWhich then most sought where most might not be found,\nBeing one too many by my weary self,\nPursu’d my humour, not pursuing his,\nAnd gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nMany a morning hath he there been seen,\nWith tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,\nAdding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;\nBut all so soon as the all-cheering sun\nShould in the farthest east begin to draw\nThe shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,\nAway from light steals home my heavy son,\nAnd private in his chamber pens himself,\nShuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out\nAnd makes himself an artificial night.\nBlack and portentous must this humour prove,\nUnless good counsel may the cause remove.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMy noble uncle, do you know the cause?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI neither know it nor can learn of him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHave you importun’d him by any means?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nBoth by myself and many other friends;\nBut he, his own affections’ counsellor,\nIs to himself—I will not say how true—\nBut to himself so secret and so close,\nSo far from sounding and discovery,\nAs is the bud bit with an envious worm\nEre he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,\nOr dedicate his beauty to the sun.\nCould we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,\nWe would as willingly give cure as know.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSee, where he comes. So please you step aside;\nI’ll know his grievance or be much denied.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI would thou wert so happy by thy stay\nTo hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away,\n\n [_Exeunt Montague and Lady Montague._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGood morrow, cousin.\n\nROMEO.\nIs the day so young?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBut new struck nine.\n\nROMEO.\nAy me, sad hours seem long.\nWas that my father that went hence so fast?" -- "BENVOLIO.\nIt was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?\n\nROMEO.\nNot having that which, having, makes them short.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nIn love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nOf love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut of her favour where I am in love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAlas that love so gentle in his view,\nShould be so tyrannous and rough in proof.\n\nROMEO.\nAlas that love, whose view is muffled still,\nShould, without eyes, see pathways to his will!\nWhere shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?\nYet tell me not, for I have heard it all.\nHere’s much to do with hate, but more with love:\nWhy, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!\nO anything, of nothing first create!\nO heavy lightness! serious vanity!\nMisshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!\nFeather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!\nStill-waking sleep, that is not what it is!\nThis love feel I, that feel no love in this.\nDost thou not laugh?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nNo coz, I rather weep.\n\nROMEO.\nGood heart, at what?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt thy good heart’s oppression.\n\nROMEO.\nWhy such is love’s transgression.\nGriefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,\nWhich thou wilt propagate to have it prest\nWith more of thine. This love that thou hast shown\nDoth add more grief to too much of mine own.\nLove is a smoke made with the fume of sighs;\nBeing purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;\nBeing vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:\nWhat is it else? A madness most discreet,\nA choking gall, and a preserving sweet.\nFarewell, my coz.\n\n [_Going._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSoft! I will go along:\nAnd if you leave me so, you do me wrong.\n\nROMEO.\nTut! I have lost myself; I am not here.\nThis is not Romeo, he’s some other where.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTell me in sadness who is that you love?\n\nROMEO.\nWhat, shall I groan and tell thee?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGroan! Why, no; but sadly tell me who.\n\nROMEO.\nBid a sick man in sadness make his will,\nA word ill urg’d to one that is so ill.\nIn sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.\n\nROMEO.\nA right good markman, and she’s fair I love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nA right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.\n\nROMEO.\nWell, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit\nWith Cupid’s arrow, she hath Dian’s wit;\nAnd in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,\nFrom love’s weak childish bow she lives uncharm’d.\nShe will not stay the siege of loving terms\nNor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes,\nNor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:\nO she’s rich in beauty, only poor\nThat when she dies, with beauty dies her store.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThen she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?\n\nROMEO.\nShe hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;\nFor beauty starv’d with her severity,\nCuts beauty off from all posterity.\nShe is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair,\nTo merit bliss by making me despair.\nShe hath forsworn to love, and in that vow\nDo I live dead, that live to tell it now.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBe rul’d by me, forget to think of her.\n\nROMEO.\nO teach me how I should forget to think.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy giving liberty unto thine eyes;\nExamine other beauties.\n\nROMEO.\n’Tis the way\nTo call hers, exquisite, in question more.\nThese happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows,\nBeing black, puts us in mind they hide the fair;\nHe that is strucken blind cannot forget\nThe precious treasure of his eyesight lost.\nShow me a mistress that is passing fair,\nWhat doth her beauty serve but as a note\nWhere I may read who pass’d that passing fair?\nFarewell, thou canst not teach me to forget.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Street.\n\n Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant." -- "CAPULET.\nBut Montague is bound as well as I,\nIn penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think,\nFor men so old as we to keep the peace.\n\nPARIS.\nOf honourable reckoning are you both,\nAnd pity ’tis you liv’d at odds so long.\nBut now my lord, what say you to my suit?\n\nCAPULET.\nBut saying o’er what I have said before.\nMy child is yet a stranger in the world,\nShe hath not seen the change of fourteen years;\nLet two more summers wither in their pride\nEre we may think her ripe to be a bride.\n\nPARIS.\nYounger than she are happy mothers made.\n\nCAPULET.\nAnd too soon marr’d are those so early made.\nThe earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,\nShe is the hopeful lady of my earth:\nBut woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,\nMy will to her consent is but a part;\nAnd she agree, within her scope of choice\nLies my consent and fair according voice.\nThis night I hold an old accustom’d feast,\nWhereto I have invited many a guest,\nSuch as I love, and you among the store,\nOne more, most welcome, makes my number more.\nAt my poor house look to behold this night\nEarth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:\nSuch comfort as do lusty young men feel\nWhen well apparell’d April on the heel\nOf limping winter treads, even such delight\nAmong fresh female buds shall you this night\nInherit at my house. Hear all, all see,\nAnd like her most whose merit most shall be:\nWhich, on more view of many, mine, being one,\nMay stand in number, though in reckoning none.\nCome, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about\nThrough fair Verona; find those persons out\nWhose names are written there, [_gives a paper_] and to them say,\nMy house and welcome on their pleasure stay.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet and Paris._]\n\nSERVANT.\nFind them out whose names are written here! It is written that the\nshoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the\nfisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to\nfind those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what\nnames the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good\ntime!\n\n Enter Benvolio and Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning,\nOne pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;\nTurn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;\nOne desperate grief cures with another’s languish:\nTake thou some new infection to thy eye,\nAnd the rank poison of the old will die.\n\nROMEO.\nYour plantain leaf is excellent for that.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nFor what, I pray thee?\n\nROMEO.\nFor your broken shin.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy, Romeo, art thou mad?\n\nROMEO.\nNot mad, but bound more than a madman is:\nShut up in prison, kept without my food,\nWhipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.\n\nSERVANT.\nGod gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, mine own fortune in my misery.\n\nSERVANT.\nPerhaps you have learned it without book.\nBut I pray, can you read anything you see?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, If I know the letters and the language.\n\nSERVANT.\nYe say honestly, rest you merry!\n\nROMEO.\nStay, fellow; I can read.\n\n [_He reads the letter._]\n\n_Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;\nCounty Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;\nThe lady widow of Utruvio;\nSignior Placentio and his lovely nieces;\nMercutio and his brother Valentine;\nMine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;\nMy fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\nSignior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt;\nLucio and the lively Helena. _\n\n\nA fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?\n\nSERVANT.\nUp.\n\nROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?\n\nSERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\nROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before.\n\nSERVANT.\nNow I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet,\nand if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a\ncup of wine. Rest you merry.\n\n [_Exit._]" -- "BENVOLIO.\nAt this same ancient feast of Capulet’s\nSups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st;\nWith all the admired beauties of Verona.\nGo thither and with unattainted eye,\nCompare her face with some that I shall show,\nAnd I will make thee think thy swan a crow.\n\nROMEO.\nWhen the devout religion of mine eye\nMaintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire;\nAnd these who, often drown’d, could never die,\nTransparent heretics, be burnt for liars.\nOne fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun\nNe’er saw her match since first the world begun.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, you saw her fair, none else being by,\nHerself pois’d with herself in either eye:\nBut in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d\nYour lady’s love against some other maid\nThat I will show you shining at this feast,\nAnd she shall scant show well that now shows best.\n\nROMEO.\nI’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,\nBut to rejoice in splendour of my own.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me.\n\nNURSE.\nNow, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old,\nI bade her come. What, lamb! What ladybird!\nGod forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet!\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nHow now, who calls?\n\nNURSE.\nYour mother.\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, I am here. What is your will?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThis is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile,\nWe must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again,\nI have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.\nThou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, I can tell her age unto an hour.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nShe’s not fourteen.\n\nNURSE.\nI’ll lay fourteen of my teeth,\nAnd yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,\nShe is not fourteen. How long is it now\nTo Lammas-tide?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA fortnight and odd days.\n\nNURSE.\nEven or odd, of all days in the year,\nCome Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.\nSusan and she,—God rest all Christian souls!—\nWere of an age. Well, Susan is with God;\nShe was too good for me. But as I said,\nOn Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;\nThat shall she, marry; I remember it well.\n’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;\nAnd she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it—,\nOf all the days of the year, upon that day:\nFor I had then laid wormwood to my dug,\nSitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall;\nMy lord and you were then at Mantua:\nNay, I do bear a brain. But as I said,\nWhen it did taste the wormwood on the nipple\nOf my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,\nTo see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug!\nShake, quoth the dovehouse: ’twas no need, I trow,\nTo bid me trudge.\nAnd since that time it is eleven years;\nFor then she could stand alone; nay, by th’rood\nShe could have run and waddled all about;\nFor even the day before she broke her brow,\nAnd then my husband,—God be with his soul!\nA was a merry man,—took up the child:\n‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame,\nThe pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay’.\nTo see now how a jest shall come about.\nI warrant, and I should live a thousand years,\nI never should forget it. ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he;\nAnd, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nEnough of this; I pray thee hold thy peace." -- "NURSE.\nYes, madam, yet I cannot choose but laugh,\nTo think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay’;\nAnd yet I warrant it had upon it brow\nA bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone;\nA perilous knock, and it cried bitterly.\n‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted, and said ‘Ay’.\n\nJULIET.\nAnd stint thou too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I.\n\nNURSE.\nPeace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace\nThou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d:\nAnd I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nMarry, that marry is the very theme\nI came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,\nHow stands your disposition to be married?\n\nJULIET.\nIt is an honour that I dream not of.\n\nNURSE.\nAn honour! Were not I thine only nurse,\nI would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, think of marriage now: younger than you,\nHere in Verona, ladies of esteem,\nAre made already mothers. By my count\nI was your mother much upon these years\nThat you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief;\nThe valiant Paris seeks you for his love.\n\nNURSE.\nA man, young lady! Lady, such a man\nAs all the world—why he’s a man of wax.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nVerona’s summer hath not such a flower.\n\nNURSE.\nNay, he’s a flower, in faith a very flower.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat say you, can you love the gentleman?\nThis night you shall behold him at our feast;\nRead o’er the volume of young Paris’ face,\nAnd find delight writ there with beauty’s pen.\nExamine every married lineament,\nAnd see how one another lends content;\nAnd what obscur’d in this fair volume lies,\nFind written in the margent of his eyes.\nThis precious book of love, this unbound lover,\nTo beautify him, only lacks a cover:\nThe fish lives in the sea; and ’tis much pride\nFor fair without the fair within to hide.\nThat book in many’s eyes doth share the glory,\nThat in gold clasps locks in the golden story;\nSo shall you share all that he doth possess,\nBy having him, making yourself no less.\n\nNURSE.\nNo less, nay bigger. Women grow by men.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nSpeak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?\n\nJULIET.\nI’ll look to like, if looking liking move:\nBut no more deep will I endart mine eye\nThan your consent gives strength to make it fly.\n\n Enter a Servant.\n\nSERVANT.\nMadam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady\nasked for, the Nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity.\nI must hence to wait, I beseech you follow straight.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe follow thee.\n\n [_Exit Servant._]\n\nJuliet, the County stays.\n\nNURSE.\nGo, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE IV. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers;\n Torch-bearers and others.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?\nOr shall we on without apology?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThe date is out of such prolixity:\nWe’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf,\nBearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,\nScaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;\nNor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke\nAfter the prompter, for our entrance:\nBut let them measure us by what they will,\nWe’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.\n\nROMEO.\nGive me a torch, I am not for this ambling;\nBeing but heavy I will bear the light.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.\n\nROMEO.\nNot I, believe me, you have dancing shoes,\nWith nimble soles, I have a soul of lead\nSo stakes me to the ground I cannot move.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nYou are a lover, borrow Cupid’s wings,\nAnd soar with them above a common bound." -- "ROMEO.\nI am too sore enpierced with his shaft\nTo soar with his light feathers, and so bound,\nI cannot bound a pitch above dull woe.\nUnder love’s heavy burden do I sink.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd, to sink in it, should you burden love;\nToo great oppression for a tender thing.\n\nROMEO.\nIs love a tender thing? It is too rough,\nToo rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be rough with you, be rough with love;\nPrick love for pricking, and you beat love down.\nGive me a case to put my visage in: [_Putting on a mask._]\nA visor for a visor. What care I\nWhat curious eye doth quote deformities?\nHere are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, knock and enter; and no sooner in\nBut every man betake him to his legs.\n\nROMEO.\nA torch for me: let wantons, light of heart,\nTickle the senseless rushes with their heels;\nFor I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase,\nI’ll be a candle-holder and look on,\nThe game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nTut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word:\nIf thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire\nOr save your reverence love, wherein thou stickest\nUp to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho.\n\nROMEO.\nNay, that’s not so.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nI mean sir, in delay\nWe waste our lights in vain, light lights by day.\nTake our good meaning, for our judgment sits\nFive times in that ere once in our five wits.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd we mean well in going to this mask;\nBut ’tis no wit to go.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhy, may one ask?\n\nROMEO.\nI dreamt a dream tonight.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd so did I.\n\nROMEO.\nWell what was yours?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThat dreamers often lie.\n\nROMEO.\nIn bed asleep, while they do dream things true.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.\nShe is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes\nIn shape no bigger than an agate-stone\nOn the fore-finger of an alderman,\nDrawn with a team of little atomies\nOver men’s noses as they lie asleep:\nHer waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs;\nThe cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;\nHer traces, of the smallest spider’s web;\nThe collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams;\nHer whip of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film;\nHer waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,\nNot half so big as a round little worm\nPrick’d from the lazy finger of a maid:\nHer chariot is an empty hazelnut,\nMade by the joiner squirrel or old grub,\nTime out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers.\nAnd in this state she gallops night by night\nThrough lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;\nO’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight;\nO’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees;\nO’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream,\nWhich oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,\nBecause their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:\nSometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,\nAnd then dreams he of smelling out a suit;\nAnd sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail,\nTickling a parson’s nose as a lies asleep,\nThen dreams he of another benefice:\nSometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,\nAnd then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,\nOf breaches, ambuscados, Spanish blades,\nOf healths five fathom deep; and then anon\nDrums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;\nAnd, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,\nAnd sleeps again. This is that very Mab\nThat plats the manes of horses in the night;\nAnd bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,\nWhich, once untangled, much misfortune bodes:\nThis is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,\nThat presses them, and learns them first to bear,\nMaking them women of good carriage:\nThis is she,—\n\nROMEO.\nPeace, peace, Mercutio, peace,\nThou talk’st of nothing." -- "MERCUTIO.\nTrue, I talk of dreams,\nWhich are the children of an idle brain,\nBegot of nothing but vain fantasy,\nWhich is as thin of substance as the air,\nAnd more inconstant than the wind, who wooes\nEven now the frozen bosom of the north,\nAnd, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,\nTurning his side to the dew-dropping south.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThis wind you talk of blows us from ourselves:\nSupper is done, and we shall come too late.\n\nROMEO.\nI fear too early: for my mind misgives\nSome consequence yet hanging in the stars,\nShall bitterly begin his fearful date\nWith this night’s revels; and expire the term\nOf a despised life, clos’d in my breast\nBy some vile forfeit of untimely death.\nBut he that hath the steerage of my course\nDirect my suit. On, lusty gentlemen!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nStrike, drum.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Musicians waiting. Enter Servants.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nWhere’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away?\nHe shift a trencher! He scrape a trencher!\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nWhen good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they\nunwash’d too, ’tis a foul thing.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nAway with the join-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the\nplate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and as thou loves me,\nlet the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony and Potpan!\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nAy, boy, ready.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nYou are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the\ngreat chamber.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nWe cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys. Be brisk awhile, and\nthe longer liver take all.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n Enter Capulet, &c. with the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers.\n\nCAPULET.\nWelcome, gentlemen, ladies that have their toes\nUnplagu’d with corns will have a bout with you.\nAh my mistresses, which of you all\nWill now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,\nShe I’ll swear hath corns. Am I come near ye now?\nWelcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day\nThat I have worn a visor, and could tell\nA whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear,\nSuch as would please; ’tis gone, ’tis gone, ’tis gone,\nYou are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.\nA hall, a hall, give room! And foot it, girls.\n\n [_Music plays, and they dance._]\n\nMore light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,\nAnd quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.\nAh sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well.\nNay sit, nay sit, good cousin Capulet,\nFor you and I are past our dancing days;\nHow long is’t now since last yourself and I\nWere in a mask?\n\nCAPULET’S COUSIN.\nBy’r Lady, thirty years.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat, man, ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much:\n’Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,\nCome Pentecost as quickly as it will,\nSome five and twenty years; and then we mask’d.\n\nCAPULET’S COUSIN.\n’Tis more, ’tis more, his son is elder, sir;\nHis son is thirty.\n\nCAPULET.\nWill you tell me that?\nHis son was but a ward two years ago.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat lady is that, which doth enrich the hand\nOf yonder knight?\n\nSERVANT.\nI know not, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nO, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!\nIt seems she hangs upon the cheek of night\nAs a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear;\nBeauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!\nSo shows a snowy dove trooping with crows\nAs yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.\nThe measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand,\nAnd touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.\nDid my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!\nFor I ne’er saw true beauty till this night." -- "TYBALT.\nThis by his voice, should be a Montague.\nFetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave\nCome hither, cover’d with an antic face,\nTo fleer and scorn at our solemnity?\nNow by the stock and honour of my kin,\nTo strike him dead I hold it not a sin.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhy how now, kinsman!\nWherefore storm you so?\n\nTYBALT.\nUncle, this is a Montague, our foe;\nA villain that is hither come in spite,\nTo scorn at our solemnity this night.\n\nCAPULET.\nYoung Romeo, is it?\n\nTYBALT.\n’Tis he, that villain Romeo.\n\nCAPULET.\nContent thee, gentle coz, let him alone,\nA bears him like a portly gentleman;\nAnd, to say truth, Verona brags of him\nTo be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth.\nI would not for the wealth of all the town\nHere in my house do him disparagement.\nTherefore be patient, take no note of him,\nIt is my will; the which if thou respect,\nShow a fair presence and put off these frowns,\nAn ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.\n\nTYBALT.\nIt fits when such a villain is a guest:\nI’ll not endure him.\n\nCAPULET.\nHe shall be endur’d.\nWhat, goodman boy! I say he shall, go to;\nAm I the master here, or you? Go to.\nYou’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul,\nYou’ll make a mutiny among my guests!\nYou will set cock-a-hoop, you’ll be the man!\n\nTYBALT.\nWhy, uncle, ’tis a shame.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo to, go to!\nYou are a saucy boy. Is’t so, indeed?\nThis trick may chance to scathe you, I know what.\nYou must contrary me! Marry, ’tis time.\nWell said, my hearts!—You are a princox; go:\nBe quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame!\nI’ll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts.\n\nTYBALT.\nPatience perforce with wilful choler meeting\nMakes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.\nI will withdraw: but this intrusion shall,\nNow seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\n[_To Juliet._] If I profane with my unworthiest hand\nThis holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,\nMy lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand\nTo smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.\n\nJULIET.\nGood pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,\nWhich mannerly devotion shows in this;\nFor saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,\nAnd palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.\n\nROMEO.\nHave not saints lips, and holy palmers too?\n\nJULIET.\nAy, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.\n\nROMEO.\nO, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do:\nThey pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.\n\nJULIET.\nSaints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.\n\nROMEO.\nThen move not while my prayer’s effect I take.\nThus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg’d.\n[_Kissing her._]\n\nJULIET.\nThen have my lips the sin that they have took.\n\nROMEO.\nSin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d!\nGive me my sin again.\n\nJULIET.\nYou kiss by the book.\n\nNURSE.\nMadam, your mother craves a word with you.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat is her mother?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, bachelor,\nHer mother is the lady of the house,\nAnd a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.\nI nurs’d her daughter that you talk’d withal.\nI tell you, he that can lay hold of her\nShall have the chinks.\n\nROMEO.\nIs she a Capulet?\nO dear account! My life is my foe’s debt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAway, be gone; the sport is at the best.\n\nROMEO.\nAy, so I fear; the more is my unrest.\n\nCAPULET.\nNay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,\nWe have a trifling foolish banquet towards.\nIs it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;\nI thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.\nMore torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.\nAh, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late,\nI’ll to my rest.\n\n [_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._]" -- "JULIET.\nCome hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?\n\nNURSE.\nThe son and heir of old Tiberio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that now is going out of door?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, that I think be young Petruchio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that follows here, that would not dance?\n\nNURSE.\nI know not.\n\nJULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\nJULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:\nBeing held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHe ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:\nCall, good Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, I’ll conjure too.\nRomeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover!\nAppear thou in the likeness of a sigh,\nSpeak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;\nCry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove;\nSpeak to my gossip Venus one fair word,\nOne nickname for her purblind son and heir,\nYoung Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim\nWhen King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.\nHe heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;\nThe ape is dead, and I must conjure him.\nI conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,\nBy her high forehead and her scarlet lip,\nBy her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,\nAnd the demesnes that there adjacent lie,\nThat in thy likeness thou appear to us.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAn if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThis cannot anger him. ’Twould anger him\nTo raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle,\nOf some strange nature, letting it there stand\nTill she had laid it, and conjur’d it down;\nThat were some spite. My invocation\nIs fair and honest, and, in his mistress’ name,\nI conjure only but to raise up him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, he hath hid himself among these trees\nTo be consorted with the humorous night.\nBlind is his love, and best befits the dark.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.\nNow will he sit under a medlar tree,\nAnd wish his mistress were that kind of fruit\nAs maids call medlars when they laugh alone.\nO Romeo, that she were, O that she were\nAn open-arse and thou a poperin pear!\nRomeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle-bed.\nThis field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.\nCome, shall we go?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGo then; for ’tis in vain\nTo seek him here that means not to be found.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" -- "SCENE II. Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nHe jests at scars that never felt a wound.\n\n Juliet appears above at a window.\n\nBut soft, what light through yonder window breaks?\nIt is the east, and Juliet is the sun!\nArise fair sun and kill the envious moon,\nWho is already sick and pale with grief,\nThat thou her maid art far more fair than she.\nBe not her maid since she is envious;\nHer vestal livery is but sick and green,\nAnd none but fools do wear it; cast it off.\nIt is my lady, O it is my love!\nO, that she knew she were!\nShe speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?\nHer eye discourses, I will answer it.\nI am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks.\nTwo of the fairest stars in all the heaven,\nHaving some business, do entreat her eyes\nTo twinkle in their spheres till they return.\nWhat if her eyes were there, they in her head?\nThe brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,\nAs daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven\nWould through the airy region stream so bright\nThat birds would sing and think it were not night.\nSee how she leans her cheek upon her hand.\nO that I were a glove upon that hand,\nThat I might touch that cheek.\n\nJULIET.\nAy me.\n\nROMEO.\nShe speaks.\nO speak again bright angel, for thou art\nAs glorious to this night, being o’er my head,\nAs is a winged messenger of heaven\nUnto the white-upturned wondering eyes\nOf mortals that fall back to gaze on him\nWhen he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds\nAnd sails upon the bosom of the air.\n\nJULIET.\nO Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?\nDeny thy father and refuse thy name.\nOr if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,\nAnd I’ll no longer be a Capulet.\n\nROMEO.\n[_Aside._] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?\n\nJULIET.\n’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;\nThou art thyself, though not a Montague.\nWhat’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot,\nNor arm, nor face, nor any other part\nBelonging to a man. O be some other name.\nWhat’s in a name? That which we call a rose\nBy any other name would smell as sweet;\nSo Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,\nRetain that dear perfection which he owes\nWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,\nAnd for thy name, which is no part of thee,\nTake all myself.\n\nROMEO.\nI take thee at thy word.\nCall me but love, and I’ll be new baptis’d;\nHenceforth I never will be Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat man art thou that, thus bescreen’d in night\nSo stumblest on my counsel?\n\nROMEO.\nBy a name\nI know not how to tell thee who I am:\nMy name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,\nBecause it is an enemy to thee.\nHad I it written, I would tear the word.\n\nJULIET.\nMy ears have yet not drunk a hundred words\nOf thy tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound.\nArt thou not Romeo, and a Montague?\n\nROMEO.\nNeither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.\n\nJULIET.\nHow cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?\nThe orchard walls are high and hard to climb,\nAnd the place death, considering who thou art,\nIf any of my kinsmen find thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nWith love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls,\nFor stony limits cannot hold love out,\nAnd what love can do, that dares love attempt:\nTherefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf they do see thee, they will murder thee.\n\nROMEO.\nAlack, there lies more peril in thine eye\nThan twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet,\nAnd I am proof against their enmity.\n\nJULIET.\nI would not for the world they saw thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nI have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes,\nAnd but thou love me, let them find me here.\nMy life were better ended by their hate\nThan death prorogued, wanting of thy love.\n\nJULIET.\nBy whose direction found’st thou out this place?" -- "ROMEO.\nBy love, that first did prompt me to enquire;\nHe lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.\nI am no pilot; yet wert thou as far\nAs that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea,\nI should adventure for such merchandise.\n\nJULIET.\nThou knowest the mask of night is on my face,\nElse would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek\nFor that which thou hast heard me speak tonight.\nFain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny\nWhat I have spoke; but farewell compliment.\nDost thou love me? I know thou wilt say Ay,\nAnd I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear’st,\nThou mayst prove false. At lovers’ perjuries,\nThey say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,\nIf thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.\nOr if thou thinkest I am too quickly won,\nI’ll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay,\nSo thou wilt woo. But else, not for the world.\nIn truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;\nAnd therefore thou mayst think my ’haviour light:\nBut trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true\nThan those that have more cunning to be strange.\nI should have been more strange, I must confess,\nBut that thou overheard’st, ere I was ’ware,\nMy true-love passion; therefore pardon me,\nAnd not impute this yielding to light love,\nWhich the dark night hath so discovered.\n\nROMEO.\nLady, by yonder blessed moon I vow,\nThat tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,—\n\nJULIET.\nO swear not by the moon, th’inconstant moon,\nThat monthly changes in her circled orb,\nLest that thy love prove likewise variable.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat shall I swear by?\n\nJULIET.\nDo not swear at all.\nOr if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,\nWhich is the god of my idolatry,\nAnd I’ll believe thee.\n\nROMEO.\nIf my heart’s dear love,—\n\nJULIET.\nWell, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,\nI have no joy of this contract tonight;\nIt is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden,\nToo like the lightning, which doth cease to be\nEre one can say It lightens. Sweet, good night.\nThis bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,\nMay prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.\nGood night, good night. As sweet repose and rest\nCome to thy heart as that within my breast.\n\nROMEO.\nO wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?\n\nJULIET.\nWhat satisfaction canst thou have tonight?\n\nROMEO.\nTh’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.\n\nJULIET.\nI gave thee mine before thou didst request it;\nAnd yet I would it were to give again.\n\nROMEO.\nWould’st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?\n\nJULIET.\nBut to be frank and give it thee again.\nAnd yet I wish but for the thing I have;\nMy bounty is as boundless as the sea,\nMy love as deep; the more I give to thee,\nThe more I have, for both are infinite.\nI hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu.\n[_Nurse calls within._]\nAnon, good Nurse!—Sweet Montague be true.\nStay but a little, I will come again.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nO blessed, blessed night. I am afeard,\nBeing in night, all this is but a dream,\nToo flattering sweet to be substantial.\n\n Enter Juliet above.\n\nJULIET.\nThree words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.\nIf that thy bent of love be honourable,\nThy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow,\nBy one that I’ll procure to come to thee,\nWhere and what time thou wilt perform the rite,\nAnd all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay\nAnd follow thee my lord throughout the world.\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Madam.\n\nJULIET.\nI come, anon.— But if thou meanest not well,\nI do beseech thee,—\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Madam.\n\nJULIET.\nBy and by I come—\nTo cease thy strife and leave me to my grief.\nTomorrow will I send.\n\nROMEO.\nSo thrive my soul,—\n\nJULIET.\nA thousand times good night.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nA thousand times the worse, to want thy light.\nLove goes toward love as schoolboys from their books,\nBut love from love, towards school with heavy looks.\n\n [_Retiring slowly._]\n\n Re-enter Juliet, above." +- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at\nwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you\nwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located before\nusing this eBook.\n\nTitle: Romeo and Juliet\n\nAuthor: William Shakespeare\n\nRelease Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1513]\n[Most recently updated: May 11, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\nProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers.\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE.\n\nACT I\nScene I. A public place.\nScene II. A Street.\nScene III. Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n\nACT II\nCHORUS.\nScene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\nScene II. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene IV. A Street.\nScene V. Capulet’s Garden.\nScene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n\nACT III\nScene I. A public Place.\nScene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\nScene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n\nACT IV\nScene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene III. Juliet’s Chamber.\nScene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\nScene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n\nACT V\nScene I. Mantua. A Street.\nScene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\nScene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets." +- "Dramatis Personæ\n\nESCALUS, Prince of Verona.\nMERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo.\nPARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince.\nPage to Paris.\n\nMONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets.\nLADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague.\nROMEO, son to Montague.\nBENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo.\nABRAM, servant to Montague.\nBALTHASAR, servant to Romeo.\n\nCAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues.\nLADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet.\nJULIET, daughter to Capulet.\nTYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet.\nCAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man.\nNURSE to Juliet.\nPETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse.\nSAMPSON, servant to Capulet.\nGREGORY, servant to Capulet.\nServants.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan.\nFRIAR JOHN, of the same Order.\nAn Apothecary.\nCHORUS.\nThree Musicians.\nAn Officer.\nCitizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses;\nMaskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants.\n\nSCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the\nFifth Act, at Mantua.\n\n\nTHE PROLOGUE\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nTwo households, both alike in dignity,\nIn fair Verona, where we lay our scene,\nFrom ancient grudge break to new mutiny,\nWhere civil blood makes civil hands unclean.\nFrom forth the fatal loins of these two foes\nA pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life;\nWhose misadventur’d piteous overthrows\nDoth with their death bury their parents’ strife.\nThe fearful passage of their death-mark’d love,\nAnd the continuance of their parents’ rage,\nWhich, but their children’s end, nought could remove,\nIs now the two hours’ traffic of our stage;\nThe which, if you with patient ears attend,\nWhat here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]" +- "ACT I\n\nSCENE I. A public place.\n\n Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nGregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, for then we should be colliers.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw.\n\nGREGORY.\nAy, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nI strike quickly, being moved.\n\nGREGORY.\nBut thou art not quickly moved to strike.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of the house of Montague moves me.\n\nGREGORY.\nTo move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou\nart moved, thou runn’st away.\n\nSAMPSON.\nA dog of that house shall move me to stand.\nI will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s.\n\nGREGORY.\nThat shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall.\n\nSAMPSON.\nTrue, and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to\nthe wall: therefore I will push Montague’s men from the wall, and\nthrust his maids to the wall.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe quarrel is between our masters and us their men.\n\nSAMPSON.\n’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the\nmen I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads.\n\nGREGORY.\nThe heads of the maids?\n\nSAMPSON.\nAy, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense\nthou wilt.\n\nGREGORY.\nThey must take it in sense that feel it.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMe they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a\npretty piece of flesh.\n\nGREGORY.\n’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.\nDraw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues.\n\n Enter Abram and Balthasar.\n\nSAMPSON.\nMy naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee.\n\nGREGORY.\nHow? Turn thy back and run?\n\nSAMPSON.\nFear me not.\n\nGREGORY.\nNo, marry; I fear thee!\n\nSAMPSON.\nLet us take the law of our sides; let them begin.\n\nGREGORY.\nI will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to\nthem if they bear it.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nI do bite my thumb, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nDo you bite your thumb at us, sir?\n\nSAMPSON.\nIs the law of our side if I say ay?\n\nGREGORY.\nNo.\n\nSAMPSON.\nNo sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.\n\nGREGORY.\nDo you quarrel, sir?\n\nABRAM.\nQuarrel, sir? No, sir.\n\nSAMPSON.\nBut if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you.\n\nABRAM.\nNo better.\n\nSAMPSON.\nWell, sir.\n\n Enter Benvolio.\n\nGREGORY.\nSay better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen.\n\nSAMPSON.\nYes, better, sir.\n\nABRAM.\nYou lie.\n\nSAMPSON.\nDraw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nPart, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do.\n\n [_Beats down their swords._]\n\n Enter Tybalt.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?\nTurn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI do but keep the peace, put up thy sword,\nOr manage it to part these men with me.\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word\nAs I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:\nHave at thee, coward.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\n Enter three or four Citizens with clubs.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nClubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down!\nDown with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!\n\n Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?" +- "CAPULET.\nMy sword, I say! Old Montague is come,\nAnd flourishes his blade in spite of me.\n\n Enter Montague and his Lady Montague.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nThou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nThou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.\n\n Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants.\n\nPRINCE.\nRebellious subjects, enemies to peace,\nProfaners of this neighbour-stained steel,—\nWill they not hear? What, ho! You men, you beasts,\nThat quench the fire of your pernicious rage\nWith purple fountains issuing from your veins,\nOn pain of torture, from those bloody hands\nThrow your mistemper’d weapons to the ground\nAnd hear the sentence of your moved prince.\nThree civil brawls, bred of an airy word,\nBy thee, old Capulet, and Montague,\nHave thrice disturb’d the quiet of our streets,\nAnd made Verona’s ancient citizens\nCast by their grave beseeming ornaments,\nTo wield old partisans, in hands as old,\nCanker’d with peace, to part your canker’d hate.\nIf ever you disturb our streets again,\nYour lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.\nFor this time all the rest depart away:\nYou, Capulet, shall go along with me,\nAnd Montague, come you this afternoon,\nTo know our farther pleasure in this case,\nTo old Free-town, our common judgement-place.\nOnce more, on pain of death, all men depart.\n\n [_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt,\n Citizens and Servants._]\n\nMONTAGUE.\nWho set this ancient quarrel new abroach?\nSpeak, nephew, were you by when it began?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere were the servants of your adversary\nAnd yours, close fighting ere I did approach.\nI drew to part them, in the instant came\nThe fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar’d,\nWhich, as he breath’d defiance to my ears,\nHe swung about his head, and cut the winds,\nWho nothing hurt withal, hiss’d him in scorn.\nWhile we were interchanging thrusts and blows\nCame more and more, and fought on part and part,\nTill the Prince came, who parted either part.\n\nLADY MONTAGUE.\nO where is Romeo, saw you him today?\nRight glad I am he was not at this fray.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMadam, an hour before the worshipp’d sun\nPeer’d forth the golden window of the east,\nA troubled mind drave me to walk abroad,\nWhere underneath the grove of sycamore\nThat westward rooteth from this city side,\nSo early walking did I see your son.\nTowards him I made, but he was ware of me,\nAnd stole into the covert of the wood.\nI, measuring his affections by my own,\nWhich then most sought where most might not be found,\nBeing one too many by my weary self,\nPursu’d my humour, not pursuing his,\nAnd gladly shunn’d who gladly fled from me.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nMany a morning hath he there been seen,\nWith tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew,\nAdding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;\nBut all so soon as the all-cheering sun\nShould in the farthest east begin to draw\nThe shady curtains from Aurora’s bed,\nAway from light steals home my heavy son,\nAnd private in his chamber pens himself,\nShuts up his windows, locks fair daylight out\nAnd makes himself an artificial night.\nBlack and portentous must this humour prove,\nUnless good counsel may the cause remove.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nMy noble uncle, do you know the cause?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI neither know it nor can learn of him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHave you importun’d him by any means?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nBoth by myself and many other friends;\nBut he, his own affections’ counsellor,\nIs to himself—I will not say how true—\nBut to himself so secret and so close,\nSo far from sounding and discovery,\nAs is the bud bit with an envious worm\nEre he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,\nOr dedicate his beauty to the sun.\nCould we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,\nWe would as willingly give cure as know.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSee, where he comes. So please you step aside;\nI’ll know his grievance or be much denied.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nI would thou wert so happy by thy stay\nTo hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away," +- "[_Exeunt Montague and Lady Montague._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGood morrow, cousin.\n\nROMEO.\nIs the day so young?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBut new struck nine.\n\nROMEO.\nAy me, sad hours seem long.\nWas that my father that went hence so fast?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nIt was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?\n\nROMEO.\nNot having that which, having, makes them short.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nIn love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nOf love?\n\nROMEO.\nOut of her favour where I am in love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAlas that love so gentle in his view,\nShould be so tyrannous and rough in proof.\n\nROMEO.\nAlas that love, whose view is muffled still,\nShould, without eyes, see pathways to his will!\nWhere shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?\nYet tell me not, for I have heard it all.\nHere’s much to do with hate, but more with love:\nWhy, then, O brawling love! O loving hate!\nO anything, of nothing first create!\nO heavy lightness! serious vanity!\nMisshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!\nFeather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!\nStill-waking sleep, that is not what it is!\nThis love feel I, that feel no love in this.\nDost thou not laugh?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nNo coz, I rather weep.\n\nROMEO.\nGood heart, at what?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt thy good heart’s oppression.\n\nROMEO.\nWhy such is love’s transgression.\nGriefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,\nWhich thou wilt propagate to have it prest\nWith more of thine. This love that thou hast shown\nDoth add more grief to too much of mine own.\nLove is a smoke made with the fume of sighs;\nBeing purg’d, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes;\nBeing vex’d, a sea nourish’d with lovers’ tears:\nWhat is it else? A madness most discreet,\nA choking gall, and a preserving sweet.\nFarewell, my coz.\n\n [_Going._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nSoft! I will go along:\nAnd if you leave me so, you do me wrong.\n\nROMEO.\nTut! I have lost myself; I am not here.\nThis is not Romeo, he’s some other where.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTell me in sadness who is that you love?\n\nROMEO.\nWhat, shall I groan and tell thee?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGroan! Why, no; but sadly tell me who.\n\nROMEO.\nBid a sick man in sadness make his will,\nA word ill urg’d to one that is so ill.\nIn sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d.\n\nROMEO.\nA right good markman, and she’s fair I love.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nA right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.\n\nROMEO.\nWell, in that hit you miss: she’ll not be hit\nWith Cupid’s arrow, she hath Dian’s wit;\nAnd in strong proof of chastity well arm’d,\nFrom love’s weak childish bow she lives uncharm’d.\nShe will not stay the siege of loving terms\nNor bide th’encounter of assailing eyes,\nNor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold:\nO she’s rich in beauty, only poor\nThat when she dies, with beauty dies her store.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThen she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?\n\nROMEO.\nShe hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;\nFor beauty starv’d with her severity,\nCuts beauty off from all posterity.\nShe is too fair, too wise; wisely too fair,\nTo merit bliss by making me despair.\nShe hath forsworn to love, and in that vow\nDo I live dead, that live to tell it now.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBe rul’d by me, forget to think of her.\n\nROMEO.\nO teach me how I should forget to think.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy giving liberty unto thine eyes;\nExamine other beauties." +- "ROMEO.\n’Tis the way\nTo call hers, exquisite, in question more.\nThese happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows,\nBeing black, puts us in mind they hide the fair;\nHe that is strucken blind cannot forget\nThe precious treasure of his eyesight lost.\nShow me a mistress that is passing fair,\nWhat doth her beauty serve but as a note\nWhere I may read who pass’d that passing fair?\nFarewell, thou canst not teach me to forget.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Street.\n\n Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant.\n\nCAPULET.\nBut Montague is bound as well as I,\nIn penalty alike; and ’tis not hard, I think,\nFor men so old as we to keep the peace.\n\nPARIS.\nOf honourable reckoning are you both,\nAnd pity ’tis you liv’d at odds so long.\nBut now my lord, what say you to my suit?\n\nCAPULET.\nBut saying o’er what I have said before.\nMy child is yet a stranger in the world,\nShe hath not seen the change of fourteen years;\nLet two more summers wither in their pride\nEre we may think her ripe to be a bride.\n\nPARIS.\nYounger than she are happy mothers made.\n\nCAPULET.\nAnd too soon marr’d are those so early made.\nThe earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she,\nShe is the hopeful lady of my earth:\nBut woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart,\nMy will to her consent is but a part;\nAnd she agree, within her scope of choice\nLies my consent and fair according voice.\nThis night I hold an old accustom’d feast,\nWhereto I have invited many a guest,\nSuch as I love, and you among the store,\nOne more, most welcome, makes my number more.\nAt my poor house look to behold this night\nEarth-treading stars that make dark heaven light:\nSuch comfort as do lusty young men feel\nWhen well apparell’d April on the heel\nOf limping winter treads, even such delight\nAmong fresh female buds shall you this night\nInherit at my house. Hear all, all see,\nAnd like her most whose merit most shall be:\nWhich, on more view of many, mine, being one,\nMay stand in number, though in reckoning none.\nCome, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about\nThrough fair Verona; find those persons out\nWhose names are written there, [_gives a paper_] and to them say,\nMy house and welcome on their pleasure stay.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet and Paris._]\n\nSERVANT.\nFind them out whose names are written here! It is written that the\nshoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the\nfisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to\nfind those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what\nnames the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good\ntime!\n\n Enter Benvolio and Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning,\nOne pain is lessen’d by another’s anguish;\nTurn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;\nOne desperate grief cures with another’s languish:\nTake thou some new infection to thy eye,\nAnd the rank poison of the old will die.\n\nROMEO.\nYour plantain leaf is excellent for that.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nFor what, I pray thee?\n\nROMEO.\nFor your broken shin.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy, Romeo, art thou mad?\n\nROMEO.\nNot mad, but bound more than a madman is:\nShut up in prison, kept without my food,\nWhipp’d and tormented and—God-den, good fellow.\n\nSERVANT.\nGod gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, mine own fortune in my misery.\n\nSERVANT.\nPerhaps you have learned it without book.\nBut I pray, can you read anything you see?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, If I know the letters and the language.\n\nSERVANT.\nYe say honestly, rest you merry!\n\nROMEO.\nStay, fellow; I can read.\n\n [_He reads the letter._]" +- "_Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;\nCounty Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;\nThe lady widow of Utruvio;\nSignior Placentio and his lovely nieces;\nMercutio and his brother Valentine;\nMine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;\nMy fair niece Rosaline and Livia;\nSignior Valentio and his cousin Tybalt;\nLucio and the lively Helena. _" +- "A fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come?\n\nSERVANT.\nUp.\n\nROMEO.\nWhither to supper?\n\nSERVANT.\nTo our house.\n\nROMEO.\nWhose house?\n\nSERVANT.\nMy master’s.\n\nROMEO.\nIndeed I should have ask’d you that before.\n\nSERVANT.\nNow I’ll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet,\nand if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a\ncup of wine. Rest you merry.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAt this same ancient feast of Capulet’s\nSups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov’st;\nWith all the admired beauties of Verona.\nGo thither and with unattainted eye,\nCompare her face with some that I shall show,\nAnd I will make thee think thy swan a crow.\n\nROMEO.\nWhen the devout religion of mine eye\nMaintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire;\nAnd these who, often drown’d, could never die,\nTransparent heretics, be burnt for liars.\nOne fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun\nNe’er saw her match since first the world begun.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTut, you saw her fair, none else being by,\nHerself pois’d with herself in either eye:\nBut in that crystal scales let there be weigh’d\nYour lady’s love against some other maid\nThat I will show you shining at this feast,\nAnd she shall scant show well that now shows best.\n\nROMEO.\nI’ll go along, no such sight to be shown,\nBut to rejoice in splendour of my own.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNurse, where’s my daughter? Call her forth to me.\n\nNURSE.\nNow, by my maidenhead, at twelve year old,\nI bade her come. What, lamb! What ladybird!\nGod forbid! Where’s this girl? What, Juliet!\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nHow now, who calls?\n\nNURSE.\nYour mother.\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, I am here. What is your will?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThis is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile,\nWe must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again,\nI have remember’d me, thou’s hear our counsel.\nThou knowest my daughter’s of a pretty age.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, I can tell her age unto an hour.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nShe’s not fourteen.\n\nNURSE.\nI’ll lay fourteen of my teeth,\nAnd yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four,\nShe is not fourteen. How long is it now\nTo Lammas-tide?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nA fortnight and odd days." +- "NURSE.\nEven or odd, of all days in the year,\nCome Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.\nSusan and she,—God rest all Christian souls!—\nWere of an age. Well, Susan is with God;\nShe was too good for me. But as I said,\nOn Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;\nThat shall she, marry; I remember it well.\n’Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;\nAnd she was wean’d,—I never shall forget it—,\nOf all the days of the year, upon that day:\nFor I had then laid wormwood to my dug,\nSitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall;\nMy lord and you were then at Mantua:\nNay, I do bear a brain. But as I said,\nWhen it did taste the wormwood on the nipple\nOf my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,\nTo see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug!\nShake, quoth the dovehouse: ’twas no need, I trow,\nTo bid me trudge.\nAnd since that time it is eleven years;\nFor then she could stand alone; nay, by th’rood\nShe could have run and waddled all about;\nFor even the day before she broke her brow,\nAnd then my husband,—God be with his soul!\nA was a merry man,—took up the child:\n‘Yea,’ quoth he, ‘dost thou fall upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ and, by my holidame,\nThe pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay’.\nTo see now how a jest shall come about.\nI warrant, and I should live a thousand years,\nI never should forget it. ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he;\nAnd, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nEnough of this; I pray thee hold thy peace.\n\nNURSE.\nYes, madam, yet I cannot choose but laugh,\nTo think it should leave crying, and say ‘Ay’;\nAnd yet I warrant it had upon it brow\nA bump as big as a young cockerel’s stone;\nA perilous knock, and it cried bitterly.\n‘Yea,’ quoth my husband, ‘fall’st upon thy face?\nThou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age;\nWilt thou not, Jule?’ it stinted, and said ‘Ay’.\n\nJULIET.\nAnd stint thou too, I pray thee, Nurse, say I.\n\nNURSE.\nPeace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace\nThou wast the prettiest babe that e’er I nurs’d:\nAnd I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nMarry, that marry is the very theme\nI came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,\nHow stands your disposition to be married?\n\nJULIET.\nIt is an honour that I dream not of.\n\nNURSE.\nAn honour! Were not I thine only nurse,\nI would say thou hadst suck’d wisdom from thy teat.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, think of marriage now: younger than you,\nHere in Verona, ladies of esteem,\nAre made already mothers. By my count\nI was your mother much upon these years\nThat you are now a maid. Thus, then, in brief;\nThe valiant Paris seeks you for his love.\n\nNURSE.\nA man, young lady! Lady, such a man\nAs all the world—why he’s a man of wax.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nVerona’s summer hath not such a flower.\n\nNURSE.\nNay, he’s a flower, in faith a very flower.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat say you, can you love the gentleman?\nThis night you shall behold him at our feast;\nRead o’er the volume of young Paris’ face,\nAnd find delight writ there with beauty’s pen.\nExamine every married lineament,\nAnd see how one another lends content;\nAnd what obscur’d in this fair volume lies,\nFind written in the margent of his eyes.\nThis precious book of love, this unbound lover,\nTo beautify him, only lacks a cover:\nThe fish lives in the sea; and ’tis much pride\nFor fair without the fair within to hide.\nThat book in many’s eyes doth share the glory,\nThat in gold clasps locks in the golden story;\nSo shall you share all that he doth possess,\nBy having him, making yourself no less.\n\nNURSE.\nNo less, nay bigger. Women grow by men." +- "LADY CAPULET.\nSpeak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love?\n\nJULIET.\nI’ll look to like, if looking liking move:\nBut no more deep will I endart mine eye\nThan your consent gives strength to make it fly.\n\n Enter a Servant.\n\nSERVANT.\nMadam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady\nasked for, the Nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity.\nI must hence to wait, I beseech you follow straight.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe follow thee.\n\n [_Exit Servant._]\n\nJuliet, the County stays.\n\nNURSE.\nGo, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE IV. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six Maskers;\n Torch-bearers and others.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?\nOr shall we on without apology?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThe date is out of such prolixity:\nWe’ll have no Cupid hoodwink’d with a scarf,\nBearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath,\nScaring the ladies like a crow-keeper;\nNor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke\nAfter the prompter, for our entrance:\nBut let them measure us by what they will,\nWe’ll measure them a measure, and be gone.\n\nROMEO.\nGive me a torch, I am not for this ambling;\nBeing but heavy I will bear the light.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.\n\nROMEO.\nNot I, believe me, you have dancing shoes,\nWith nimble soles, I have a soul of lead\nSo stakes me to the ground I cannot move.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nYou are a lover, borrow Cupid’s wings,\nAnd soar with them above a common bound.\n\nROMEO.\nI am too sore enpierced with his shaft\nTo soar with his light feathers, and so bound,\nI cannot bound a pitch above dull woe.\nUnder love’s heavy burden do I sink.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd, to sink in it, should you burden love;\nToo great oppression for a tender thing.\n\nROMEO.\nIs love a tender thing? It is too rough,\nToo rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be rough with you, be rough with love;\nPrick love for pricking, and you beat love down.\nGive me a case to put my visage in: [_Putting on a mask._]\nA visor for a visor. What care I\nWhat curious eye doth quote deformities?\nHere are the beetle-brows shall blush for me.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, knock and enter; and no sooner in\nBut every man betake him to his legs.\n\nROMEO.\nA torch for me: let wantons, light of heart,\nTickle the senseless rushes with their heels;\nFor I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase,\nI’ll be a candle-holder and look on,\nThe game was ne’er so fair, and I am done.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nTut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word:\nIf thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire\nOr save your reverence love, wherein thou stickest\nUp to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho.\n\nROMEO.\nNay, that’s not so.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nI mean sir, in delay\nWe waste our lights in vain, light lights by day.\nTake our good meaning, for our judgment sits\nFive times in that ere once in our five wits.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd we mean well in going to this mask;\nBut ’tis no wit to go.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhy, may one ask?\n\nROMEO.\nI dreamt a dream tonight.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd so did I.\n\nROMEO.\nWell what was yours?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThat dreamers often lie.\n\nROMEO.\nIn bed asleep, while they do dream things true." +- "MERCUTIO.\nO, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.\nShe is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes\nIn shape no bigger than an agate-stone\nOn the fore-finger of an alderman,\nDrawn with a team of little atomies\nOver men’s noses as they lie asleep:\nHer waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs;\nThe cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;\nHer traces, of the smallest spider’s web;\nThe collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams;\nHer whip of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film;\nHer waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,\nNot half so big as a round little worm\nPrick’d from the lazy finger of a maid:\nHer chariot is an empty hazelnut,\nMade by the joiner squirrel or old grub,\nTime out o’ mind the fairies’ coachmakers.\nAnd in this state she gallops night by night\nThrough lovers’ brains, and then they dream of love;\nO’er courtiers’ knees, that dream on curtsies straight;\nO’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight dream on fees;\nO’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream,\nWhich oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,\nBecause their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are:\nSometime she gallops o’er a courtier’s nose,\nAnd then dreams he of smelling out a suit;\nAnd sometime comes she with a tithe-pig’s tail,\nTickling a parson’s nose as a lies asleep,\nThen dreams he of another benefice:\nSometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck,\nAnd then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,\nOf breaches, ambuscados, Spanish blades,\nOf healths five fathom deep; and then anon\nDrums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes;\nAnd, being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two,\nAnd sleeps again. This is that very Mab\nThat plats the manes of horses in the night;\nAnd bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,\nWhich, once untangled, much misfortune bodes:\nThis is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,\nThat presses them, and learns them first to bear,\nMaking them women of good carriage:\nThis is she,—\n\nROMEO.\nPeace, peace, Mercutio, peace,\nThou talk’st of nothing.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nTrue, I talk of dreams,\nWhich are the children of an idle brain,\nBegot of nothing but vain fantasy,\nWhich is as thin of substance as the air,\nAnd more inconstant than the wind, who wooes\nEven now the frozen bosom of the north,\nAnd, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,\nTurning his side to the dew-dropping south.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThis wind you talk of blows us from ourselves:\nSupper is done, and we shall come too late.\n\nROMEO.\nI fear too early: for my mind misgives\nSome consequence yet hanging in the stars,\nShall bitterly begin his fearful date\nWith this night’s revels; and expire the term\nOf a despised life, clos’d in my breast\nBy some vile forfeit of untimely death.\nBut he that hath the steerage of my course\nDirect my suit. On, lusty gentlemen!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nStrike, drum.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. A Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Musicians waiting. Enter Servants.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nWhere’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away?\nHe shift a trencher! He scrape a trencher!\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nWhen good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they\nunwash’d too, ’tis a foul thing.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nAway with the join-stools, remove the court-cupboard, look to the\nplate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane; and as thou loves me,\nlet the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Antony and Potpan!\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nAy, boy, ready.\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nYou are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the\ngreat chamber.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nWe cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys. Be brisk awhile, and\nthe longer liver take all.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n Enter Capulet, &c. with the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers." +- "CAPULET.\nWelcome, gentlemen, ladies that have their toes\nUnplagu’d with corns will have a bout with you.\nAh my mistresses, which of you all\nWill now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,\nShe I’ll swear hath corns. Am I come near ye now?\nWelcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day\nThat I have worn a visor, and could tell\nA whispering tale in a fair lady’s ear,\nSuch as would please; ’tis gone, ’tis gone, ’tis gone,\nYou are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.\nA hall, a hall, give room! And foot it, girls.\n\n [_Music plays, and they dance._]\n\nMore light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,\nAnd quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.\nAh sirrah, this unlook’d-for sport comes well.\nNay sit, nay sit, good cousin Capulet,\nFor you and I are past our dancing days;\nHow long is’t now since last yourself and I\nWere in a mask?\n\nCAPULET’S COUSIN.\nBy’r Lady, thirty years.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat, man, ’tis not so much, ’tis not so much:\n’Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,\nCome Pentecost as quickly as it will,\nSome five and twenty years; and then we mask’d.\n\nCAPULET’S COUSIN.\n’Tis more, ’tis more, his son is elder, sir;\nHis son is thirty.\n\nCAPULET.\nWill you tell me that?\nHis son was but a ward two years ago.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat lady is that, which doth enrich the hand\nOf yonder knight?\n\nSERVANT.\nI know not, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nO, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!\nIt seems she hangs upon the cheek of night\nAs a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear;\nBeauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!\nSo shows a snowy dove trooping with crows\nAs yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.\nThe measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand,\nAnd touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.\nDid my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!\nFor I ne’er saw true beauty till this night.\n\nTYBALT.\nThis by his voice, should be a Montague.\nFetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave\nCome hither, cover’d with an antic face,\nTo fleer and scorn at our solemnity?\nNow by the stock and honour of my kin,\nTo strike him dead I hold it not a sin.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhy how now, kinsman!\nWherefore storm you so?\n\nTYBALT.\nUncle, this is a Montague, our foe;\nA villain that is hither come in spite,\nTo scorn at our solemnity this night.\n\nCAPULET.\nYoung Romeo, is it?\n\nTYBALT.\n’Tis he, that villain Romeo.\n\nCAPULET.\nContent thee, gentle coz, let him alone,\nA bears him like a portly gentleman;\nAnd, to say truth, Verona brags of him\nTo be a virtuous and well-govern’d youth.\nI would not for the wealth of all the town\nHere in my house do him disparagement.\nTherefore be patient, take no note of him,\nIt is my will; the which if thou respect,\nShow a fair presence and put off these frowns,\nAn ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.\n\nTYBALT.\nIt fits when such a villain is a guest:\nI’ll not endure him.\n\nCAPULET.\nHe shall be endur’d.\nWhat, goodman boy! I say he shall, go to;\nAm I the master here, or you? Go to.\nYou’ll not endure him! God shall mend my soul,\nYou’ll make a mutiny among my guests!\nYou will set cock-a-hoop, you’ll be the man!\n\nTYBALT.\nWhy, uncle, ’tis a shame.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo to, go to!\nYou are a saucy boy. Is’t so, indeed?\nThis trick may chance to scathe you, I know what.\nYou must contrary me! Marry, ’tis time.\nWell said, my hearts!—You are a princox; go:\nBe quiet, or—More light, more light!—For shame!\nI’ll make you quiet. What, cheerly, my hearts." +- "TYBALT.\nPatience perforce with wilful choler meeting\nMakes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.\nI will withdraw: but this intrusion shall,\nNow seeming sweet, convert to bitter gall.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\n[_To Juliet._] If I profane with my unworthiest hand\nThis holy shrine, the gentle sin is this,\nMy lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand\nTo smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.\n\nJULIET.\nGood pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,\nWhich mannerly devotion shows in this;\nFor saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,\nAnd palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.\n\nROMEO.\nHave not saints lips, and holy palmers too?\n\nJULIET.\nAy, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.\n\nROMEO.\nO, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do:\nThey pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.\n\nJULIET.\nSaints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.\n\nROMEO.\nThen move not while my prayer’s effect I take.\nThus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg’d.\n[_Kissing her._]\n\nJULIET.\nThen have my lips the sin that they have took.\n\nROMEO.\nSin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d!\nGive me my sin again.\n\nJULIET.\nYou kiss by the book.\n\nNURSE.\nMadam, your mother craves a word with you.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat is her mother?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, bachelor,\nHer mother is the lady of the house,\nAnd a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.\nI nurs’d her daughter that you talk’d withal.\nI tell you, he that can lay hold of her\nShall have the chinks.\n\nROMEO.\nIs she a Capulet?\nO dear account! My life is my foe’s debt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAway, be gone; the sport is at the best.\n\nROMEO.\nAy, so I fear; the more is my unrest.\n\nCAPULET.\nNay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone,\nWe have a trifling foolish banquet towards.\nIs it e’en so? Why then, I thank you all;\nI thank you, honest gentlemen; good night.\nMore torches here! Come on then, let’s to bed.\nAh, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late,\nI’ll to my rest.\n\n [_Exeunt all but Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nCome hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman?\n\nNURSE.\nThe son and heir of old Tiberio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that now is going out of door?\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, that I think be young Petruchio.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat’s he that follows here, that would not dance?\n\nNURSE.\nI know not.\n\nJULIET.\nGo ask his name. If he be married,\nMy grave is like to be my wedding bed.\n\nNURSE.\nHis name is Romeo, and a Montague,\nThe only son of your great enemy.\n\nJULIET.\nMy only love sprung from my only hate!\nToo early seen unknown, and known too late!\nProdigious birth of love it is to me,\nThat I must love a loathed enemy.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat’s this? What’s this?\n\nJULIET.\nA rhyme I learn’d even now\nOf one I danc’d withal.\n\n [_One calls within, ‘Juliet’._]\n\nNURSE.\nAnon, anon!\nCome let’s away, the strangers all are gone.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT II\n\n Enter Chorus.\n\nCHORUS.\nNow old desire doth in his deathbed lie,\nAnd young affection gapes to be his heir;\nThat fair for which love groan’d for and would die,\nWith tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair.\nNow Romeo is belov’d, and loves again,\nAlike bewitched by the charm of looks;\nBut to his foe suppos’d he must complain,\nAnd she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks:\nBeing held a foe, he may not have access\nTo breathe such vows as lovers use to swear;\nAnd she as much in love, her means much less\nTo meet her new beloved anywhere.\nBut passion lends them power, time means, to meet,\nTempering extremities with extreme sweet.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nCan I go forward when my heart is here?\nTurn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.\n\n [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._]\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHe is wise,\nAnd on my life hath stol’n him home to bed.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHe ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:\nCall, good Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, I’ll conjure too.\nRomeo! Humours! Madman! Passion! Lover!\nAppear thou in the likeness of a sigh,\nSpeak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;\nCry but ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove;\nSpeak to my gossip Venus one fair word,\nOne nickname for her purblind son and heir,\nYoung Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim\nWhen King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid.\nHe heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;\nThe ape is dead, and I must conjure him.\nI conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,\nBy her high forehead and her scarlet lip,\nBy her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,\nAnd the demesnes that there adjacent lie,\nThat in thy likeness thou appear to us.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAn if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThis cannot anger him. ’Twould anger him\nTo raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle,\nOf some strange nature, letting it there stand\nTill she had laid it, and conjur’d it down;\nThat were some spite. My invocation\nIs fair and honest, and, in his mistress’ name,\nI conjure only but to raise up him.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nCome, he hath hid himself among these trees\nTo be consorted with the humorous night.\nBlind is his love, and best befits the dark.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nIf love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.\nNow will he sit under a medlar tree,\nAnd wish his mistress were that kind of fruit\nAs maids call medlars when they laugh alone.\nO Romeo, that she were, O that she were\nAn open-arse and thou a poperin pear!\nRomeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle-bed.\nThis field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.\nCome, shall we go?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nGo then; for ’tis in vain\nTo seek him here that means not to be found.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nHe jests at scars that never felt a wound.\n\n Juliet appears above at a window." +- "But soft, what light through yonder window breaks?\nIt is the east, and Juliet is the sun!\nArise fair sun and kill the envious moon,\nWho is already sick and pale with grief,\nThat thou her maid art far more fair than she.\nBe not her maid since she is envious;\nHer vestal livery is but sick and green,\nAnd none but fools do wear it; cast it off.\nIt is my lady, O it is my love!\nO, that she knew she were!\nShe speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?\nHer eye discourses, I will answer it.\nI am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks.\nTwo of the fairest stars in all the heaven,\nHaving some business, do entreat her eyes\nTo twinkle in their spheres till they return.\nWhat if her eyes were there, they in her head?\nThe brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,\nAs daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven\nWould through the airy region stream so bright\nThat birds would sing and think it were not night.\nSee how she leans her cheek upon her hand.\nO that I were a glove upon that hand,\nThat I might touch that cheek.\n\nJULIET.\nAy me.\n\nROMEO.\nShe speaks.\nO speak again bright angel, for thou art\nAs glorious to this night, being o’er my head,\nAs is a winged messenger of heaven\nUnto the white-upturned wondering eyes\nOf mortals that fall back to gaze on him\nWhen he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds\nAnd sails upon the bosom of the air.\n\nJULIET.\nO Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?\nDeny thy father and refuse thy name.\nOr if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,\nAnd I’ll no longer be a Capulet.\n\nROMEO.\n[_Aside._] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?\n\nJULIET.\n’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;\nThou art thyself, though not a Montague.\nWhat’s Montague? It is nor hand nor foot,\nNor arm, nor face, nor any other part\nBelonging to a man. O be some other name.\nWhat’s in a name? That which we call a rose\nBy any other name would smell as sweet;\nSo Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,\nRetain that dear perfection which he owes\nWithout that title. Romeo, doff thy name,\nAnd for thy name, which is no part of thee,\nTake all myself.\n\nROMEO.\nI take thee at thy word.\nCall me but love, and I’ll be new baptis’d;\nHenceforth I never will be Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat man art thou that, thus bescreen’d in night\nSo stumblest on my counsel?\n\nROMEO.\nBy a name\nI know not how to tell thee who I am:\nMy name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,\nBecause it is an enemy to thee.\nHad I it written, I would tear the word.\n\nJULIET.\nMy ears have yet not drunk a hundred words\nOf thy tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound.\nArt thou not Romeo, and a Montague?\n\nROMEO.\nNeither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.\n\nJULIET.\nHow cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?\nThe orchard walls are high and hard to climb,\nAnd the place death, considering who thou art,\nIf any of my kinsmen find thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nWith love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls,\nFor stony limits cannot hold love out,\nAnd what love can do, that dares love attempt:\nTherefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf they do see thee, they will murder thee.\n\nROMEO.\nAlack, there lies more peril in thine eye\nThan twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet,\nAnd I am proof against their enmity.\n\nJULIET.\nI would not for the world they saw thee here.\n\nROMEO.\nI have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes,\nAnd but thou love me, let them find me here.\nMy life were better ended by their hate\nThan death prorogued, wanting of thy love.\n\nJULIET.\nBy whose direction found’st thou out this place?\n\nROMEO.\nBy love, that first did prompt me to enquire;\nHe lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.\nI am no pilot; yet wert thou as far\nAs that vast shore wash’d with the farthest sea,\nI should adventure for such merchandise." +- "JULIET.\nThou knowest the mask of night is on my face,\nElse would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek\nFor that which thou hast heard me speak tonight.\nFain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny\nWhat I have spoke; but farewell compliment.\nDost thou love me? I know thou wilt say Ay,\nAnd I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear’st,\nThou mayst prove false. At lovers’ perjuries,\nThey say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,\nIf thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.\nOr if thou thinkest I am too quickly won,\nI’ll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay,\nSo thou wilt woo. But else, not for the world.\nIn truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;\nAnd therefore thou mayst think my ’haviour light:\nBut trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true\nThan those that have more cunning to be strange.\nI should have been more strange, I must confess,\nBut that thou overheard’st, ere I was ’ware,\nMy true-love passion; therefore pardon me,\nAnd not impute this yielding to light love,\nWhich the dark night hath so discovered.\n\nROMEO.\nLady, by yonder blessed moon I vow,\nThat tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,—\n\nJULIET.\nO swear not by the moon, th’inconstant moon,\nThat monthly changes in her circled orb,\nLest that thy love prove likewise variable.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat shall I swear by?\n\nJULIET.\nDo not swear at all.\nOr if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,\nWhich is the god of my idolatry,\nAnd I’ll believe thee.\n\nROMEO.\nIf my heart’s dear love,—\n\nJULIET.\nWell, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,\nI have no joy of this contract tonight;\nIt is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden,\nToo like the lightning, which doth cease to be\nEre one can say It lightens. Sweet, good night.\nThis bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,\nMay prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.\nGood night, good night. As sweet repose and rest\nCome to thy heart as that within my breast.\n\nROMEO.\nO wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?\n\nJULIET.\nWhat satisfaction canst thou have tonight?\n\nROMEO.\nTh’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.\n\nJULIET.\nI gave thee mine before thou didst request it;\nAnd yet I would it were to give again.\n\nROMEO.\nWould’st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?\n\nJULIET.\nBut to be frank and give it thee again.\nAnd yet I wish but for the thing I have;\nMy bounty is as boundless as the sea,\nMy love as deep; the more I give to thee,\nThe more I have, for both are infinite.\nI hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu.\n[_Nurse calls within._]\nAnon, good Nurse!—Sweet Montague be true.\nStay but a little, I will come again.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nO blessed, blessed night. I am afeard,\nBeing in night, all this is but a dream,\nToo flattering sweet to be substantial.\n\n Enter Juliet above.\n\nJULIET.\nThree words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.\nIf that thy bent of love be honourable,\nThy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow,\nBy one that I’ll procure to come to thee,\nWhere and what time thou wilt perform the rite,\nAnd all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay\nAnd follow thee my lord throughout the world.\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Madam.\n\nJULIET.\nI come, anon.— But if thou meanest not well,\nI do beseech thee,—\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Madam.\n\nJULIET.\nBy and by I come—\nTo cease thy strife and leave me to my grief.\nTomorrow will I send.\n\nROMEO.\nSo thrive my soul,—\n\nJULIET.\nA thousand times good night.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nA thousand times the worse, to want thy light.\nLove goes toward love as schoolboys from their books,\nBut love from love, towards school with heavy looks.\n\n [_Retiring slowly._]\n\n Re-enter Juliet, above." - "JULIET.\nHist! Romeo, hist! O for a falconer’s voice\nTo lure this tassel-gentle back again.\nBondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud,\nElse would I tear the cave where Echo lies,\nAnd make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine\nWith repetition of my Romeo’s name.\n\nROMEO.\nIt is my soul that calls upon my name.\nHow silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,\nLike softest music to attending ears.\n\nJULIET.\nRomeo.\n\nROMEO.\nMy nyas?\n\nJULIET.\nWhat o’clock tomorrow\nShall I send to thee?\n\nROMEO.\nBy the hour of nine.\n\nJULIET.\nI will not fail. ’Tis twenty years till then.\nI have forgot why I did call thee back.\n\nROMEO.\nLet me stand here till thou remember it.\n\nJULIET.\nI shall forget, to have thee still stand there,\nRemembering how I love thy company.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,\nForgetting any other home but this.\n\nJULIET.\n’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone,\nAnd yet no farther than a wanton’s bird,\nThat lets it hop a little from her hand,\nLike a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,\nAnd with a silk thread plucks it back again,\nSo loving-jealous of his liberty.\n\nROMEO.\nI would I were thy bird.\n\nJULIET.\nSweet, so would I:\nYet I should kill thee with much cherishing.\nGood night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow\nThat I shall say good night till it be morrow.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nROMEO.\nSleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast.\nWould I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest.\nThe grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night,\nChequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light;\nAnd darkness fleckled like a drunkard reels\nFrom forth day’s pathway, made by Titan’s wheels\nHence will I to my ghostly Sire’s cell,\nHis help to crave and my dear hap to tell.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNow, ere the sun advance his burning eye,\nThe day to cheer, and night’s dank dew to dry,\nI must upfill this osier cage of ours\nWith baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.\nThe earth that’s nature’s mother, is her tomb;\nWhat is her burying grave, that is her womb:\nAnd from her womb children of divers kind\nWe sucking on her natural bosom find.\nMany for many virtues excellent,\nNone but for some, and yet all different.\nO, mickle is the powerful grace that lies\nIn plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities.\nFor naught so vile that on the earth doth live\nBut to the earth some special good doth give;\nNor aught so good but, strain’d from that fair use,\nRevolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.\nVirtue itself turns vice being misapplied,\nAnd vice sometime’s by action dignified.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nWithin the infant rind of this weak flower\nPoison hath residence, and medicine power:\nFor this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;\nBeing tasted, slays all senses with the heart.\nTwo such opposed kings encamp them still\nIn man as well as herbs,—grace and rude will;\nAnd where the worser is predominant,\nFull soon the canker death eats up that plant.\n\nROMEO.\nGood morrow, father.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nBenedicite!\nWhat early tongue so sweet saluteth me?\nYoung son, it argues a distemper’d head\nSo soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.\nCare keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,\nAnd where care lodges sleep will never lie;\nBut where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain\nDoth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.\nTherefore thy earliness doth me assure\nThou art uprous’d with some distemperature;\nOr if not so, then here I hit it right,\nOur Romeo hath not been in bed tonight.\n\nROMEO.\nThat last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nGod pardon sin. Wast thou with Rosaline?\n\nROMEO.\nWith Rosaline, my ghostly father? No.\nI have forgot that name, and that name’s woe.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s my good son. But where hast thou been then?" - "ROMEO.\nI’ll tell thee ere thou ask it me again.\nI have been feasting with mine enemy,\nWhere on a sudden one hath wounded me\nThat’s by me wounded. Both our remedies\nWithin thy help and holy physic lies.\nI bear no hatred, blessed man; for lo,\nMy intercession likewise steads my foe.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nBe plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;\nRiddling confession finds but riddling shrift.\n\nROMEO.\nThen plainly know my heart’s dear love is set\nOn the fair daughter of rich Capulet.\nAs mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;\nAnd all combin’d, save what thou must combine\nBy holy marriage. When, and where, and how\nWe met, we woo’d, and made exchange of vow,\nI’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,\nThat thou consent to marry us today.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHoly Saint Francis! What a change is here!\nIs Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear,\nSo soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies\nNot truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.\nJesu Maria, what a deal of brine\nHath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!\nHow much salt water thrown away in waste,\nTo season love, that of it doth not taste.\nThe sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,\nThy old groans yet ring in mine ancient ears.\nLo here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit\nOf an old tear that is not wash’d off yet.\nIf ere thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,\nThou and these woes were all for Rosaline,\nAnd art thou chang’d? Pronounce this sentence then,\nWomen may fall, when there’s no strength in men.\n\nROMEO.\nThou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nFor doting, not for loving, pupil mine.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd bad’st me bury love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNot in a grave\nTo lay one in, another out to have.\n\nROMEO.\nI pray thee chide me not, her I love now\nDoth grace for grace and love for love allow.\nThe other did not so.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO, she knew well\nThy love did read by rote, that could not spell.\nBut come young waverer, come go with me,\nIn one respect I’ll thy assistant be;\nFor this alliance may so happy prove,\nTo turn your households’ rancour to pure love.\n\nROMEO.\nO let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWisely and slow; they stumble that run fast.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE IV. A Street.\n\n Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhere the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home tonight?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nNot to his father’s; I spoke with his man.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhy, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, torments him so\nthat he will sure run mad.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, hath sent a letter to his father’s\nhouse.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nA challenge, on my life.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo will answer it.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAny man that can write may answer a letter.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nNay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAlas poor Romeo, he is already dead, stabbed with a white wench’s black\neye; run through the ear with a love song, the very pin of his heart\ncleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft. And is he a man to encounter\nTybalt?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy, what is Tybalt?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nMore than Prince of cats. O, he’s the courageous captain of\ncompliments. He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance,\nand proportion. He rests his minim rest, one, two, and the third in\nyour bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist;\na gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah,\nthe immortal passado, the punto reverso, the hay.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThe what?" - "MERCUTIO.\nThe pox of such antic lisping, affecting phantasies; these new tuners\nof accent. By Jesu, a very good blade, a very tall man, a very good\nwhore. Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should\nbe thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers,\nthese pardon-me’s, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot\nsit at ease on the old bench? O their bones, their bones!\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere comes Romeo, here comes Romeo!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWithout his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou\nfishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in. Laura, to\nhis lady, was but a kitchen wench,—marry, she had a better love to\nberhyme her: Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gypsy; Helen and Hero hildings\nand harlots; Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior\nRomeo, bonjour! There’s a French salutation to your French slop. You\ngave us the counterfeit fairly last night.\n\nROMEO.\nGood morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThe slip sir, the slip; can you not conceive?\n\nROMEO.\nPardon, good Mercutio, my business was great, and in such a case as\nmine a man may strain courtesy.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThat’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow\nin the hams.\n\nROMEO.\nMeaning, to curtsy.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou hast most kindly hit it.\n\nROMEO.\nA most courteous exposition.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, I am the very pink of courtesy.\n\nROMEO.\nPink for flower.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nRight.\n\nROMEO.\nWhy, then is my pump well flowered.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nSure wit, follow me this jest now, till thou hast worn out thy pump,\nthat when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain after the\nwearing, solely singular.\n\nROMEO.\nO single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint.\n\nROMEO.\nSwits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I’ll cry a match.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done. For thou hast\nmore of the wild-goose in one of thy wits, than I am sure, I have in my\nwhole five. Was I with you there for the goose?\n\nROMEO.\nThou wast never with me for anything, when thou wast not there for the\ngoose.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nI will bite thee by the ear for that jest.\n\nROMEO.\nNay, good goose, bite not.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThy wit is a very bitter sweeting, it is a most sharp sauce.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd is it not then well served in to a sweet goose?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an\nell broad.\n\nROMEO.\nI stretch it out for that word broad, which added to the goose, proves\nthee far and wide a broad goose.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nWhy, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now art thou\nsociable, now art thou Romeo; not art thou what thou art, by art as\nwell as by nature. For this drivelling love is like a great natural,\nthat runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nStop there, stop there.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThou wouldst else have made thy tale large.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO, thou art deceived; I would have made it short, for I was come to the\nwhole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the argument no\nlonger.\n\n Enter Nurse and Peter.\n\nROMEO.\nHere’s goodly gear!\nA sail, a sail!\n\nMERCUTIO.\nTwo, two; a shirt and a smock.\n\nNURSE.\nPeter!\n\nPETER.\nAnon.\n\nNURSE.\nMy fan, Peter.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nGood Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the fairer face.\n\nNURSE.\nGod ye good morrow, gentlemen." - "MERCUTIO.\nGod ye good-den, fair gentlewoman.\n\nNURSE.\nIs it good-den?\n\nMERCUTIO.\n’Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the\nprick of noon.\n\nNURSE.\nOut upon you! What a man are you?\n\nROMEO.\nOne, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar.\n\nNURSE.\nBy my troth, it is well said; for himself to mar, quoth a? Gentlemen,\ncan any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo?\n\nROMEO.\nI can tell you: but young Romeo will be older when you have found him\nthan he was when you sought him. I am the youngest of that name, for\nfault of a worse.\n\nNURSE.\nYou say well.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nYea, is the worst well? Very well took, i’faith; wisely, wisely.\n\nNURSE.\nIf you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nShe will endite him to some supper.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nA bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho!\n\nROMEO.\nWhat hast thou found?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNo hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something\nstale and hoar ere it be spent.\n[_Sings._]\n An old hare hoar,\n And an old hare hoar,\n Is very good meat in Lent;\n But a hare that is hoar\n Is too much for a score\n When it hoars ere it be spent.\nRomeo, will you come to your father’s? We’ll to dinner thither.\n\nROMEO.\nI will follow you.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nFarewell, ancient lady; farewell, lady, lady, lady.\n\n [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._]\n\nNURSE.\nI pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his\nropery?\n\nROMEO.\nA gentleman, Nurse, that loves to hear himself talk, and will speak\nmore in a minute than he will stand to in a month.\n\nNURSE.\nAnd a speak anything against me, I’ll take him down, and a were lustier\nthan he is, and twenty such Jacks. And if I cannot, I’ll find those\nthat shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none of\nhis skains-mates.—And thou must stand by too and suffer every knave to\nuse me at his pleasure!\n\nPETER.\nI saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I had, my weapon should\nquickly have been out. I warrant you, I dare draw as soon as another\nman, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side.\n\nNURSE.\nNow, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me quivers. Scurvy\nknave. Pray you, sir, a word: and as I told you, my young lady bid me\nenquire you out; what she bade me say, I will keep to myself. But first\nlet me tell ye, if ye should lead her in a fool’s paradise, as they\nsay, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say; for the\ngentlewoman is young. And therefore, if you should deal double with\nher, truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and\nvery weak dealing.\n\nROMEO. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto\nthee,—\n\nNURSE.\nGood heart, and i’faith I will tell her as much. Lord, Lord, she will\nbe a joyful woman.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat wilt thou tell her, Nurse? Thou dost not mark me.\n\nNURSE.\nI will tell her, sir, that you do protest, which, as I take it, is a\ngentlemanlike offer.\n\nROMEO.\nBid her devise\nSome means to come to shrift this afternoon,\nAnd there she shall at Friar Lawrence’ cell\nBe shriv’d and married. Here is for thy pains.\n\nNURSE.\nNo truly, sir; not a penny.\n\nROMEO.\nGo to; I say you shall.\n\nNURSE.\nThis afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there." - "ROMEO.\nAnd stay, good Nurse, behind the abbey wall.\nWithin this hour my man shall be with thee,\nAnd bring thee cords made like a tackled stair,\nWhich to the high topgallant of my joy\nMust be my convoy in the secret night.\nFarewell, be trusty, and I’ll quit thy pains;\nFarewell; commend me to thy mistress.\n\nNURSE.\nNow God in heaven bless thee. Hark you, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nWhat say’st thou, my dear Nurse?\n\nNURSE.\nIs your man secret? Did you ne’er hear say,\nTwo may keep counsel, putting one away?\n\nROMEO.\nI warrant thee my man’s as true as steel.\n\nNURSE.\nWell, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady. Lord, Lord! When ’twas a\nlittle prating thing,—O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that\nwould fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief see a\ntoad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her that\nParis is the properer man, but I’ll warrant you, when I say so, she\nlooks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and\nRomeo begin both with a letter?\n\nROMEO.\nAy, Nurse; what of that? Both with an R.\n\nNURSE.\nAh, mocker! That’s the dog’s name. R is for the—no, I know it begins\nwith some other letter, and she hath the prettiest sententious of it,\nof you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it.\n\nROMEO.\nCommend me to thy lady.\n\nNURSE.\nAy, a thousand times. Peter!\n\n [_Exit Romeo._]\n\nPETER.\nAnon.\n\nNURSE.\nBefore and apace.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. Capulet’s Garden.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nThe clock struck nine when I did send the Nurse,\nIn half an hour she promised to return.\nPerchance she cannot meet him. That’s not so.\nO, she is lame. Love’s heralds should be thoughts,\nWhich ten times faster glides than the sun’s beams,\nDriving back shadows over lowering hills:\nTherefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw love,\nAnd therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.\nNow is the sun upon the highmost hill\nOf this day’s journey, and from nine till twelve\nIs three long hours, yet she is not come.\nHad she affections and warm youthful blood,\nShe’d be as swift in motion as a ball;\nMy words would bandy her to my sweet love,\nAnd his to me.\nBut old folks, many feign as they were dead;\nUnwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.\n\n Enter Nurse and Peter.\n\nO God, she comes. O honey Nurse, what news?\nHast thou met with him? Send thy man away.\n\nNURSE.\nPeter, stay at the gate.\n\n [_Exit Peter._]\n\nJULIET.\nNow, good sweet Nurse,—O Lord, why look’st thou sad?\nThough news be sad, yet tell them merrily;\nIf good, thou sham’st the music of sweet news\nBy playing it to me with so sour a face.\n\nNURSE.\nI am aweary, give me leave awhile;\nFie, how my bones ache! What a jaunt have I had!\n\nJULIET.\nI would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news:\nNay come, I pray thee speak; good, good Nurse, speak.\n\nNURSE.\nJesu, what haste? Can you not stay a while? Do you not see that I am\nout of breath?\n\nJULIET.\nHow art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath\nTo say to me that thou art out of breath?\nThe excuse that thou dost make in this delay\nIs longer than the tale thou dost excuse.\nIs thy news good or bad? Answer to that;\nSay either, and I’ll stay the circumstance.\nLet me be satisfied, is’t good or bad?" - "NURSE.\nWell, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man.\nRomeo? No, not he. Though his face be better than any man’s, yet his\nleg excels all men’s, and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though\nthey be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the\nflower of courtesy, but I’ll warrant him as gentle as a lamb. Go thy\nways, wench, serve God. What, have you dined at home?\n\nJULIET.\nNo, no. But all this did I know before.\nWhat says he of our marriage? What of that?\n\nNURSE.\nLord, how my head aches! What a head have I!\nIt beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.\nMy back o’ t’other side,—O my back, my back!\nBeshrew your heart for sending me about\nTo catch my death with jauncing up and down.\n\nJULIET.\nI’faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.\nSweet, sweet, sweet Nurse, tell me, what says my love?\n\nNURSE.\nYour love says like an honest gentleman,\nAnd a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome,\nAnd I warrant a virtuous,—Where is your mother?\n\nJULIET.\nWhere is my mother? Why, she is within.\nWhere should she be? How oddly thou repliest.\n‘Your love says, like an honest gentleman,\n‘Where is your mother?’\n\nNURSE.\nO God’s lady dear,\nAre you so hot? Marry, come up, I trow.\nIs this the poultice for my aching bones?\nHenceforward do your messages yourself.\n\nJULIET.\nHere’s such a coil. Come, what says Romeo?\n\nNURSE.\nHave you got leave to go to shrift today?\n\nJULIET.\nI have.\n\nNURSE.\nThen hie you hence to Friar Lawrence’ cell;\nThere stays a husband to make you a wife.\nNow comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks,\nThey’ll be in scarlet straight at any news.\nHie you to church. I must another way,\nTo fetch a ladder by the which your love\nMust climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark.\nI am the drudge, and toil in your delight;\nBut you shall bear the burden soon at night.\nGo. I’ll to dinner; hie you to the cell.\n\nJULIET.\nHie to high fortune! Honest Nurse, farewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSo smile the heavens upon this holy act\nThat after-hours with sorrow chide us not.\n\nROMEO.\nAmen, amen, but come what sorrow can,\nIt cannot countervail the exchange of joy\nThat one short minute gives me in her sight.\nDo thou but close our hands with holy words,\nThen love-devouring death do what he dare,\nIt is enough I may but call her mine.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThese violent delights have violent ends,\nAnd in their triumph die; like fire and powder,\nWhich as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey\nIs loathsome in his own deliciousness,\nAnd in the taste confounds the appetite.\nTherefore love moderately: long love doth so;\nToo swift arrives as tardy as too slow.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nHere comes the lady. O, so light a foot\nWill ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.\nA lover may bestride the gossamers\nThat idles in the wanton summer air\nAnd yet not fall; so light is vanity.\n\nJULIET.\nGood even to my ghostly confessor.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.\n\nJULIET.\nAs much to him, else is his thanks too much.\n\nROMEO.\nAh, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy\nBe heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more\nTo blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath\nThis neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue\nUnfold the imagin’d happiness that both\nReceive in either by this dear encounter.\n\nJULIET.\nConceit more rich in matter than in words,\nBrags of his substance, not of ornament.\nThey are but beggars that can count their worth;\nBut my true love is grown to such excess,\nI cannot sum up sum of half my wealth." -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would\nkill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a\nhair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel\nwith a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou\nhast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?\nThy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy\nhead hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast\nquarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath\nwakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall\nout with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with\nanother for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt\ntutor me from quarrelling!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee\nsimple of my life for an hour and a quarter.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThe fee simple! O simple!\n\n Enter Tybalt and others.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy my head, here comes the Capulets.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBy my heel, I care not.\n\nTYBALT.\nFollow me close, for I will speak to them.\nGentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a\nword and a blow.\n\nTYBALT.\nYou shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me\noccasion.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCould you not take some occasion without giving?\n\nTYBALT.\nMercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nConsort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of\nus, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick, here’s\nthat shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWe talk here in the public haunt of men.\nEither withdraw unto some private place,\nAnd reason coldly of your grievances,\nOr else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nMen’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.\nI will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nTYBALT.\nWell, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBut I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery.\nMarry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower;\nYour worship in that sense may call him man.\n\nTYBALT.\nRomeo, the love I bear thee can afford\nNo better term than this: Thou art a villain.\n\nROMEO.\nTybalt, the reason that I have to love thee\nDoth much excuse the appertaining rage\nTo such a greeting. Villain am I none;\nTherefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.\n\nTYBALT.\nBoy, this shall not excuse the injuries\nThat thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw." -- "ROMEO.\nI do protest I never injur’d thee,\nBut love thee better than thou canst devise\nTill thou shalt know the reason of my love.\nAnd so good Capulet, which name I tender\nAs dearly as mine own, be satisfied.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nO calm, dishonourable, vile submission!\n[_Draws._] Alla stoccata carries it away.\nTybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat wouldst thou have with me?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nGood King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to\nmake bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest\nof the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears?\nMake haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.\n\nTYBALT.\n[_Drawing._] I am for you.\n\nROMEO.\nGentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, sir, your passado.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nROMEO.\nDraw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.\nGentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage,\nTybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath\nForbid this bandying in Verona streets.\nHold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!\n\n [_Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans._]\n\nMERCUTIO.\nI am hurt.\nA plague o’ both your houses. I am sped.\nIs he gone, and hath nothing?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhat, art thou hurt?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAy, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough.\nWhere is my page? Go villain, fetch a surgeon.\n\n [_Exit Page._]\n\nROMEO.\nCourage, man; the hurt cannot be much.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNo, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis\nenough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a\ngrave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both\nyour houses. Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to\ndeath. A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of\narithmetic!—Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your\narm.\n\nROMEO.\nI thought all for the best.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHelp me into some house, Benvolio,\nOr I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses.\nThey have made worms’ meat of me.\nI have it, and soundly too. Your houses!\n\n [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._]\n\nROMEO.\nThis gentleman, the Prince’s near ally,\nMy very friend, hath got his mortal hurt\nIn my behalf; my reputation stain’d\nWith Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour\nHath been my cousin. O sweet Juliet,\nThy beauty hath made me effeminate\nAnd in my temper soften’d valour’s steel.\n\n Re-enter Benvolio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead,\nThat gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds,\nWhich too untimely here did scorn the earth.\n\nROMEO.\nThis day’s black fate on mo days doth depend;\nThis but begins the woe others must end.\n\n Re-enter Tybalt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere comes the furious Tybalt back again.\n\nROMEO.\nAgain in triumph, and Mercutio slain?\nAway to heaven respective lenity,\nAnd fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now!\nNow, Tybalt, take the ‘villain’ back again\nThat late thou gav’st me, for Mercutio’s soul\nIs but a little way above our heads,\nStaying for thine to keep him company.\nEither thou or I, or both, must go with him.\n\nTYBALT.\nThou wretched boy, that didst consort him here,\nShalt with him hence.\n\nROMEO.\nThis shall determine that.\n\n [_They fight; Tybalt falls._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo, away, be gone!\nThe citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.\nStand not amaz’d. The Prince will doom thee death\nIf thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away!\n\nROMEO.\nO, I am fortune’s fool!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy dost thou stay?\n\n [_Exit Romeo._]\n\n Enter Citizens." -- "FIRST CITIZEN.\nWhich way ran he that kill’d Mercutio?\nTybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThere lies that Tybalt.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nUp, sir, go with me.\nI charge thee in the Prince’s name obey.\n\n Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives and others.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhere are the vile beginners of this fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO noble Prince, I can discover all\nThe unlucky manage of this fatal brawl.\nThere lies the man, slain by young Romeo,\nThat slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child!\nO Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill’d\nOf my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true,\nFor blood of ours shed blood of Montague.\nO cousin, cousin.\n\nPRINCE.\nBenvolio, who began this bloody fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay;\nRomeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink\nHow nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal\nYour high displeasure. All this uttered\nWith gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d\nCould not take truce with the unruly spleen\nOf Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts\nWith piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast,\nWho, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,\nAnd, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats\nCold death aside, and with the other sends\nIt back to Tybalt, whose dexterity\nRetorts it. Romeo he cries aloud,\n‘Hold, friends! Friends, part!’ and swifter than his tongue,\nHis agile arm beats down their fatal points,\nAnd ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm\nAn envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life\nOf stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled.\nBut by and by comes back to Romeo,\nWho had but newly entertain’d revenge,\nAnd to’t they go like lightning; for, ere I\nCould draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain;\nAnd as he fell did Romeo turn and fly.\nThis is the truth, or let Benvolio die.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nHe is a kinsman to the Montague.\nAffection makes him false, he speaks not true.\nSome twenty of them fought in this black strife,\nAnd all those twenty could but kill one life.\nI beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give;\nRomeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.\n\nPRINCE.\nRomeo slew him, he slew Mercutio.\nWho now the price of his dear blood doth owe?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nNot Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio’s friend;\nHis fault concludes but what the law should end,\nThe life of Tybalt.\n\nPRINCE.\nAnd for that offence\nImmediately we do exile him hence.\nI have an interest in your hate’s proceeding,\nMy blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding.\nBut I’ll amerce you with so strong a fine\nThat you shall all repent the loss of mine.\nI will be deaf to pleading and excuses;\nNor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses.\nTherefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste,\nElse, when he is found, that hour is his last.\nBear hence this body, and attend our will.\nMercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Juliet." +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, come with me, and we will make short work,\nFor, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone\nTill holy church incorporate two in one.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT III\n\nSCENE I. A public Place.\n\n Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page and Servants.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nI pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:\nThe day is hot, the Capulets abroad,\nAnd if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,\nFor now these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of\na tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no\nneed of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the\ndrawer, when indeed there is no need.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAm I like such a fellow?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as\nsoon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd what to?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would\nkill the other. Thou? Why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a\nhair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel\nwith a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou\nhast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel?\nThy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat, and yet thy\nhead hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast\nquarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath\nwakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall\nout with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with\nanother for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt\ntutor me from quarrelling!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nAnd I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee\nsimple of my life for an hour and a quarter.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nThe fee simple! O simple!\n\n Enter Tybalt and others.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nBy my head, here comes the Capulets.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBy my heel, I care not.\n\nTYBALT.\nFollow me close, for I will speak to them.\nGentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAnd but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a\nword and a blow.\n\nTYBALT.\nYou shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me\noccasion.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCould you not take some occasion without giving?\n\nTYBALT.\nMercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nConsort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of\nus, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick, here’s\nthat shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWe talk here in the public haunt of men.\nEither withdraw unto some private place,\nAnd reason coldly of your grievances,\nOr else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nMen’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.\nI will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nTYBALT.\nWell, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nBut I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery.\nMarry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower;\nYour worship in that sense may call him man.\n\nTYBALT.\nRomeo, the love I bear thee can afford\nNo better term than this: Thou art a villain.\n\nROMEO.\nTybalt, the reason that I have to love thee\nDoth much excuse the appertaining rage\nTo such a greeting. Villain am I none;\nTherefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.\n\nTYBALT.\nBoy, this shall not excuse the injuries\nThat thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw.\n\nROMEO.\nI do protest I never injur’d thee,\nBut love thee better than thou canst devise\nTill thou shalt know the reason of my love.\nAnd so good Capulet, which name I tender\nAs dearly as mine own, be satisfied." +- "MERCUTIO.\nO calm, dishonourable, vile submission!\n[_Draws._] Alla stoccata carries it away.\nTybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?\n\nTYBALT.\nWhat wouldst thou have with me?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nGood King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to\nmake bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest\nof the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pilcher by the ears?\nMake haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.\n\nTYBALT.\n[_Drawing._] I am for you.\n\nROMEO.\nGentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nCome, sir, your passado.\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nROMEO.\nDraw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.\nGentlemen, for shame, forbear this outrage,\nTybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath\nForbid this bandying in Verona streets.\nHold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!\n\n [_Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans._]\n\nMERCUTIO.\nI am hurt.\nA plague o’ both your houses. I am sped.\nIs he gone, and hath nothing?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhat, art thou hurt?\n\nMERCUTIO.\nAy, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough.\nWhere is my page? Go villain, fetch a surgeon.\n\n [_Exit Page._]\n\nROMEO.\nCourage, man; the hurt cannot be much.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nNo, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis\nenough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a\ngrave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o’ both\nyour houses. Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to\ndeath. A braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of\narithmetic!—Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your\narm.\n\nROMEO.\nI thought all for the best.\n\nMERCUTIO.\nHelp me into some house, Benvolio,\nOr I shall faint. A plague o’ both your houses.\nThey have made worms’ meat of me.\nI have it, and soundly too. Your houses!\n\n [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._]\n\nROMEO.\nThis gentleman, the Prince’s near ally,\nMy very friend, hath got his mortal hurt\nIn my behalf; my reputation stain’d\nWith Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour\nHath been my cousin. O sweet Juliet,\nThy beauty hath made me effeminate\nAnd in my temper soften’d valour’s steel.\n\n Re-enter Benvolio.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead,\nThat gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds,\nWhich too untimely here did scorn the earth.\n\nROMEO.\nThis day’s black fate on mo days doth depend;\nThis but begins the woe others must end.\n\n Re-enter Tybalt.\n\nBENVOLIO.\nHere comes the furious Tybalt back again.\n\nROMEO.\nAgain in triumph, and Mercutio slain?\nAway to heaven respective lenity,\nAnd fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now!\nNow, Tybalt, take the ‘villain’ back again\nThat late thou gav’st me, for Mercutio’s soul\nIs but a little way above our heads,\nStaying for thine to keep him company.\nEither thou or I, or both, must go with him.\n\nTYBALT.\nThou wretched boy, that didst consort him here,\nShalt with him hence.\n\nROMEO.\nThis shall determine that.\n\n [_They fight; Tybalt falls._]\n\nBENVOLIO.\nRomeo, away, be gone!\nThe citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.\nStand not amaz’d. The Prince will doom thee death\nIf thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away!\n\nROMEO.\nO, I am fortune’s fool!\n\nBENVOLIO.\nWhy dost thou stay?\n\n [_Exit Romeo._]\n\n Enter Citizens.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nWhich way ran he that kill’d Mercutio?\nTybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nThere lies that Tybalt.\n\nFIRST CITIZEN.\nUp, sir, go with me.\nI charge thee in the Prince’s name obey." +- "Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives and others.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhere are the vile beginners of this fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nO noble Prince, I can discover all\nThe unlucky manage of this fatal brawl.\nThere lies the man, slain by young Romeo,\nThat slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child!\nO Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill’d\nOf my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true,\nFor blood of ours shed blood of Montague.\nO cousin, cousin.\n\nPRINCE.\nBenvolio, who began this bloody fray?\n\nBENVOLIO.\nTybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay;\nRomeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink\nHow nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal\nYour high displeasure. All this uttered\nWith gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d\nCould not take truce with the unruly spleen\nOf Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts\nWith piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast,\nWho, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,\nAnd, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats\nCold death aside, and with the other sends\nIt back to Tybalt, whose dexterity\nRetorts it. Romeo he cries aloud,\n‘Hold, friends! Friends, part!’ and swifter than his tongue,\nHis agile arm beats down their fatal points,\nAnd ’twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm\nAn envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life\nOf stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled.\nBut by and by comes back to Romeo,\nWho had but newly entertain’d revenge,\nAnd to’t they go like lightning; for, ere I\nCould draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain;\nAnd as he fell did Romeo turn and fly.\nThis is the truth, or let Benvolio die.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nHe is a kinsman to the Montague.\nAffection makes him false, he speaks not true.\nSome twenty of them fought in this black strife,\nAnd all those twenty could but kill one life.\nI beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give;\nRomeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.\n\nPRINCE.\nRomeo slew him, he slew Mercutio.\nWho now the price of his dear blood doth owe?\n\nMONTAGUE.\nNot Romeo, Prince, he was Mercutio’s friend;\nHis fault concludes but what the law should end,\nThe life of Tybalt.\n\nPRINCE.\nAnd for that offence\nImmediately we do exile him hence.\nI have an interest in your hate’s proceeding,\nMy blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding.\nBut I’ll amerce you with so strong a fine\nThat you shall all repent the loss of mine.\nI will be deaf to pleading and excuses;\nNor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses.\nTherefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste,\nElse, when he is found, that hour is his last.\nBear hence this body, and attend our will.\nMercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. A Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Juliet." - "JULIET.\nGallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,\nTowards Phoebus’ lodging. Such a waggoner\nAs Phaeton would whip you to the west\nAnd bring in cloudy night immediately.\nSpread thy close curtain, love-performing night,\nThat runaway’s eyes may wink, and Romeo\nLeap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen.\nLovers can see to do their amorous rites\nBy their own beauties: or, if love be blind,\nIt best agrees with night. Come, civil night,\nThou sober-suited matron, all in black,\nAnd learn me how to lose a winning match,\nPlay’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.\nHood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,\nWith thy black mantle, till strange love, grow bold,\nThink true love acted simple modesty.\nCome, night, come Romeo; come, thou day in night;\nFor thou wilt lie upon the wings of night\nWhiter than new snow upon a raven’s back.\nCome gentle night, come loving black-brow’d night,\nGive me my Romeo, and when I shall die,\nTake him and cut him out in little stars,\nAnd he will make the face of heaven so fine\nThat all the world will be in love with night,\nAnd pay no worship to the garish sun.\nO, I have bought the mansion of a love,\nBut not possess’d it; and though I am sold,\nNot yet enjoy’d. So tedious is this day\nAs is the night before some festival\nTo an impatient child that hath new robes\nAnd may not wear them. O, here comes my Nurse,\nAnd she brings news, and every tongue that speaks\nBut Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence.\n\n Enter Nurse, with cords.\n\nNow, Nurse, what news? What hast thou there?\nThe cords that Romeo bid thee fetch?\n\nNURSE.\nAy, ay, the cords.\n\n [_Throws them down._]\n\nJULIET.\nAy me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands?\n\nNURSE.\nAh, well-a-day, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!\nWe are undone, lady, we are undone.\nAlack the day, he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead.\n\nJULIET.\nCan heaven be so envious?\n\nNURSE.\nRomeo can,\nThough heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo.\nWho ever would have thought it? Romeo!\n\nJULIET.\nWhat devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?\nThis torture should be roar’d in dismal hell.\nHath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but Ay,\nAnd that bare vowel I shall poison more\nThan the death-darting eye of cockatrice.\nI am not I if there be such an I;\nOr those eyes shut that make thee answer Ay.\nIf he be slain, say Ay; or if not, No.\nBrief sounds determine of my weal or woe.\n\nNURSE.\nI saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,\nGod save the mark!—here on his manly breast.\nA piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;\nPale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood,\nAll in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight.\n\nJULIET.\nO, break, my heart. Poor bankrout, break at once.\nTo prison, eyes; ne’er look on liberty.\nVile earth to earth resign; end motion here,\nAnd thou and Romeo press one heavy bier.\n\nNURSE.\nO Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had.\nO courteous Tybalt, honest gentleman!\nThat ever I should live to see thee dead.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat storm is this that blows so contrary?\nIs Romeo slaughter’d and is Tybalt dead?\nMy dearest cousin, and my dearer lord?\nThen dreadful trumpet sound the general doom,\nFor who is living, if those two are gone?\n\nNURSE.\nTybalt is gone, and Romeo banished,\nRomeo that kill’d him, he is banished.\n\nJULIET.\nO God! Did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?\n\nNURSE.\nIt did, it did; alas the day, it did." - "JULIET.\nO serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!\nDid ever dragon keep so fair a cave?\nBeautiful tyrant, fiend angelical,\nDove-feather’d raven, wolvish-ravening lamb!\nDespised substance of divinest show!\nJust opposite to what thou justly seem’st,\nA damned saint, an honourable villain!\nO nature, what hadst thou to do in hell\nWhen thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend\nIn mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?\nWas ever book containing such vile matter\nSo fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell\nIn such a gorgeous palace.\n\nNURSE.\nThere’s no trust,\nNo faith, no honesty in men. All perjur’d,\nAll forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.\nAh, where’s my man? Give me some aqua vitae.\nThese griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.\nShame come to Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nBlister’d be thy tongue\nFor such a wish! He was not born to shame.\nUpon his brow shame is asham’d to sit;\nFor ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d\nSole monarch of the universal earth.\nO, what a beast was I to chide at him!\n\nNURSE.\nWill you speak well of him that kill’d your cousin?\n\nJULIET.\nShall I speak ill of him that is my husband?\nAh, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,\nWhen I thy three-hours’ wife have mangled it?\nBut wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?\nThat villain cousin would have kill’d my husband.\nBack, foolish tears, back to your native spring,\nYour tributary drops belong to woe,\nWhich you mistaking offer up to joy.\nMy husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain,\nAnd Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband.\nAll this is comfort; wherefore weep I then?\nSome word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,\nThat murder’d me. I would forget it fain,\nBut O, it presses to my memory\nLike damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds.\nTybalt is dead, and Romeo banished.\nThat ‘banished,’ that one word ‘banished,’\nHath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death\nWas woe enough, if it had ended there.\nOr if sour woe delights in fellowship,\nAnd needly will be rank’d with other griefs,\nWhy follow’d not, when she said Tybalt’s dead,\nThy father or thy mother, nay or both,\nWhich modern lamentation might have mov’d?\nBut with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death,\n‘Romeo is banished’—to speak that word\nIs father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,\nAll slain, all dead. Romeo is banished,\nThere is no end, no limit, measure, bound,\nIn that word’s death, no words can that woe sound.\nWhere is my father and my mother, Nurse?\n\nNURSE.\nWeeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse.\nWill you go to them? I will bring you thither.\n\nJULIET.\nWash they his wounds with tears. Mine shall be spent,\nWhen theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment.\nTake up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil’d,\nBoth you and I; for Romeo is exil’d.\nHe made you for a highway to my bed,\nBut I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.\nCome cords, come Nurse, I’ll to my wedding bed,\nAnd death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead.\n\nNURSE.\nHie to your chamber. I’ll find Romeo\nTo comfort you. I wot well where he is.\nHark ye, your Romeo will be here at night.\nI’ll to him, he is hid at Lawrence’ cell.\n\nJULIET.\nO find him, give this ring to my true knight,\nAnd bid him come to take his last farewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man.\nAffliction is enanmour’d of thy parts\nAnd thou art wedded to calamity.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nFather, what news? What is the Prince’s doom?\nWhat sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,\nThat I yet know not?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nToo familiar\nIs my dear son with such sour company.\nI bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom." - "ROMEO.\nWhat less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nA gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips,\nNot body’s death, but body’s banishment.\n\nROMEO.\nHa, banishment? Be merciful, say death;\nFor exile hath more terror in his look,\nMuch more than death. Do not say banishment.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHence from Verona art thou banished.\nBe patient, for the world is broad and wide.\n\nROMEO.\nThere is no world without Verona walls,\nBut purgatory, torture, hell itself.\nHence banished is banish’d from the world,\nAnd world’s exile is death. Then banished\nIs death misterm’d. Calling death banished,\nThou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe,\nAnd smilest upon the stroke that murders me.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness!\nThy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince,\nTaking thy part, hath brush’d aside the law,\nAnd turn’d that black word death to banishment.\nThis is dear mercy, and thou see’st it not.\n\nROMEO.\n’Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here\nWhere Juliet lives, and every cat and dog,\nAnd little mouse, every unworthy thing,\nLive here in heaven and may look on her,\nBut Romeo may not. More validity,\nMore honourable state, more courtship lives\nIn carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize\nOn the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand,\nAnd steal immortal blessing from her lips,\nWho, even in pure and vestal modesty\nStill blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.\nBut Romeo may not, he is banished.\nThis may flies do, when I from this must fly.\nThey are free men but I am banished.\nAnd say’st thou yet that exile is not death?\nHadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife,\nNo sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean,\nBut banished to kill me? Banished?\nO Friar, the damned use that word in hell.\nHowlings attends it. How hast thou the heart,\nBeing a divine, a ghostly confessor,\nA sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d,\nTo mangle me with that word banished?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThou fond mad man, hear me speak a little,\n\nROMEO.\nO, thou wilt speak again of banishment.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI’ll give thee armour to keep off that word,\nAdversity’s sweet milk, philosophy,\nTo comfort thee, though thou art banished.\n\nROMEO.\nYet banished? Hang up philosophy.\nUnless philosophy can make a Juliet,\nDisplant a town, reverse a Prince’s doom,\nIt helps not, it prevails not, talk no more.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO, then I see that mad men have no ears.\n\nROMEO.\nHow should they, when that wise men have no eyes?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nLet me dispute with thee of thy estate.\n\nROMEO.\nThou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel.\nWert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,\nAn hour but married, Tybalt murdered,\nDoting like me, and like me banished,\nThen mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,\nAnd fall upon the ground as I do now,\nTaking the measure of an unmade grave.\n\n [_Knocking within._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nArise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.\n\nROMEO.\nNot I, unless the breath of heartsick groans\nMist-like infold me from the search of eyes.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHark, how they knock!—Who’s there?—Romeo, arise,\nThou wilt be taken.—Stay awhile.—Stand up.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nRun to my study.—By-and-by.—God’s will,\nWhat simpleness is this.—I come, I come.\n\n [_Knocking._]\n\nWho knocks so hard? Whence come you, what’s your will?\n\nNURSE.\n[_Within._] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand.\nI come from Lady Juliet.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWelcome then.\n\n Enter Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nO holy Friar, O, tell me, holy Friar,\nWhere is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThere on the ground, with his own tears made drunk." @@ -32,21 +36,22 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nGo hence, good night, and here stands all your state:\nEither be gone before the watch be set,\nOr by the break of day disguis’d from hence.\nSojourn in Mantua. I’ll find out your man,\nAnd he shall signify from time to time\nEvery good hap to you that chances here.\nGive me thy hand; ’tis late; farewell; good night.\n\nROMEO.\nBut that a joy past joy calls out on me,\nIt were a grief so brief to part with thee.\nFarewell.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and Paris.\n\nCAPULET.\nThings have fallen out, sir, so unluckily\nThat we have had no time to move our daughter.\nLook you, she lov’d her kinsman Tybalt dearly,\nAnd so did I. Well, we were born to die.\n’Tis very late; she’ll not come down tonight.\nI promise you, but for your company,\nI would have been abed an hour ago.\n\nPARIS.\nThese times of woe afford no tune to woo.\nMadam, good night. Commend me to your daughter.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nI will, and know her mind early tomorrow;\nTonight she’s mew’d up to her heaviness.\n\nCAPULET.\nSir Paris, I will make a desperate tender\nOf my child’s love. I think she will be rul’d\nIn all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.\nWife, go you to her ere you go to bed,\nAcquaint her here of my son Paris’ love,\nAnd bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next,\nBut, soft, what day is this?\n\nPARIS.\nMonday, my lord.\n\nCAPULET.\nMonday! Ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,\nA Thursday let it be; a Thursday, tell her,\nShe shall be married to this noble earl.\nWill you be ready? Do you like this haste?\nWe’ll keep no great ado,—a friend or two,\nFor, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,\nIt may be thought we held him carelessly,\nBeing our kinsman, if we revel much.\nTherefore we’ll have some half a dozen friends,\nAnd there an end. But what say you to Thursday?\n\nPARIS.\nMy lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow.\n\nCAPULET.\nWell, get you gone. A Thursday be it then.\nGo you to Juliet ere you go to bed,\nPrepare her, wife, against this wedding day.\nFarewell, my lord.—Light to my chamber, ho!\nAfore me, it is so very very late that we\nMay call it early by and by. Good night.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.\n\n Enter Romeo and Juliet.\n\nJULIET.\nWilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.\nIt was the nightingale, and not the lark,\nThat pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear;\nNightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree.\nBelieve me, love, it was the nightingale.\n\nROMEO.\nIt was the lark, the herald of the morn,\nNo nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks\nDo lace the severing clouds in yonder east.\nNight’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day\nStands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.\nI must be gone and live, or stay and die.\n\nJULIET.\nYond light is not daylight, I know it, I.\nIt is some meteor that the sun exhales\nTo be to thee this night a torchbearer\nAnd light thee on thy way to Mantua.\nTherefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone.\n\nROMEO.\nLet me be ta’en, let me be put to death,\nI am content, so thou wilt have it so.\nI’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye,\n’Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow.\nNor that is not the lark whose notes do beat\nThe vaulty heaven so high above our heads.\nI have more care to stay than will to go.\nCome, death, and welcome. Juliet wills it so.\nHow is’t, my soul? Let’s talk. It is not day." - "JULIET.\nIt is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away.\nIt is the lark that sings so out of tune,\nStraining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.\nSome say the lark makes sweet division;\nThis doth not so, for she divideth us.\nSome say the lark and loathed toad change eyes.\nO, now I would they had chang’d voices too,\nSince arm from arm that voice doth us affray,\nHunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day.\nO now be gone, more light and light it grows.\n\nROMEO.\nMore light and light, more dark and dark our woes.\n\n Enter Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nMadam.\n\nJULIET.\nNurse?\n\nNURSE.\nYour lady mother is coming to your chamber.\nThe day is broke, be wary, look about.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nThen, window, let day in, and let life out.\n\nROMEO.\nFarewell, farewell, one kiss, and I’ll descend.\n\n [_Descends._]\n\nJULIET.\nArt thou gone so? Love, lord, ay husband, friend,\nI must hear from thee every day in the hour,\nFor in a minute there are many days.\nO, by this count I shall be much in years\nEre I again behold my Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nFarewell!\nI will omit no opportunity\nThat may convey my greetings, love, to thee.\n\nJULIET.\nO thinkest thou we shall ever meet again?\n\nROMEO.\nI doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve\nFor sweet discourses in our time to come.\n\nJULIET.\nO God! I have an ill-divining soul!\nMethinks I see thee, now thou art so low,\nAs one dead in the bottom of a tomb.\nEither my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale.\n\nROMEO.\nAnd trust me, love, in my eye so do you.\nDry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu.\n\n [_Exit below._]\n\nJULIET.\nO Fortune, Fortune! All men call thee fickle,\nIf thou art fickle, what dost thou with him\nThat is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, Fortune;\nFor then, I hope thou wilt not keep him long\nBut send him back.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\n[_Within._] Ho, daughter, are you up?\n\nJULIET.\nWho is’t that calls? Is it my lady mother?\nIs she not down so late, or up so early?\nWhat unaccustom’d cause procures her hither?\n\n Enter Lady Capulet.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhy, how now, Juliet?\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, I am not well.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nEvermore weeping for your cousin’s death?\nWhat, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?\nAnd if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live.\nTherefore have done: some grief shows much of love,\nBut much of grief shows still some want of wit.\n\nJULIET.\nYet let me weep for such a feeling loss.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nSo shall you feel the loss, but not the friend\nWhich you weep for.\n\nJULIET.\nFeeling so the loss,\nI cannot choose but ever weep the friend.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death\nAs that the villain lives which slaughter’d him.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat villain, madam?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThat same villain Romeo.\n\nJULIET.\nVillain and he be many miles asunder.\nGod pardon him. I do, with all my heart.\nAnd yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nThat is because the traitor murderer lives.\n\nJULIET.\nAy madam, from the reach of these my hands.\nWould none but I might venge my cousin’s death.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe will have vengeance for it, fear thou not.\nThen weep no more. I’ll send to one in Mantua,\nWhere that same banish’d runagate doth live,\nShall give him such an unaccustom’d dram\nThat he shall soon keep Tybalt company:\nAnd then I hope thou wilt be satisfied." - "JULIET.\nIndeed I never shall be satisfied\nWith Romeo till I behold him—dead—\nIs my poor heart so for a kinsman vex’d.\nMadam, if you could find out but a man\nTo bear a poison, I would temper it,\nThat Romeo should upon receipt thereof,\nSoon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors\nTo hear him nam’d, and cannot come to him,\nTo wreak the love I bore my cousin\nUpon his body that hath slaughter’d him.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nFind thou the means, and I’ll find such a man.\nBut now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.\n\nJULIET.\nAnd joy comes well in such a needy time.\nWhat are they, I beseech your ladyship?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWell, well, thou hast a careful father, child;\nOne who to put thee from thy heaviness,\nHath sorted out a sudden day of joy,\nThat thou expects not, nor I look’d not for.\n\nJULIET.\nMadam, in happy time, what day is that?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nMarry, my child, early next Thursday morn\nThe gallant, young, and noble gentleman,\nThe County Paris, at Saint Peter’s Church,\nShall happily make thee there a joyful bride.\n\nJULIET.\nNow by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too,\nHe shall not make me there a joyful bride.\nI wonder at this haste, that I must wed\nEre he that should be husband comes to woo.\nI pray you tell my lord and father, madam,\nI will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear\nIt shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,\nRather than Paris. These are news indeed.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nHere comes your father, tell him so yourself,\nAnd see how he will take it at your hands.\n\n Enter Capulet and Nurse.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhen the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;\nBut for the sunset of my brother’s son\nIt rains downright.\nHow now? A conduit, girl? What, still in tears?\nEvermore showering? In one little body\nThou counterfeits a bark, a sea, a wind.\nFor still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,\nDo ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,\nSailing in this salt flood, the winds, thy sighs,\nWho raging with thy tears and they with them,\nWithout a sudden calm will overset\nThy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife?\nHave you deliver’d to her our decree?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAy, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.\nI would the fool were married to her grave.\n\nCAPULET.\nSoft. Take me with you, take me with you, wife.\nHow, will she none? Doth she not give us thanks?\nIs she not proud? Doth she not count her blest,\nUnworthy as she is, that we have wrought\nSo worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?\n\nJULIET.\nNot proud you have, but thankful that you have.\nProud can I never be of what I hate;\nBut thankful even for hate that is meant love.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow now, how now, chopp’d logic? What is this?\nProud, and, I thank you, and I thank you not;\nAnd yet not proud. Mistress minion you,\nThank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,\nBut fettle your fine joints ’gainst Thursday next\nTo go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church,\nOr I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.\nOut, you green-sickness carrion! Out, you baggage!\nYou tallow-face!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nFie, fie! What, are you mad?\n\nJULIET.\nGood father, I beseech you on my knees,\nHear me with patience but to speak a word.\n\nCAPULET.\nHang thee young baggage, disobedient wretch!\nI tell thee what,—get thee to church a Thursday,\nOr never after look me in the face.\nSpeak not, reply not, do not answer me.\nMy fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest\nThat God had lent us but this only child;\nBut now I see this one is one too much,\nAnd that we have a curse in having her.\nOut on her, hilding.\n\nNURSE.\nGod in heaven bless her.\nYou are to blame, my lord, to rate her so." -- "CAPULET.\nAnd why, my lady wisdom? Hold your tongue,\nGood prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.\n\nNURSE.\nI speak no treason.\n\nCAPULET.\nO God ye good-en!\n\nNURSE.\nMay not one speak?\n\nCAPULET.\nPeace, you mumbling fool!\nUtter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl,\nFor here we need it not.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nYou are too hot.\n\nCAPULET.\nGod’s bread, it makes me mad!\nDay, night, hour, ride, time, work, play,\nAlone, in company, still my care hath been\nTo have her match’d, and having now provided\nA gentleman of noble parentage,\nOf fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly allied,\nStuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,\nProportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man,\nAnd then to have a wretched puling fool,\nA whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,\nTo answer, ‘I’ll not wed, I cannot love,\nI am too young, I pray you pardon me.’\nBut, and you will not wed, I’ll pardon you.\nGraze where you will, you shall not house with me.\nLook to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.\nThursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise.\nAnd you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;\nAnd you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,\nFor by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,\nNor what is mine shall never do thee good.\nTrust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nIs there no pity sitting in the clouds,\nThat sees into the bottom of my grief?\nO sweet my mother, cast me not away,\nDelay this marriage for a month, a week,\nOr, if you do not, make the bridal bed\nIn that dim monument where Tybalt lies.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTalk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word.\nDo as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented?\nMy husband is on earth, my faith in heaven.\nHow shall that faith return again to earth,\nUnless that husband send it me from heaven\nBy leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me.\nAlack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems\nUpon so soft a subject as myself.\nWhat say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?\nSome comfort, Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, here it is.\nRomeo is banished; and all the world to nothing\nThat he dares ne’er come back to challenge you.\nOr if he do, it needs must be by stealth.\nThen, since the case so stands as now it doth,\nI think it best you married with the County.\nO, he’s a lovely gentleman.\nRomeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,\nHath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye\nAs Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,\nI think you are happy in this second match,\nFor it excels your first: or if it did not,\nYour first is dead, or ’twere as good he were,\nAs living here and you no use of him.\n\nJULIET.\nSpeakest thou from thy heart?\n\nNURSE.\nAnd from my soul too,\nOr else beshrew them both.\n\nJULIET.\nAmen.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat?\n\nJULIET.\nWell, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\nGo in, and tell my lady I am gone,\nHaving displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,\nTo make confession and to be absolv’d.\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, I will; and this is wisely done.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\nIf all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short." -- "PARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\nPARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society.\nNow do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife.\n\nPARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nI will confess to you that I love him.\n\nPARIS.\nSo will ye, I am sure, that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf I do so, it will be of more price,\nBeing spoke behind your back than to your face.\n\nPARIS.\nPoor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.\n\nJULIET.\nThe tears have got small victory by that;\nFor it was bad enough before their spite.\n\nPARIS.\nThou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.\n\nJULIET.\nThat is no slander, sir, which is a truth,\nAnd what I spake, I spake it to my face.\n\nPARIS.\nThy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.\n\nJULIET.\nIt may be so, for it is not mine own.\nAre you at leisure, holy father, now,\nOr shall I come to you at evening mass?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nMy leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.—\nMy lord, we must entreat the time alone.\n\nPARIS.\nGod shield I should disturb devotion!—\nJuliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye,\nTill then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO shut the door, and when thou hast done so,\nCome weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO Juliet, I already know thy grief;\nIt strains me past the compass of my wits.\nI hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,\nOn Thursday next be married to this County.\n\nJULIET.\nTell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this,\nUnless thou tell me how I may prevent it.\nIf in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,\nDo thou but call my resolution wise,\nAnd with this knife I’ll help it presently.\nGod join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;\nAnd ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d,\nShall be the label to another deed,\nOr my true heart with treacherous revolt\nTurn to another, this shall slay them both.\nTherefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,\nGive me some present counsel, or behold\n’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife\nShall play the empire, arbitrating that\nWhich the commission of thy years and art\nCould to no issue of true honour bring.\nBe not so long to speak. I long to die,\nIf what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope,\nWhich craves as desperate an execution\nAs that is desperate which we would prevent.\nIf, rather than to marry County Paris\nThou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,\nThen is it likely thou wilt undertake\nA thing like death to chide away this shame,\nThat cop’st with death himself to scape from it.\nAnd if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy." +- "CAPULET.\nAnd why, my lady wisdom? Hold your tongue,\nGood prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.\n\nNURSE.\nI speak no treason.\n\nCAPULET.\nO God ye good-en!\n\nNURSE.\nMay not one speak?\n\nCAPULET.\nPeace, you mumbling fool!\nUtter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl,\nFor here we need it not.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nYou are too hot.\n\nCAPULET.\nGod’s bread, it makes me mad!\nDay, night, hour, ride, time, work, play,\nAlone, in company, still my care hath been\nTo have her match’d, and having now provided\nA gentleman of noble parentage,\nOf fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly allied,\nStuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,\nProportion’d as one’s thought would wish a man,\nAnd then to have a wretched puling fool,\nA whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,\nTo answer, ‘I’ll not wed, I cannot love,\nI am too young, I pray you pardon me.’\nBut, and you will not wed, I’ll pardon you.\nGraze where you will, you shall not house with me.\nLook to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.\nThursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise.\nAnd you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;\nAnd you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,\nFor by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,\nNor what is mine shall never do thee good.\nTrust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nIs there no pity sitting in the clouds,\nThat sees into the bottom of my grief?\nO sweet my mother, cast me not away,\nDelay this marriage for a month, a week,\nOr, if you do not, make the bridal bed\nIn that dim monument where Tybalt lies.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nTalk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word.\nDo as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO God! O Nurse, how shall this be prevented?\nMy husband is on earth, my faith in heaven.\nHow shall that faith return again to earth,\nUnless that husband send it me from heaven\nBy leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me.\nAlack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems\nUpon so soft a subject as myself.\nWhat say’st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?\nSome comfort, Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nFaith, here it is.\nRomeo is banished; and all the world to nothing\nThat he dares ne’er come back to challenge you.\nOr if he do, it needs must be by stealth.\nThen, since the case so stands as now it doth,\nI think it best you married with the County.\nO, he’s a lovely gentleman.\nRomeo’s a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,\nHath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye\nAs Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,\nI think you are happy in this second match,\nFor it excels your first: or if it did not,\nYour first is dead, or ’twere as good he were,\nAs living here and you no use of him.\n\nJULIET.\nSpeakest thou from thy heart?\n\nNURSE.\nAnd from my soul too,\nOr else beshrew them both.\n\nJULIET.\nAmen.\n\nNURSE.\nWhat?\n\nJULIET.\nWell, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.\nGo in, and tell my lady I am gone,\nHaving displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,\nTo make confession and to be absolv’d.\n\nNURSE.\nMarry, I will; and this is wisely done.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nAncient damnation! O most wicked fiend!\nIs it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,\nOr to dispraise my lord with that same tongue\nWhich she hath prais’d him with above compare\nSo many thousand times? Go, counsellor.\nThou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.\nI’ll to the Friar to know his remedy.\nIf all else fail, myself have power to die.\n\n [_Exit._]" +- "ACT IV\n\nSCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nOn Thursday, sir? The time is very short.\n\nPARIS.\nMy father Capulet will have it so;\nAnd I am nothing slow to slack his haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nYou say you do not know the lady’s mind.\nUneven is the course; I like it not.\n\nPARIS.\nImmoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,\nAnd therefore have I little talk’d of love;\nFor Venus smiles not in a house of tears.\nNow, sir, her father counts it dangerous\nThat she do give her sorrow so much sway;\nAnd in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,\nTo stop the inundation of her tears,\nWhich, too much minded by herself alone,\nMay be put from her by society.\nNow do you know the reason of this haste.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\n[_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—\nLook, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nPARIS.\nHappily met, my lady and my wife!\n\nJULIET.\nThat may be, sir, when I may be a wife.\n\nPARIS.\nThat may be, must be, love, on Thursday next.\n\nJULIET.\nWhat must be shall be.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThat’s a certain text.\n\nPARIS.\nCome you to make confession to this father?\n\nJULIET.\nTo answer that, I should confess to you.\n\nPARIS.\nDo not deny to him that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nI will confess to you that I love him.\n\nPARIS.\nSo will ye, I am sure, that you love me.\n\nJULIET.\nIf I do so, it will be of more price,\nBeing spoke behind your back than to your face.\n\nPARIS.\nPoor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.\n\nJULIET.\nThe tears have got small victory by that;\nFor it was bad enough before their spite.\n\nPARIS.\nThou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.\n\nJULIET.\nThat is no slander, sir, which is a truth,\nAnd what I spake, I spake it to my face.\n\nPARIS.\nThy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.\n\nJULIET.\nIt may be so, for it is not mine own.\nAre you at leisure, holy father, now,\nOr shall I come to you at evening mass?\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nMy leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.—\nMy lord, we must entreat the time alone.\n\nPARIS.\nGod shield I should disturb devotion!—\nJuliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye,\nTill then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nJULIET.\nO shut the door, and when thou hast done so,\nCome weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nO Juliet, I already know thy grief;\nIt strains me past the compass of my wits.\nI hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,\nOn Thursday next be married to this County.\n\nJULIET.\nTell me not, Friar, that thou hear’st of this,\nUnless thou tell me how I may prevent it.\nIf in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,\nDo thou but call my resolution wise,\nAnd with this knife I’ll help it presently.\nGod join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;\nAnd ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d,\nShall be the label to another deed,\nOr my true heart with treacherous revolt\nTurn to another, this shall slay them both.\nTherefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,\nGive me some present counsel, or behold\n’Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife\nShall play the empire, arbitrating that\nWhich the commission of thy years and art\nCould to no issue of true honour bring.\nBe not so long to speak. I long to die,\nIf what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope,\nWhich craves as desperate an execution\nAs that is desperate which we would prevent.\nIf, rather than to marry County Paris\nThou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,\nThen is it likely thou wilt undertake\nA thing like death to chide away this shame,\nThat cop’st with death himself to scape from it.\nAnd if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy." - "JULIET.\nO, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,\nFrom off the battlements of yonder tower,\nOr walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk\nWhere serpents are. Chain me with roaring bears;\nOr hide me nightly in a charnel-house,\nO’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones,\nWith reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls.\nOr bid me go into a new-made grave,\nAnd hide me with a dead man in his shroud;\nThings that, to hear them told, have made me tremble,\nAnd I will do it without fear or doubt,\nTo live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold then. Go home, be merry, give consent\nTo marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow;\nTomorrow night look that thou lie alone,\nLet not thy Nurse lie with thee in thy chamber.\nTake thou this vial, being then in bed,\nAnd this distilled liquor drink thou off,\nWhen presently through all thy veins shall run\nA cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse\nShall keep his native progress, but surcease.\nNo warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest,\nThe roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade\nTo paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall,\nLike death when he shuts up the day of life.\nEach part depriv’d of supple government,\nShall stiff and stark and cold appear like death.\nAnd in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death\nThou shalt continue two and forty hours,\nAnd then awake as from a pleasant sleep.\nNow when the bridegroom in the morning comes\nTo rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead.\nThen as the manner of our country is,\nIn thy best robes, uncover’d, on the bier,\nThou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault\nWhere all the kindred of the Capulets lie.\nIn the meantime, against thou shalt awake,\nShall Romeo by my letters know our drift,\nAnd hither shall he come, and he and I\nWill watch thy waking, and that very night\nShall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.\nAnd this shall free thee from this present shame,\nIf no inconstant toy nor womanish fear\nAbate thy valour in the acting it.\n\nJULIET.\nGive me, give me! O tell not me of fear!\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous\nIn this resolve. I’ll send a friar with speed\nTo Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.\n\nJULIET.\nLove give me strength, and strength shall help afford.\nFarewell, dear father.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse and Servants.\n\nCAPULET.\nSo many guests invite as here are writ.\n\n [_Exit first Servant._]\n\nSirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nYou shall have none ill, sir; for I’ll try if they can lick their\nfingers.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow canst thou try them so?\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nMarry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers;\ntherefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo, begone.\n\n [_Exit second Servant._]\n\nWe shall be much unfurnish’d for this time.\nWhat, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence?\n\nNURSE.\nAy, forsooth.\n\nCAPULET.\nWell, he may chance to do some good on her.\nA peevish self-will’d harlotry it is.\n\n Enter Juliet.\n\nNURSE.\nSee where she comes from shrift with merry look.\n\nCAPULET.\nHow now, my headstrong. Where have you been gadding?\n\nJULIET.\nWhere I have learnt me to repent the sin\nOf disobedient opposition\nTo you and your behests; and am enjoin’d\nBy holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here,\nTo beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you.\nHenceforward I am ever rul’d by you.\n\nCAPULET.\nSend for the County, go tell him of this.\nI’ll have this knot knit up tomorrow morning.\n\nJULIET.\nI met the youthful lord at Lawrence’ cell,\nAnd gave him what becomed love I might,\nNot stepping o’er the bounds of modesty." - "CAPULET.\nWhy, I am glad on’t. This is well. Stand up.\nThis is as’t should be. Let me see the County.\nAy, marry. Go, I say, and fetch him hither.\nNow afore God, this reverend holy Friar,\nAll our whole city is much bound to him.\n\nJULIET.\nNurse, will you go with me into my closet,\nTo help me sort such needful ornaments\nAs you think fit to furnish me tomorrow?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nNo, not till Thursday. There is time enough.\n\nCAPULET.\nGo, Nurse, go with her. We’ll to church tomorrow.\n\n [_Exeunt Juliet and Nurse._]\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWe shall be short in our provision,\n’Tis now near night.\n\nCAPULET.\nTush, I will stir about,\nAnd all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife.\nGo thou to Juliet, help to deck up her.\nI’ll not to bed tonight, let me alone.\nI’ll play the housewife for this once.—What, ho!—\nThey are all forth: well, I will walk myself\nTo County Paris, to prepare him up\nAgainst tomorrow. My heart is wondrous light\nSince this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE III. Juliet’s Chamber.\n\n Enter Juliet and Nurse.\n\nJULIET.\nAy, those attires are best. But, gentle Nurse,\nI pray thee leave me to myself tonight;\nFor I have need of many orisons\nTo move the heavens to smile upon my state,\nWhich, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat, are you busy, ho? Need you my help?\n\nJULIET.\nNo, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries\nAs are behoveful for our state tomorrow.\nSo please you, let me now be left alone,\nAnd let the nurse this night sit up with you,\nFor I am sure you have your hands full all\nIn this so sudden business.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nGood night.\nGet thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need.\n\n [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._]\n\nJULIET.\nFarewell. God knows when we shall meet again.\nI have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins\nThat almost freezes up the heat of life.\nI’ll call them back again to comfort me.\nNurse!—What should she do here?\nMy dismal scene I needs must act alone.\nCome, vial.\nWhat if this mixture do not work at all?\nShall I be married then tomorrow morning?\nNo, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there.\n\n [_Laying down her dagger._]\n\nWhat if it be a poison, which the Friar\nSubtly hath minister’d to have me dead,\nLest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d,\nBecause he married me before to Romeo?\nI fear it is. And yet methinks it should not,\nFor he hath still been tried a holy man.\nHow if, when I am laid into the tomb,\nI wake before the time that Romeo\nCome to redeem me? There’s a fearful point!\nShall I not then be stifled in the vault,\nTo whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,\nAnd there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?\nOr, if I live, is it not very like,\nThe horrible conceit of death and night,\nTogether with the terror of the place,\nAs in a vault, an ancient receptacle,\nWhere for this many hundred years the bones\nOf all my buried ancestors are pack’d,\nWhere bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,\nLies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,\nAt some hours in the night spirits resort—\nAlack, alack, is it not like that I,\nSo early waking, what with loathsome smells,\nAnd shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,\nThat living mortals, hearing them, run mad.\nO, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,\nEnvironed with all these hideous fears,\nAnd madly play with my forefathers’ joints?\nAnd pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?\nAnd, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone,\nAs with a club, dash out my desperate brains?\nO look, methinks I see my cousin’s ghost\nSeeking out Romeo that did spit his body\nUpon a rapier’s point. Stay, Tybalt, stay!\nRomeo, Romeo, Romeo, here’s drink! I drink to thee." - "[_Throws herself on the bed._]\n\nSCENE IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.\n\n Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nHold, take these keys and fetch more spices, Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nThey call for dates and quinces in the pastry.\n\n Enter Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nCome, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow’d,\nThe curfew bell hath rung, ’tis three o’clock.\nLook to the bak’d meats, good Angelica;\nSpare not for cost.\n\nNURSE.\nGo, you cot-quean, go,\nGet you to bed; faith, you’ll be sick tomorrow\nFor this night’s watching.\n\nCAPULET.\nNo, not a whit. What! I have watch’d ere now\nAll night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAy, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time;\nBut I will watch you from such watching now.\n\n [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._]\n\nCAPULET.\nA jealous-hood, a jealous-hood!\n\n Enter Servants, with spits, logs and baskets.\n\nNow, fellow, what’s there?\n\nFIRST SERVANT.\nThings for the cook, sir; but I know not what.\n\nCAPULET.\nMake haste, make haste.\n\n [_Exit First Servant._]\n\n—Sirrah, fetch drier logs.\nCall Peter, he will show thee where they are.\n\nSECOND SERVANT.\nI have a head, sir, that will find out logs\nAnd never trouble Peter for the matter.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nCAPULET.\nMass and well said; a merry whoreson, ha.\nThou shalt be loggerhead.—Good faith, ’tis day.\nThe County will be here with music straight,\nFor so he said he would. I hear him near.\n\n [_Play music._]\n\nNurse! Wife! What, ho! What, Nurse, I say!\n\n Re-enter Nurse.\n\nGo waken Juliet, go and trim her up.\nI’ll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste,\nMake haste; the bridegroom he is come already.\nMake haste I say.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.\n\n Enter Nurse.\n\nNURSE.\nMistress! What, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she.\nWhy, lamb, why, lady, fie, you slug-abed!\nWhy, love, I say! Madam! Sweetheart! Why, bride!\nWhat, not a word? You take your pennyworths now.\nSleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,\nThe County Paris hath set up his rest\nThat you shall rest but little. God forgive me!\nMarry and amen. How sound is she asleep!\nI needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam!\nAy, let the County take you in your bed,\nHe’ll fright you up, i’faith. Will it not be?\nWhat, dress’d, and in your clothes, and down again?\nI must needs wake you. Lady! Lady! Lady!\nAlas, alas! Help, help! My lady’s dead!\nO, well-a-day that ever I was born.\nSome aqua vitae, ho! My lord! My lady!\n\n Enter Lady Capulet.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat noise is here?\n\nNURSE.\nO lamentable day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nWhat is the matter?\n\nNURSE.\nLook, look! O heavy day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO me, O me! My child, my only life.\nRevive, look up, or I will die with thee.\nHelp, help! Call help.\n\n Enter Capulet.\n\nCAPULET.\nFor shame, bring Juliet forth, her lord is come.\n\nNURSE.\nShe’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead; alack the day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAlack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead!\n\nCAPULET.\nHa! Let me see her. Out alas! She’s cold,\nHer blood is settled and her joints are stiff.\nLife and these lips have long been separated.\nDeath lies on her like an untimely frost\nUpon the sweetest flower of all the field.\n\nNURSE.\nO lamentable day!\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO woful time!\n\nCAPULET.\nDeath, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail,\nTies up my tongue and will not let me speak.\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris with Musicians.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nCome, is the bride ready to go to church?" - "CAPULET.\nReady to go, but never to return.\nO son, the night before thy wedding day\nHath death lain with thy bride. There she lies,\nFlower as she was, deflowered by him.\nDeath is my son-in-law, death is my heir;\nMy daughter he hath wedded. I will die.\nAnd leave him all; life, living, all is death’s.\n\nPARIS.\nHave I thought long to see this morning’s face,\nAnd doth it give me such a sight as this?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nAccurs’d, unhappy, wretched, hateful day.\nMost miserable hour that e’er time saw\nIn lasting labour of his pilgrimage.\nBut one, poor one, one poor and loving child,\nBut one thing to rejoice and solace in,\nAnd cruel death hath catch’d it from my sight.\n\nNURSE.\nO woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day.\nMost lamentable day, most woeful day\nThat ever, ever, I did yet behold!\nO day, O day, O day, O hateful day.\nNever was seen so black a day as this.\nO woeful day, O woeful day.\n\nPARIS.\nBeguil’d, divorced, wronged, spited, slain.\nMost detestable death, by thee beguil’d,\nBy cruel, cruel thee quite overthrown.\nO love! O life! Not life, but love in death!\n\nCAPULET.\nDespis’d, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d.\nUncomfortable time, why cam’st thou now\nTo murder, murder our solemnity?\nO child! O child! My soul, and not my child,\nDead art thou. Alack, my child is dead,\nAnd with my child my joys are buried.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nPeace, ho, for shame. Confusion’s cure lives not\nIn these confusions. Heaven and yourself\nHad part in this fair maid, now heaven hath all,\nAnd all the better is it for the maid.\nYour part in her you could not keep from death,\nBut heaven keeps his part in eternal life.\nThe most you sought was her promotion,\nFor ’twas your heaven she should be advanc’d,\nAnd weep ye now, seeing she is advanc’d\nAbove the clouds, as high as heaven itself?\nO, in this love, you love your child so ill\nThat you run mad, seeing that she is well.\nShe’s not well married that lives married long,\nBut she’s best married that dies married young.\nDry up your tears, and stick your rosemary\nOn this fair corse, and, as the custom is,\nAnd in her best array bear her to church;\nFor though fond nature bids us all lament,\nYet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment.\n\nCAPULET.\nAll things that we ordained festival\nTurn from their office to black funeral:\nOur instruments to melancholy bells,\nOur wedding cheer to a sad burial feast;\nOur solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;\nOur bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,\nAnd all things change them to the contrary.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSir, go you in, and, madam, go with him,\nAnd go, Sir Paris, everyone prepare\nTo follow this fair corse unto her grave.\nThe heavens do lower upon you for some ill;\nMove them no more by crossing their high will.\n\n [_Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris and Friar._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nFaith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.\n\nNURSE.\nHonest good fellows, ah, put up, put up,\nFor well you know this is a pitiful case.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nAy, by my troth, the case may be amended.\n\n [_Exit Nurse._]\n\n Enter Peter.\n\nPETER.\nMusicians, O, musicians, ‘Heart’s ease,’ ‘Heart’s ease’, O, and you\nwill have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhy ‘Heart’s ease’?\n\nPETER.\nO musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full’. O play\nme some merry dump to comfort me.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nNot a dump we, ’tis no time to play now.\n\nPETER.\nYou will not then?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nNo.\n\nPETER.\nI will then give it you soundly.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat will you give us?\n\nPETER.\nNo money, on my faith, but the gleek! I will give you the minstrel.\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nThen will I give you the serving-creature." -- "PETER.\nThen will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate. I will\ncarry no crotchets. I’ll re you, I’ll fa you. Do you note me?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nAnd you re us and fa us, you note us.\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nPray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.\n\nPETER.\nThen have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and\nput up my iron dagger. Answer me like men.\n ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound,\n And doleful dumps the mind oppress,\n Then music with her silver sound’—\nWhy ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you,\nSimon Catling?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nMarry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.\n\nPETER.\nPrates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck?\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nI say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.\n\nPETER.\nPrates too! What say you, James Soundpost?\n\nTHIRD MUSICIAN.\nFaith, I know not what to say.\n\nPETER.\nO, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is\n‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for\nsounding.\n ‘Then music with her silver sound\n With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,\nThat I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nThen she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleeps in Capel’s monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you.\nO pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nIs it even so? Then I defy you, stars!\nThou know’st my lodging. Get me ink and paper,\nAnd hire post-horses. I will hence tonight.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI do beseech you sir, have patience.\nYour looks are pale and wild, and do import\nSome misadventure.\n\nROMEO.\nTush, thou art deceiv’d.\nLeave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.\nHast thou no letters to me from the Friar?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nNo, my good lord.\n\nROMEO.\nNo matter. Get thee gone,\nAnd hire those horses. I’ll be with thee straight.\n\n [_Exit Balthasar._]" -- "Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight.\nLet’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift\nTo enter in the thoughts of desperate men.\nI do remember an apothecary,—\nAnd hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted\nIn tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,\nCulling of simples, meagre were his looks,\nSharp misery had worn him to the bones;\nAnd in his needy shop a tortoise hung,\nAn alligator stuff’d, and other skins\nOf ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves\nA beggarly account of empty boxes,\nGreen earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,\nRemnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses\nWere thinly scatter’d, to make up a show.\nNoting this penury, to myself I said,\nAnd if a man did need a poison now,\nWhose sale is present death in Mantua,\nHere lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.\nO, this same thought did but forerun my need,\nAnd this same needy man must sell it me.\nAs I remember, this should be the house.\nBeing holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.\nWhat, ho! Apothecary!\n\n Enter Apothecary.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nWho calls so loud?\n\nROMEO.\nCome hither, man. I see that thou art poor.\nHold, there is forty ducats. Let me have\nA dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear\nAs will disperse itself through all the veins,\nThat the life-weary taker may fall dead,\nAnd that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath\nAs violently as hasty powder fir’d\nDoth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nSuch mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law\nIs death to any he that utters them.\n\nROMEO.\nArt thou so bare and full of wretchedness,\nAnd fear’st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks,\nNeed and oppression starveth in thine eyes,\nContempt and beggary hangs upon thy back.\nThe world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law;\nThe world affords no law to make thee rich;\nThen be not poor, but break it and take this.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nMy poverty, but not my will consents.\n\nROMEO.\nI pay thy poverty, and not thy will.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nPut this in any liquid thing you will\nAnd drink it off; and, if you had the strength\nOf twenty men, it would despatch you straight.\n\nROMEO.\nThere is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls,\nDoing more murder in this loathsome world\nThan these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.\nI sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.\nFarewell, buy food, and get thyself in flesh.\nCome, cordial and not poison, go with me\nTo Juliet’s grave, for there must I use thee.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar John.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nHoly Franciscan Friar! Brother, ho!\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThis same should be the voice of Friar John.\nWelcome from Mantua. What says Romeo?\nOr, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nGoing to find a barefoot brother out,\nOne of our order, to associate me,\nHere in this city visiting the sick,\nAnd finding him, the searchers of the town,\nSuspecting that we both were in a house\nWhere the infectious pestilence did reign,\nSeal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth,\nSo that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWho bare my letter then to Romeo?\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nI could not send it,—here it is again,—\nNor get a messenger to bring it thee,\nSo fearful were they of infection.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nUnhappy fortune! By my brotherhood,\nThe letter was not nice, but full of charge,\nOf dear import, and the neglecting it\nMay do much danger. Friar John, go hence,\nGet me an iron crow and bring it straight\nUnto my cell.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nBrother, I’ll go and bring it thee.\n\n [_Exit._]" -- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNow must I to the monument alone.\nWithin this three hours will fair Juliet wake.\nShe will beshrew me much that Romeo\nHath had no notice of these accidents;\nBut I will write again to Mantua,\nAnd keep her at my cell till Romeo come.\nPoor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch.\n\nPARIS.\nGive me thy torch, boy. Hence and stand aloof.\nYet put it out, for I would not be seen.\nUnder yond yew tree lay thee all along,\nHolding thy ear close to the hollow ground;\nSo shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,\nBeing loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,\nBut thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me,\nAs signal that thou hear’st something approach.\nGive me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.\n\nPAGE.\n[_Aside._] I am almost afraid to stand alone\nHere in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\nPARIS.\nSweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew.\nO woe, thy canopy is dust and stones,\nWhich with sweet water nightly I will dew,\nOr wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans.\nThe obsequies that I for thee will keep,\nNightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.\n\n [_The Page whistles._]\n\nThe boy gives warning something doth approach.\nWhat cursed foot wanders this way tonight,\nTo cross my obsequies and true love’s rite?\nWhat, with a torch! Muffle me, night, awhile.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\n Enter Romeo and Balthasar with a torch, mattock, &c.\n\nROMEO.\nGive me that mattock and the wrenching iron.\nHold, take this letter; early in the morning\nSee thou deliver it to my lord and father.\nGive me the light; upon thy life I charge thee,\nWhate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof\nAnd do not interrupt me in my course.\nWhy I descend into this bed of death\nIs partly to behold my lady’s face,\nBut chiefly to take thence from her dead finger\nA precious ring, a ring that I must use\nIn dear employment. Therefore hence, be gone.\nBut if thou jealous dost return to pry\nIn what I further shall intend to do,\nBy heaven I will tear thee joint by joint,\nAnd strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs.\nThe time and my intents are savage-wild;\nMore fierce and more inexorable far\nThan empty tigers or the roaring sea.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.\n\nROMEO.\nSo shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that.\nLive, and be prosperous, and farewell, good fellow.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nFor all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout.\nHis looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.\n\n [_Retires_]\n\nROMEO.\nThou detestable maw, thou womb of death,\nGorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth,\nThus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,\n\n [_Breaking open the door of the monument._]\n\nAnd in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food.\n\nPARIS.\nThis is that banish’d haughty Montague\nThat murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief,\nIt is supposed, the fair creature died,—\nAnd here is come to do some villanous shame\nTo the dead bodies. I will apprehend him.\n\n [_Advances._]\n\nStop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague.\nCan vengeance be pursu’d further than death?\nCondemned villain, I do apprehend thee.\nObey, and go with me, for thou must die.\n\nROMEO.\nI must indeed; and therefore came I hither.\nGood gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man.\nFly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone;\nLet them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,\nPut not another sin upon my head\nBy urging me to fury. O be gone.\nBy heaven I love thee better than myself;\nFor I come hither arm’d against myself.\nStay not, be gone, live, and hereafter say,\nA madman’s mercy bid thee run away.\n\nPARIS.\nI do defy thy conjuration,\nAnd apprehend thee for a felon here.\n\nROMEO.\nWilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy!\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nPAGE.\nO lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.\n\n [_Exit._]" -- "PARIS.\nO, I am slain! [_Falls._] If thou be merciful,\nOpen the tomb, lay me with Juliet.\n\n [_Dies._]\n\nROMEO.\nIn faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.\nMercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris!\nWhat said my man, when my betossed soul\nDid not attend him as we rode? I think\nHe told me Paris should have married Juliet.\nSaid he not so? Or did I dream it so?\nOr am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,\nTo think it was so? O, give me thy hand,\nOne writ with me in sour misfortune’s book.\nI’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave.\nA grave? O no, a lantern, slaught’red youth,\nFor here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes\nThis vault a feasting presence full of light.\nDeath, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d.\n\n [_Laying Paris in the monument._]\n\nHow oft when men are at the point of death\nHave they been merry! Which their keepers call\nA lightning before death. O, how may I\nCall this a lightning? O my love, my wife,\nDeath that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath,\nHath had no power yet upon thy beauty.\nThou art not conquer’d. Beauty’s ensign yet\nIs crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,\nAnd death’s pale flag is not advanced there.\nTybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?\nO, what more favour can I do to thee\nThan with that hand that cut thy youth in twain\nTo sunder his that was thine enemy?\nForgive me, cousin. Ah, dear Juliet,\nWhy art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe\nThat unsubstantial death is amorous;\nAnd that the lean abhorred monster keeps\nThee here in dark to be his paramour?\nFor fear of that I still will stay with thee,\nAnd never from this palace of dim night\nDepart again. Here, here will I remain\nWith worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here\nWill I set up my everlasting rest;\nAnd shake the yoke of inauspicious stars\nFrom this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last.\nArms, take your last embrace! And, lips, O you\nThe doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss\nA dateless bargain to engrossing death.\nCome, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide.\nThou desperate pilot, now at once run on\nThe dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark.\nHere’s to my love! [_Drinks._] O true apothecary!\nThy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.\n\n [_Dies._]\n\n Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, Friar Lawrence, with a\n lantern, crow, and spade.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSaint Francis be my speed. How oft tonight\nHave my old feet stumbled at graves? Who’s there?\nWho is it that consorts, so late, the dead?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nHere’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nBliss be upon you. Tell me, good my friend,\nWhat torch is yond that vainly lends his light\nTo grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern,\nIt burneth in the Capels’ monument.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nIt doth so, holy sir, and there’s my master,\nOne that you love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWho is it?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nRomeo.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHow long hath he been there?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nFull half an hour.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nGo with me to the vault.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI dare not, sir;\nMy master knows not but I am gone hence,\nAnd fearfully did menace me with death\nIf I did stay to look on his intents.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nStay then, I’ll go alone. Fear comes upon me.\nO, much I fear some ill unlucky thing.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nAs I did sleep under this yew tree here,\nI dreamt my master and another fought,\nAnd that my master slew him.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo! [_Advances._]\nAlack, alack, what blood is this which stains\nThe stony entrance of this sepulchre?\nWhat mean these masterless and gory swords\nTo lie discolour’d by this place of peace?\n\n [_Enters the monument._]" -- "Romeo! O, pale! Who else? What, Paris too?\nAnd steep’d in blood? Ah what an unkind hour\nIs guilty of this lamentable chance?\nThe lady stirs.\n\n [_Juliet wakes and stirs._]\n\nJULIET.\nO comfortable Friar, where is my lord?\nI do remember well where I should be,\nAnd there I am. Where is my Romeo?\n\n [_Noise within._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest\nOf death, contagion, and unnatural sleep.\nA greater power than we can contradict\nHath thwarted our intents. Come, come away.\nThy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;\nAnd Paris too. Come, I’ll dispose of thee\nAmong a sisterhood of holy nuns.\nStay not to question, for the watch is coming.\nCome, go, good Juliet. I dare no longer stay.\n\nJULIET.\nGo, get thee hence, for I will not away.\n\n [_Exit Friar Lawrence._]\n\nWhat’s here? A cup clos’d in my true love’s hand?\nPoison, I see, hath been his timeless end.\nO churl. Drink all, and left no friendly drop\nTo help me after? I will kiss thy lips.\nHaply some poison yet doth hang on them,\nTo make me die with a restorative.\n\n [_Kisses him._]\n\nThy lips are warm!\n\nFIRST WATCH.\n[_Within._] Lead, boy. Which way?\n\nJULIET.\nYea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger.\n\n [_Snatching Romeo’s dagger._]\n\nThis is thy sheath. [_stabs herself_] There rest, and let me die.\n\n [_Falls on Romeo’s body and dies._]\n\n Enter Watch with the Page of Paris.\n\nPAGE.\nThis is the place. There, where the torch doth burn.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nThe ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard.\nGo, some of you, whoe’er you find attach.\n\n [_Exeunt some of the Watch._]\n\nPitiful sight! Here lies the County slain,\nAnd Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,\nWho here hath lain this two days buried.\nGo tell the Prince; run to the Capulets.\nRaise up the Montagues, some others search.\n\n [_Exeunt others of the Watch._]\n\nWe see the ground whereon these woes do lie,\nBut the true ground of all these piteous woes\nWe cannot without circumstance descry.\n\n Re-enter some of the Watch with Balthasar.\n\nSECOND WATCH.\nHere’s Romeo’s man. We found him in the churchyard.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nHold him in safety till the Prince come hither.\n\n Re-enter others of the Watch with Friar Lawrence.\n\nTHIRD WATCH. Here is a Friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps.\nWe took this mattock and this spade from him\nAs he was coming from this churchyard side.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nA great suspicion. Stay the Friar too.\n\n Enter the Prince and Attendants.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhat misadventure is so early up,\nThat calls our person from our morning’s rest?\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and others.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat should it be that they so shriek abroad?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO the people in the street cry Romeo,\nSome Juliet, and some Paris, and all run\nWith open outcry toward our monument.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhat fear is this which startles in our ears?\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nSovereign, here lies the County Paris slain,\nAnd Romeo dead, and Juliet, dead before,\nWarm and new kill’d.\n\nPRINCE.\nSearch, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nHere is a Friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man,\nWith instruments upon them fit to open\nThese dead men’s tombs.\n\nCAPULET.\nO heaven! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!\nThis dagger hath mista’en, for lo, his house\nIs empty on the back of Montague,\nAnd it mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO me! This sight of death is as a bell\nThat warns my old age to a sepulchre.\n\n Enter Montague and others.\n\nPRINCE.\nCome, Montague, for thou art early up,\nTo see thy son and heir more early down.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nAlas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight.\nGrief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath.\nWhat further woe conspires against mine age?\n\nPRINCE.\nLook, and thou shalt see." -- "MONTAGUE.\nO thou untaught! What manners is in this,\nTo press before thy father to a grave?\n\nPRINCE.\nSeal up the mouth of outrage for a while,\nTill we can clear these ambiguities,\nAnd know their spring, their head, their true descent,\nAnd then will I be general of your woes,\nAnd lead you even to death. Meantime forbear,\nAnd let mischance be slave to patience.\nBring forth the parties of suspicion.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI am the greatest, able to do least,\nYet most suspected, as the time and place\nDoth make against me, of this direful murder.\nAnd here I stand, both to impeach and purge\nMyself condemned and myself excus’d.\n\nPRINCE.\nThen say at once what thou dost know in this.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI will be brief, for my short date of breath\nIs not so long as is a tedious tale.\nRomeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet,\nAnd she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife.\nI married them; and their stol’n marriage day\nWas Tybalt’s doomsday, whose untimely death\nBanish’d the new-made bridegroom from this city;\nFor whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin’d.\nYou, to remove that siege of grief from her,\nBetroth’d, and would have married her perforce\nTo County Paris. Then comes she to me,\nAnd with wild looks, bid me devise some means\nTo rid her from this second marriage,\nOr in my cell there would she kill herself.\nThen gave I her, so tutored by my art,\nA sleeping potion, which so took effect\nAs I intended, for it wrought on her\nThe form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo\nThat he should hither come as this dire night\nTo help to take her from her borrow’d grave,\nBeing the time the potion’s force should cease.\nBut he which bore my letter, Friar John,\nWas stay’d by accident; and yesternight\nReturn’d my letter back. Then all alone\nAt the prefixed hour of her waking\nCame I to take her from her kindred’s vault,\nMeaning to keep her closely at my cell\nTill I conveniently could send to Romeo.\nBut when I came, some minute ere the time\nOf her awaking, here untimely lay\nThe noble Paris and true Romeo dead.\nShe wakes; and I entreated her come forth\nAnd bear this work of heaven with patience.\nBut then a noise did scare me from the tomb;\nAnd she, too desperate, would not go with me,\nBut, as it seems, did violence on herself.\nAll this I know; and to the marriage\nHer Nurse is privy. And if ought in this\nMiscarried by my fault, let my old life\nBe sacrific’d, some hour before his time,\nUnto the rigour of severest law.\n\nPRINCE.\nWe still have known thee for a holy man.\nWhere’s Romeo’s man? What can he say to this?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI brought my master news of Juliet’s death,\nAnd then in post he came from Mantua\nTo this same place, to this same monument.\nThis letter he early bid me give his father,\nAnd threaten’d me with death, going in the vault,\nIf I departed not, and left him there.\n\nPRINCE.\nGive me the letter, I will look on it.\nWhere is the County’s Page that rais’d the watch?\nSirrah, what made your master in this place?\n\nPAGE.\nHe came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave,\nAnd bid me stand aloof, and so I did.\nAnon comes one with light to ope the tomb,\nAnd by and by my master drew on him,\nAnd then I ran away to call the watch.\n\nPRINCE.\nThis letter doth make good the Friar’s words,\nTheir course of love, the tidings of her death.\nAnd here he writes that he did buy a poison\nOf a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal\nCame to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.\nWhere be these enemies? Capulet, Montague,\nSee what a scourge is laid upon your hate,\nThat heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!\nAnd I, for winking at your discords too,\nHave lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d.\n\nCAPULET.\nO brother Montague, give me thy hand.\nThis is my daughter’s jointure, for no more\nCan I demand." -- "MONTAGUE.\nBut I can give thee more,\nFor I will raise her statue in pure gold,\nThat whiles Verona by that name is known,\nThere shall no figure at such rate be set\nAs that of true and faithful Juliet.\n\nCAPULET.\nAs rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie,\nPoor sacrifices of our enmity.\n\nPRINCE.\nA glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun for sorrow will not show his head.\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things.\nSome shall be pardon’d, and some punished,\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the\nUnited States without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. 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Hart was the originator of the Project\nGutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be\nfreely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and\ndistributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of\nvolunteer support.\n\nProject Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed\neditions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in\nthe U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not\nnecessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper\nedition.\n\nMost people start at our website which has the main PG search\nfacility: www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks." +- "PETER.\nThen will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate. I will\ncarry no crotchets. I’ll re you, I’ll fa you. Do you note me?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nAnd you re us and fa us, you note us.\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nPray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.\n\nPETER.\nThen have at you with my wit. I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and\nput up my iron dagger. Answer me like men.\n ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound,\n And doleful dumps the mind oppress,\n Then music with her silver sound’—\nWhy ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you,\nSimon Catling?\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nMarry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.\n\nPETER.\nPrates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck?\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nI say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.\n\nPETER.\nPrates too! What say you, James Soundpost?\n\nTHIRD MUSICIAN.\nFaith, I know not what to say.\n\nPETER.\nO, I cry you mercy, you are the singer. I will say for you. It is\n‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no gold for\nsounding.\n ‘Then music with her silver sound\n With speedy help doth lend redress.’\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFIRST MUSICIAN.\nWhat a pestilent knave is this same!\n\nSECOND MUSICIAN.\nHang him, Jack. Come, we’ll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay\ndinner.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT V\n\nSCENE I. Mantua. A Street.\n\n Enter Romeo.\n\nROMEO.\nIf I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,\nMy dreams presage some joyful news at hand.\nMy bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;\nAnd all this day an unaccustom’d spirit\nLifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.\nI dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—\nStrange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—\nAnd breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,\nThat I reviv’d, and was an emperor.\nAh me, how sweet is love itself possess’d,\nWhen but love’s shadows are so rich in joy.\n\n Enter Balthasar.\n\nNews from Verona! How now, Balthasar?\nDost thou not bring me letters from the Friar?\nHow doth my lady? Is my father well?\nHow fares my Juliet? That I ask again;\nFor nothing can be ill if she be well.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nThen she is well, and nothing can be ill.\nHer body sleeps in Capel’s monument,\nAnd her immortal part with angels lives.\nI saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,\nAnd presently took post to tell it you.\nO pardon me for bringing these ill news,\nSince you did leave it for my office, sir.\n\nROMEO.\nIs it even so? Then I defy you, stars!\nThou know’st my lodging. Get me ink and paper,\nAnd hire post-horses. I will hence tonight.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI do beseech you sir, have patience.\nYour looks are pale and wild, and do import\nSome misadventure.\n\nROMEO.\nTush, thou art deceiv’d.\nLeave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.\nHast thou no letters to me from the Friar?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nNo, my good lord.\n\nROMEO.\nNo matter. Get thee gone,\nAnd hire those horses. I’ll be with thee straight.\n\n [_Exit Balthasar._]\n\nWell, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight.\nLet’s see for means. O mischief thou art swift\nTo enter in the thoughts of desperate men.\nI do remember an apothecary,—\nAnd hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted\nIn tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,\nCulling of simples, meagre were his looks,\nSharp misery had worn him to the bones;\nAnd in his needy shop a tortoise hung,\nAn alligator stuff’d, and other skins\nOf ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves\nA beggarly account of empty boxes,\nGreen earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,\nRemnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses\nWere thinly scatter’d, to make up a show.\nNoting this penury, to myself I said,\nAnd if a man did need a poison now,\nWhose sale is present death in Mantua,\nHere lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.\nO, this same thought did but forerun my need,\nAnd this same needy man must sell it me.\nAs I remember, this should be the house.\nBeing holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.\nWhat, ho! Apothecary!\n\n Enter Apothecary.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nWho calls so loud?\n\nROMEO.\nCome hither, man. I see that thou art poor.\nHold, there is forty ducats. Let me have\nA dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear\nAs will disperse itself through all the veins,\nThat the life-weary taker may fall dead,\nAnd that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath\nAs violently as hasty powder fir’d\nDoth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nSuch mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law\nIs death to any he that utters them.\n\nROMEO.\nArt thou so bare and full of wretchedness,\nAnd fear’st to die? Famine is in thy cheeks,\nNeed and oppression starveth in thine eyes,\nContempt and beggary hangs upon thy back.\nThe world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law;\nThe world affords no law to make thee rich;\nThen be not poor, but break it and take this.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nMy poverty, but not my will consents.\n\nROMEO.\nI pay thy poverty, and not thy will.\n\nAPOTHECARY.\nPut this in any liquid thing you will\nAnd drink it off; and, if you had the strength\nOf twenty men, it would despatch you straight." +- "ROMEO.\nThere is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls,\nDoing more murder in this loathsome world\nThan these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.\nI sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.\nFarewell, buy food, and get thyself in flesh.\nCome, cordial and not poison, go with me\nTo Juliet’s grave, for there must I use thee.\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\nSCENE II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.\n\n Enter Friar John.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nHoly Franciscan Friar! Brother, ho!\n\n Enter Friar Lawrence.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nThis same should be the voice of Friar John.\nWelcome from Mantua. What says Romeo?\nOr, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nGoing to find a barefoot brother out,\nOne of our order, to associate me,\nHere in this city visiting the sick,\nAnd finding him, the searchers of the town,\nSuspecting that we both were in a house\nWhere the infectious pestilence did reign,\nSeal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth,\nSo that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWho bare my letter then to Romeo?\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nI could not send it,—here it is again,—\nNor get a messenger to bring it thee,\nSo fearful were they of infection.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nUnhappy fortune! By my brotherhood,\nThe letter was not nice, but full of charge,\nOf dear import, and the neglecting it\nMay do much danger. Friar John, go hence,\nGet me an iron crow and bring it straight\nUnto my cell.\n\nFRIAR JOHN.\nBrother, I’ll go and bring it thee.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nNow must I to the monument alone.\nWithin this three hours will fair Juliet wake.\nShe will beshrew me much that Romeo\nHath had no notice of these accidents;\nBut I will write again to Mantua,\nAnd keep her at my cell till Romeo come.\nPoor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nSCENE III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.\n\n Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch.\n\nPARIS.\nGive me thy torch, boy. Hence and stand aloof.\nYet put it out, for I would not be seen.\nUnder yond yew tree lay thee all along,\nHolding thy ear close to the hollow ground;\nSo shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,\nBeing loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,\nBut thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me,\nAs signal that thou hear’st something approach.\nGive me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.\n\nPAGE.\n[_Aside._] I am almost afraid to stand alone\nHere in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\nPARIS.\nSweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew.\nO woe, thy canopy is dust and stones,\nWhich with sweet water nightly I will dew,\nOr wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans.\nThe obsequies that I for thee will keep,\nNightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.\n\n [_The Page whistles._]\n\nThe boy gives warning something doth approach.\nWhat cursed foot wanders this way tonight,\nTo cross my obsequies and true love’s rite?\nWhat, with a torch! Muffle me, night, awhile.\n\n [_Retires._]\n\n Enter Romeo and Balthasar with a torch, mattock, &c.\n\nROMEO.\nGive me that mattock and the wrenching iron.\nHold, take this letter; early in the morning\nSee thou deliver it to my lord and father.\nGive me the light; upon thy life I charge thee,\nWhate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof\nAnd do not interrupt me in my course.\nWhy I descend into this bed of death\nIs partly to behold my lady’s face,\nBut chiefly to take thence from her dead finger\nA precious ring, a ring that I must use\nIn dear employment. Therefore hence, be gone.\nBut if thou jealous dost return to pry\nIn what I further shall intend to do,\nBy heaven I will tear thee joint by joint,\nAnd strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs.\nThe time and my intents are savage-wild;\nMore fierce and more inexorable far\nThan empty tigers or the roaring sea.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI will be gone, sir, and not trouble you." +- "ROMEO.\nSo shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that.\nLive, and be prosperous, and farewell, good fellow.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nFor all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout.\nHis looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.\n\n [_Retires_]\n\nROMEO.\nThou detestable maw, thou womb of death,\nGorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth,\nThus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,\n\n [_Breaking open the door of the monument._]\n\nAnd in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food.\n\nPARIS.\nThis is that banish’d haughty Montague\nThat murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief,\nIt is supposed, the fair creature died,—\nAnd here is come to do some villanous shame\nTo the dead bodies. I will apprehend him.\n\n [_Advances._]\n\nStop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague.\nCan vengeance be pursu’d further than death?\nCondemned villain, I do apprehend thee.\nObey, and go with me, for thou must die.\n\nROMEO.\nI must indeed; and therefore came I hither.\nGood gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man.\nFly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone;\nLet them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth,\nPut not another sin upon my head\nBy urging me to fury. O be gone.\nBy heaven I love thee better than myself;\nFor I come hither arm’d against myself.\nStay not, be gone, live, and hereafter say,\nA madman’s mercy bid thee run away.\n\nPARIS.\nI do defy thy conjuration,\nAnd apprehend thee for a felon here.\n\nROMEO.\nWilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy!\n\n [_They fight._]\n\nPAGE.\nO lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\nPARIS.\nO, I am slain! [_Falls._] If thou be merciful,\nOpen the tomb, lay me with Juliet.\n\n [_Dies._]\n\nROMEO.\nIn faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.\nMercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris!\nWhat said my man, when my betossed soul\nDid not attend him as we rode? I think\nHe told me Paris should have married Juliet.\nSaid he not so? Or did I dream it so?\nOr am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,\nTo think it was so? O, give me thy hand,\nOne writ with me in sour misfortune’s book.\nI’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave.\nA grave? O no, a lantern, slaught’red youth,\nFor here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes\nThis vault a feasting presence full of light.\nDeath, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d.\n\n [_Laying Paris in the monument._]\n\nHow oft when men are at the point of death\nHave they been merry! Which their keepers call\nA lightning before death. O, how may I\nCall this a lightning? O my love, my wife,\nDeath that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath,\nHath had no power yet upon thy beauty.\nThou art not conquer’d. Beauty’s ensign yet\nIs crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,\nAnd death’s pale flag is not advanced there.\nTybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?\nO, what more favour can I do to thee\nThan with that hand that cut thy youth in twain\nTo sunder his that was thine enemy?\nForgive me, cousin. Ah, dear Juliet,\nWhy art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe\nThat unsubstantial death is amorous;\nAnd that the lean abhorred monster keeps\nThee here in dark to be his paramour?\nFor fear of that I still will stay with thee,\nAnd never from this palace of dim night\nDepart again. Here, here will I remain\nWith worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here\nWill I set up my everlasting rest;\nAnd shake the yoke of inauspicious stars\nFrom this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last.\nArms, take your last embrace! And, lips, O you\nThe doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss\nA dateless bargain to engrossing death.\nCome, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide.\nThou desperate pilot, now at once run on\nThe dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark.\nHere’s to my love! [_Drinks._] O true apothecary!\nThy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.\n\n [_Dies._]" +- "Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, Friar Lawrence, with a\n lantern, crow, and spade.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nSaint Francis be my speed. How oft tonight\nHave my old feet stumbled at graves? Who’s there?\nWho is it that consorts, so late, the dead?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nHere’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nBliss be upon you. Tell me, good my friend,\nWhat torch is yond that vainly lends his light\nTo grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern,\nIt burneth in the Capels’ monument.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nIt doth so, holy sir, and there’s my master,\nOne that you love.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nWho is it?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nRomeo.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nHow long hath he been there?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nFull half an hour.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nGo with me to the vault.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI dare not, sir;\nMy master knows not but I am gone hence,\nAnd fearfully did menace me with death\nIf I did stay to look on his intents.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nStay then, I’ll go alone. Fear comes upon me.\nO, much I fear some ill unlucky thing.\n\nBALTHASAR.\nAs I did sleep under this yew tree here,\nI dreamt my master and another fought,\nAnd that my master slew him.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nRomeo! [_Advances._]\nAlack, alack, what blood is this which stains\nThe stony entrance of this sepulchre?\nWhat mean these masterless and gory swords\nTo lie discolour’d by this place of peace?\n\n [_Enters the monument._]\n\nRomeo! O, pale! Who else? What, Paris too?\nAnd steep’d in blood? Ah what an unkind hour\nIs guilty of this lamentable chance?\nThe lady stirs.\n\n [_Juliet wakes and stirs._]\n\nJULIET.\nO comfortable Friar, where is my lord?\nI do remember well where I should be,\nAnd there I am. Where is my Romeo?\n\n [_Noise within._]\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest\nOf death, contagion, and unnatural sleep.\nA greater power than we can contradict\nHath thwarted our intents. Come, come away.\nThy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;\nAnd Paris too. Come, I’ll dispose of thee\nAmong a sisterhood of holy nuns.\nStay not to question, for the watch is coming.\nCome, go, good Juliet. I dare no longer stay.\n\nJULIET.\nGo, get thee hence, for I will not away.\n\n [_Exit Friar Lawrence._]\n\nWhat’s here? A cup clos’d in my true love’s hand?\nPoison, I see, hath been his timeless end.\nO churl. Drink all, and left no friendly drop\nTo help me after? I will kiss thy lips.\nHaply some poison yet doth hang on them,\nTo make me die with a restorative.\n\n [_Kisses him._]\n\nThy lips are warm!\n\nFIRST WATCH.\n[_Within._] Lead, boy. Which way?\n\nJULIET.\nYea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger.\n\n [_Snatching Romeo’s dagger._]\n\nThis is thy sheath. [_stabs herself_] There rest, and let me die.\n\n [_Falls on Romeo’s body and dies._]\n\n Enter Watch with the Page of Paris.\n\nPAGE.\nThis is the place. There, where the torch doth burn.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nThe ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard.\nGo, some of you, whoe’er you find attach.\n\n [_Exeunt some of the Watch._]\n\nPitiful sight! Here lies the County slain,\nAnd Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,\nWho here hath lain this two days buried.\nGo tell the Prince; run to the Capulets.\nRaise up the Montagues, some others search.\n\n [_Exeunt others of the Watch._]\n\nWe see the ground whereon these woes do lie,\nBut the true ground of all these piteous woes\nWe cannot without circumstance descry.\n\n Re-enter some of the Watch with Balthasar.\n\nSECOND WATCH.\nHere’s Romeo’s man. We found him in the churchyard.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nHold him in safety till the Prince come hither.\n\n Re-enter others of the Watch with Friar Lawrence." +- "THIRD WATCH. Here is a Friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps.\nWe took this mattock and this spade from him\nAs he was coming from this churchyard side.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nA great suspicion. Stay the Friar too.\n\n Enter the Prince and Attendants.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhat misadventure is so early up,\nThat calls our person from our morning’s rest?\n\n Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and others.\n\nCAPULET.\nWhat should it be that they so shriek abroad?\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO the people in the street cry Romeo,\nSome Juliet, and some Paris, and all run\nWith open outcry toward our monument.\n\nPRINCE.\nWhat fear is this which startles in our ears?\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nSovereign, here lies the County Paris slain,\nAnd Romeo dead, and Juliet, dead before,\nWarm and new kill’d.\n\nPRINCE.\nSearch, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.\n\nFIRST WATCH.\nHere is a Friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man,\nWith instruments upon them fit to open\nThese dead men’s tombs.\n\nCAPULET.\nO heaven! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!\nThis dagger hath mista’en, for lo, his house\nIs empty on the back of Montague,\nAnd it mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom.\n\nLADY CAPULET.\nO me! This sight of death is as a bell\nThat warns my old age to a sepulchre.\n\n Enter Montague and others.\n\nPRINCE.\nCome, Montague, for thou art early up,\nTo see thy son and heir more early down.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nAlas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight.\nGrief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath.\nWhat further woe conspires against mine age?\n\nPRINCE.\nLook, and thou shalt see.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nO thou untaught! What manners is in this,\nTo press before thy father to a grave?\n\nPRINCE.\nSeal up the mouth of outrage for a while,\nTill we can clear these ambiguities,\nAnd know their spring, their head, their true descent,\nAnd then will I be general of your woes,\nAnd lead you even to death. Meantime forbear,\nAnd let mischance be slave to patience.\nBring forth the parties of suspicion.\n\nFRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI am the greatest, able to do least,\nYet most suspected, as the time and place\nDoth make against me, of this direful murder.\nAnd here I stand, both to impeach and purge\nMyself condemned and myself excus’d.\n\nPRINCE.\nThen say at once what thou dost know in this." +- "FRIAR LAWRENCE.\nI will be brief, for my short date of breath\nIs not so long as is a tedious tale.\nRomeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet,\nAnd she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife.\nI married them; and their stol’n marriage day\nWas Tybalt’s doomsday, whose untimely death\nBanish’d the new-made bridegroom from this city;\nFor whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin’d.\nYou, to remove that siege of grief from her,\nBetroth’d, and would have married her perforce\nTo County Paris. Then comes she to me,\nAnd with wild looks, bid me devise some means\nTo rid her from this second marriage,\nOr in my cell there would she kill herself.\nThen gave I her, so tutored by my art,\nA sleeping potion, which so took effect\nAs I intended, for it wrought on her\nThe form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo\nThat he should hither come as this dire night\nTo help to take her from her borrow’d grave,\nBeing the time the potion’s force should cease.\nBut he which bore my letter, Friar John,\nWas stay’d by accident; and yesternight\nReturn’d my letter back. Then all alone\nAt the prefixed hour of her waking\nCame I to take her from her kindred’s vault,\nMeaning to keep her closely at my cell\nTill I conveniently could send to Romeo.\nBut when I came, some minute ere the time\nOf her awaking, here untimely lay\nThe noble Paris and true Romeo dead.\nShe wakes; and I entreated her come forth\nAnd bear this work of heaven with patience.\nBut then a noise did scare me from the tomb;\nAnd she, too desperate, would not go with me,\nBut, as it seems, did violence on herself.\nAll this I know; and to the marriage\nHer Nurse is privy. And if ought in this\nMiscarried by my fault, let my old life\nBe sacrific’d, some hour before his time,\nUnto the rigour of severest law.\n\nPRINCE.\nWe still have known thee for a holy man.\nWhere’s Romeo’s man? What can he say to this?\n\nBALTHASAR.\nI brought my master news of Juliet’s death,\nAnd then in post he came from Mantua\nTo this same place, to this same monument.\nThis letter he early bid me give his father,\nAnd threaten’d me with death, going in the vault,\nIf I departed not, and left him there.\n\nPRINCE.\nGive me the letter, I will look on it.\nWhere is the County’s Page that rais’d the watch?\nSirrah, what made your master in this place?\n\nPAGE.\nHe came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave,\nAnd bid me stand aloof, and so I did.\nAnon comes one with light to ope the tomb,\nAnd by and by my master drew on him,\nAnd then I ran away to call the watch.\n\nPRINCE.\nThis letter doth make good the Friar’s words,\nTheir course of love, the tidings of her death.\nAnd here he writes that he did buy a poison\nOf a poor ’pothecary, and therewithal\nCame to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.\nWhere be these enemies? Capulet, Montague,\nSee what a scourge is laid upon your hate,\nThat heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!\nAnd I, for winking at your discords too,\nHave lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d.\n\nCAPULET.\nO brother Montague, give me thy hand.\nThis is my daughter’s jointure, for no more\nCan I demand.\n\nMONTAGUE.\nBut I can give thee more,\nFor I will raise her statue in pure gold,\nThat whiles Verona by that name is known,\nThere shall no figure at such rate be set\nAs that of true and faithful Juliet.\n\nCAPULET.\nAs rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie,\nPoor sacrifices of our enmity.\n\nPRINCE.\nA glooming peace this morning with it brings;\nThe sun for sorrow will not show his head.\nGo hence, to have more talk of these sad things.\nSome shall be pardon’d, and some punished,\nFor never was a story of more woe\nThan this of Juliet and her Romeo.\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will\nbe renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the\nUnited States without permission and without paying copyright\nroyalties. 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Thus, we do not\nnecessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper\nedition.\n\nMost people start at our website which has the main PG search\nfacility: www.gutenberg.org" +- "This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks." diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap index 19441f01..212b4b35 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@romeo_and_juliet.txt.snap @@ -29,8 +29,9 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG" - EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET *** - THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND -- "JULIET\n\n\n\nby William Shakespeare\n\n\nContents" -- THE PROLOGUE. +- JULIET +- by William Shakespeare +- "Contents\n\nTHE PROLOGUE." - "ACT I\nScene I. A public place." - Scene II. A Street. - Scene III. Room in Capulet’s House. @@ -66,7 +67,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - Scene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. - Scene III. - A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to -- "the Capulets.\n\n\n\n\n Dramatis Personæ" +- the Capulets. +- Dramatis Personæ - "ESCALUS, Prince of Verona." - "MERCUTIO, kinsman to the" - "Prince, and friend to Romeo." @@ -129,7 +131,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - ; - "The which, if you with patient ears attend," - "What here shall miss, our toil shall strive" -- "to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT I" +- "to mend.\n\n [_Exit._]" +- ACT I - SCENE I. A public place. - Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and - bucklers. @@ -1441,8 +1444,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "_]" - "NURSE.\nAnon, anon!" - "Come let’s away, the strangers all are gone" -- ".\n\n [_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT II" -- Enter Chorus. +- ".\n\n [_Exeunt._]" +- "ACT II\n\n Enter Chorus." - CHORUS. - Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie - "," @@ -2646,7 +2649,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "For, by your leaves, you shall not stay" - alone - Till holy church incorporate two in one. -- "[_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT III" +- "[_Exeunt._]" +- ACT III - SCENE I. A public Place. - "Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, Page" - and Servants. @@ -4142,7 +4146,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - I’ll to the Friar to know his remedy - "." - "If all else fail, myself have power to die" -- ".\n\n [_Exit._]\n\n\n\nACT IV" +- ".\n\n [_Exit._]" +- ACT IV - SCENE I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. - Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris. - FRIAR LAWRENCE. @@ -4899,7 +4904,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/romeo_and_juliet.txt - "Hang him, Jack." - "Come, we’ll in here, tarry for" - "the mourners, and stay\ndinner." -- "[_Exeunt._]\n\n\n\nACT V" +- "[_Exeunt._]" +- ACT V - SCENE I. Mantua. A Street. - Enter Romeo. - ROMEO. diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap index 07346e32..1278b66c 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-2.snap @@ -5,11 +5,13 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt --- - "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster" - "This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View" -- "Author: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS" +- "Author: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster" +- CONTENTS - "Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing" - "Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return" - "Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George" -- "Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\nChapter I The Bertolini" +- "Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE" +- Chapter I The Bertolini - "“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”" - "“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev." - "Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\nthat was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”\n\n“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork." @@ -76,7 +78,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,\nand the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon." - "Miss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more." - "“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so," -- "since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker" +- "since it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed." +- Chapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker - "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." @@ -163,7 +166,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself." - "“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe 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_.\nThere’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.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”" +- "yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin." +- "Chapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”" - "It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave." - "The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. The commonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without effort, whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, and thinking how we could worship him and love him, would he but translate his visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions." - "Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never." @@ -223,7 +227,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "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 façade 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.”\n\n“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.”\n\nHer 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?”\n\n“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan.\n\n“Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!”\n\nBut 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.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV Fourth Chapter" +- "“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.”" +- Chapter IV Fourth 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.\nIndirectly, 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." @@ -259,7 +264,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "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.\n\n“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”" -- "“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing" +- "“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears." +- Chapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing - "It was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also." - "They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one." - "For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure," @@ -331,7 +337,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity." - "Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something,\nand though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god." - "“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”" -- "They passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them." +- "They passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion." +- "Chapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them." - "It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab." - "And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guard against imposition." - "But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god." @@ -396,7 +403,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Eccolo!” he exclaimed.\n\nAt the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end.\n\n“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above.\n“Courage and love.”" - "She did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view,\nand violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth." - "Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.\nBut he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.\n\nGeorge had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her." -- "Before she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII They Return" +- "Before she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view." +- Chapter VII They Return - "Some complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye." - "Charlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment." - "Pan had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square." @@ -458,7 +466,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,\nthough she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her." - "To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.\n\nWhether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:\n\n“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”" - "Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”" -- "In the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval" +- "In the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO" +- Chapter VIII Medieval - "The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,”" - "or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;\nwithin, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man." - "Two pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written." @@ -542,7 +551,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present." - "So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne," - "putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped." -- "Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art" +- "Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy." +- Chapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art - "A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\nfor naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man." - "Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers." - "At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been.\n\n“Do you go to much of this sort of thing?” he asked when they were driving home." @@ -567,7 +577,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything." - "The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.\nHoneychurch?”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil,\nwho was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again." - "Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”" -- "“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\nLet us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself." +- "“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’" +- "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself." - The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow. - "Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees." - "The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil." @@ -616,7 +627,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can’t run at you, you know.”\n\nAt that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.\nAs he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them." - "Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene." - "Lucy was standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.\n\nThey left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity." -- "“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X Cecil as a Humourist" +- "“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had." +- Chapter X Cecil as a Humourist - "The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,\nand, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter." - "Other houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility." - "“I cannot think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction—which few honest solicitors despise—of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable." @@ -664,7 +676,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time.\nNo, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—”" - "“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”\n\nHe stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”\n\nHer face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago." - "“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”\n\nShe left him.\n\n“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows." -- "No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat" +- "No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner." +- Chapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat - "The Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement," - "met Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr." - "Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die." @@ -677,7 +690,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.\n\n“TUNBRIDGE WELLS,\n“_September_.\n\n\n“DEAREST LUCIA," - "“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house." - "He _said_ he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune," -- "and I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\nLucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n“DEAR CHARLOTTE," +- "and I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\nLucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W." +- "“DEAR CHARLOTTE," - "“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise," - "and cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them," - "they would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.\nAs for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January." @@ -696,7 +710,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to London." - "I don’t believe in these London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”\n\n“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed." - "As she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek.\n\n“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”" -- "The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII Twelfth Chapter" +- "The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat." +- Chapter XII Twelfth Chapter - "It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn." - "All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n“M’m.”" - "“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in." @@ -750,7 +765,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy.” They turned. “Oh, look—don’t look! Oh, poor Mr.\nBeebe! How unfortunate again—”\n\nFor Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish." - "“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”\n\n“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”" - "“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”\n\n“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.\n\nHe regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed." -- "That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome" +- "That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth." +- Chapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome - "How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent." - "She was prepared for all of these.\nBut she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star." - "Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. “I will bow,” she had thought. “I will not shake hands with him." @@ -793,7 +809,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”\n\n“From your own account, you told her as much.”" - "“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—”\n\nThe ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real." - "“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”" -- "Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely" +- "Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”" +- Chapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely - "Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week." - "Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night." - "When she talked to George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.”" @@ -828,7 +845,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him," - "and has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden.” She took hold of her guest by the arm." - "“Suppose we don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.”" -- "Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV The Disaster Within" +- "Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain." +- Chapter XV The Disaster Within - "The Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable." - "Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells." - "The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her," @@ -870,7 +888,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here." - "The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning," - "would never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland." -- "Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed." +- "Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument." +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed." - "Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark," - "and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research." - "Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.\n\nSTART: FULL LICENSE\n\nTHE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK" diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap index 835f6033..8d0df2dc 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@room_with_a_view.txt-3.snap @@ -3,77 +3,98 @@ source: tests/text_splitter_snapshots.rs expression: chunks input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt --- -- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return\n\n Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE\n\n\n\n\nChapter I The Bertolini\n\n\n“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”\n\n“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\nthat was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”\n\n“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.\n\n“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!”\n\n“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a view.”\n\nLucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me:\nof course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—” “You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.\n\n“No, no. You must have it.”\n\n“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”\n\n“She would never forgive _me_.”\n\nThe ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:\n\n“I have a view, I have a view.”" -- "Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would “do” till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility.\nWhat exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”\n\n“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view too.”\n\n“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.\n\n“What I mean,” he continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll have yours. We’ll change.”\n\nThe better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said “Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question.”\n\n“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the table.\n\n“Because it is quite out of the question, thank you.”\n\n“You see, we don’t like to take—” began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.\n\n“But why?” he persisted. “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son,\nsaying, “George, persuade them!”\n\n“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” said the son. “There’s nothing else to say.”\n\nHe did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as “quite a scene,” and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with—well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour.\n\nMiss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, “Are you all like this?” And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating “We are not; we are genteel.”\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear,” she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured.\n\nLucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite.\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will make a change.”\n\nHardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table,\ncheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: “Oh, oh! Why, it’s Mr.\nBeebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now,\nhowever bad the rooms are. Oh!”\n\nMiss Bartlett said, with more restraint:\n\n“How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter’s that very cold Easter.”\n\nThe clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by Lucy.\n\n“I _am_ so glad to see you,” said the girl, who was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her cousin had permitted it. “Just fancy how small the world is. Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny.”" -- "“Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street,” said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, “and she happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the living—”\n\n“Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn’t know that I knew you at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: ‘Mr. Beebe is—’”\n\n“Quite right,” said the clergyman. “I move into the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood.”\n\n“Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner.” Mr. Beebe bowed.\n\n“There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it’s not often we get him to ch—— The church is rather far off, I mean.”\n\n“Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.”\n\n“I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it.”\n\nHe preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and he was first in the field. “Don’t neglect the country round,” his advice concluded. “The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort.”\n\n“No!” cried a voice from the top of the table. “Mr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato.”\n\n“That lady looks so clever,” whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. “We are in luck.”\n\nAnd, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams,\nhow to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter,\nhow much the place would grow upon them. The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusiastically, that they would do. Whichever way they looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of the clever lady, crying: “Prato! They must go to Prato.\nThat place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know.”\n\nThe young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do.\nLucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.\n\nThe father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow,\nbut by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across something.\n\nShe hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains—curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and supported by ’Enery, her little boy,\nand Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South.\nAnd even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really Italy?\n\nMiss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr.\nBeebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. “We are most grateful to you,” she was saying. “The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly _mauvais quart d’heure_.”\n\nHe expressed his regret.\n\n“Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?”\n\n“Emerson.”\n\n“Is he a friend of yours?”\n\n“We are friendly—as one is in pensions.”\n\n“Then I will say no more.”\n\nHe pressed her very slightly, and she said more.\n\n“I am, as it were,” she concluded, “the chaperon of my young cousin,\nLucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate.\nI hope I acted for the best.”" -- "“You acted very naturally,” said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: “All the same, I don’t think much harm would have come of accepting.”\n\n“No _harm_, of course. But we could not be under an obligation.”\n\n“He is rather a peculiar man.” Again he hesitated, and then said gently: “I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit—if it is one—of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult—at least, I find it difficult—to understand people who speak the truth.”\n\nLucy was pleased, and said: “I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice.”\n\n“I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect—I may say I hope—you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people’s backs up. He has no tact and no manners—I don’t mean by that that he has bad manners—and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it.”\n\n“Am I to conclude,” said Miss Bartlett, “that he is a Socialist?”\n\nMr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips.\n\n“And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?”\n\n“I hardly know George, for he hasn’t learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father’s mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist.”\n\n“Oh, you relieve me,” said Miss Bartlett. “So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?”\n\n“Not at all,” he answered; “I never suggested that.”\n\n“But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?”\n\nHe replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary,\nand got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room.\n\n“Was I a bore?” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. “Why didn’t you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I’m sure. I do hope I haven’t monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time.”\n\n“He is nice,” exclaimed Lucy. “Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman.”\n\n“My dear Lucia—”\n\n“Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man.”\n\n“Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe.”\n\n“I’m sure she will; and so will Freddy.”\n\n“I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times.”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy despondently.\n\nThere was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added “I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion.”\n\nAnd the girl again thought: “I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor.”" -- "Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister’s health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea,\nthough one better than something else.\n\n“But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English.”\n\n“Yet our rooms smell,” said poor Lucy. “We dread going to bed.”\n\n“Ah, then you look into the court.” She sighed. “If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner.”\n\n“I think he was meaning to be kind.”\n\n“Undoubtedly he was,” said Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin’s account.”\n\n“Of course,” said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl.\n\nLucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it.\n\n“About old Mr. Emerson—I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time—beautiful?”\n\n“Beautiful?” said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. “Are not beauty and delicacy the same?”\n\n“So one would have thought,” said the other helplessly. “But things are so difficult, I sometimes think.”\n\nShe proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant.\n\n“Miss Bartlett,” he cried, “it’s all right about the rooms. I’m so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased.”\n\n“Oh, Charlotte,” cried Lucy to her cousin, “we must have the rooms now.\nThe old man is just as nice and kind as he can be.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent.\n\n“I fear,” said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, “that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference.”\n\nGravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: “My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then,\nMr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?”\n\nShe raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message.\n\n“Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events.”\n\nMr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously:\n\n“Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead.”\n\nThe young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs.\n\n“My father,” he said, “is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy.\n\n“Poor young man!” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.\n\n“How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite.”" -- "“In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready,” said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary.\n\n“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. “Gentlemen sometimes do not realize—” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy,\nshe committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History.\nFor she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said:\n\n“I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move.”\n\n“How you do do everything,” said Lucy.\n\n“Naturally, dear. It is my affair.”\n\n“But I would like to help you.”\n\n“No, dear.”\n\nCharlotte’s energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet—there was a rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.\n\n“I want to explain,” said Miss Bartlett, “why it is that I have taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you;\nbut I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it.”\n\nLucy was bewildered.\n\n“If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this.”\n\n“Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure,” said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues.\n\nMiss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,\nand the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.\n\nMiss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more.\n\n“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,\nsince it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n\n\nIt 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,\nto 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,\nundersized 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.\n\nOver 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.\n\nA conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar lines. Miss Bartlett was,\nafter 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,\nof 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!\n\nAt this point the clever lady broke in.\n\n“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.”\n\nMiss 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.\n\n“I will take you by a dear dirty back way, Miss Honeychurch, and if you bring me luck, we shall have an adventure.”\n\nLucy said that this was most kind, and at once opened the Baedeker, to see where Santa Croce was.\n\n“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.”\n\nThis sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried over her breakfast, and started with her new friend in high spirits. Italy was coming at last.\nThe Cockney Signora and her works had vanished like a bad dream.\n\nMiss 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:\n\n“A smell! a true Florentine smell! Every city, let me teach you, has its own smell.”\n\n“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!”\n\nSo Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of the city of Florence,\nshort, 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,\nonly increased the sense of festivity.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Indeed, I’m not!” exclaimed Lucy. “We are Radicals, too, out and out.\nMy father always voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he was so dreadful about Ireland.”\n\n“I see, I see. And now you have gone over to the enemy.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“Shameful! A manufacturing district, I suppose?”\n\n“No—in the Surrey hills. About five miles from Dorking, looking over the Weald.”\n\nMiss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened her trot.\n\n“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?”\n\n“Very well indeed.”\n\n“And old Mrs. Butterworth the philanthropist?”\n\n“Why, she rents a field of us! How funny!”\n\nMiss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky, and murmured: “Oh, you have property in Surrey?”\n\n“Hardly any,” said Lucy, fearful of being thought a snob. “Only thirty acres—just the garden, all downhill, and some fields.”\n\nMiss 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:\n\n“Bless us! Bless us and save us! We’ve lost the way.”\n\nCertainly 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.\n\n“Lost! lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we have taken a wrong turning. How those horrid Conservatives would jeer at us!\nWhat are we to do? Two lone females in an unknown town. Now, this is what _I_ call an adventure.”\n\nLucy, who wanted to see Santa Croce, suggested, as a possible solution,\nthat they should ask the way there.\n\n“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.”\n\nAccordingly they drifted through a series of those grey-brown streets,\nneither commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of the city abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent of Lady Louisa,\nand 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,\nlarge and dusty, on the farther side of which rose a black-and-white façade of surpassing ugliness. Miss Lavish spoke to it dramatically. It was Santa Croce. The adventure was over.\n\n“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!”\n\n“We sat opposite them at dinner last night. They have given us their rooms. They were so very kind.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“What would you ask us?”\n\nMiss 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:\n\n“There goes my local-colour box! I must have a word with him!”\n\nAnd 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.\n\nLucy 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,\ntalking 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." +- "The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.\n\nTitle: A Room With A View\n\nAuthor: E. M. Forster\n\nRelease Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2641]\n[Most recently updated: October 8, 2022]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nA Room With A View\n\nBy E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini\n Chapter II. In Santa Croce with No Baedeker\n Chapter III. Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”\n Chapter IV. Fourth Chapter\n Chapter V. Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n Chapter VI. The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them\n Chapter VII. They Return\n\n Part Two.\n Chapter VIII. Medieval\n Chapter IX. Lucy As a Work of Art\n Chapter X. Cecil as a Humourist\n Chapter XI. In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n Chapter XII. Twelfth Chapter\n Chapter XIII. How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome\n Chapter XIV. How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n Chapter XV. The Disaster Within\n Chapter XVI. Lying to George\n Chapter XVII. Lying to Cecil\n Chapter XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants\n Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson\n Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages\n\n\n\n\nPART ONE" +- Chapter I The Bertolini +- "“The Signora had no business to do it,” said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!”\n\n“And a Cockney, besides!” said Lucy, who had been further saddened by the Signora’s unexpected accent. “It might be London.” She looked at the two rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.),\nthat was the only other decoration of the wall. “Charlotte, don’t you feel, too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one’s being so tired.”\n\n“This meat has surely been used for soup,” said Miss Bartlett, laying down her fork.\n\n“I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!”\n\n“Any nook does for me,” Miss Bartlett continued; “but it does seem hard that you shouldn’t have a view.”\n\nLucy felt that she had been selfish. “Charlotte, you mustn’t spoil me:\nof course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant that. The first vacant room in the front—” “You must have it,” said Miss Bartlett, part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy’s mother—a piece of generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.\n\n“No, no. You must have it.”\n\n“I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy.”\n\n“She would never forgive _me_.”\n\nThe ladies’ voices grew animated, and—if the sad truth be owned—a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and one of them—one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad—leant forward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. He said:\n\n“I have a view, I have a view.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out that they would “do” till they had gone. She knew that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility.\nWhat exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and then said: “A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view is!”\n\n“This is my son,” said the old man; “his name’s George. He has a view too.”\n\n“Ah,” said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to speak.\n\n“What I mean,” he continued, “is that you can have our rooms, and we’ll have yours. We’ll change.”\n\nThe better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said “Thank you very much indeed; that is out of the question.”\n\n“Why?” said the old man, with both fists on the table.\n\n“Because it is quite out of the question, thank you.”\n\n“You see, we don’t like to take—” began Lucy. Her cousin again repressed her.\n\n“But why?” he persisted. “Women like looking at a view; men don’t.” And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child, and turned to his son,\nsaying, “George, persuade them!”\n\n“It’s so obvious they should have the rooms,” said the son. “There’s nothing else to say.”" +- "He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as “quite a scene,” and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with—well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour.\n\nMiss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, “Are you all like this?” And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating “We are not; we are genteel.”\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear,” she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured.\n\nLucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite.\n\n“Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we will make a change.”\n\nHardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table,\ncheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: “Oh, oh! Why, it’s Mr.\nBeebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now,\nhowever bad the rooms are. Oh!”\n\nMiss Bartlett said, with more restraint:\n\n“How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter’s that very cold Easter.”\n\nThe clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not remember the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But he came forward pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into which he was beckoned by Lucy.\n\n“I _am_ so glad to see you,” said the girl, who was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her cousin had permitted it. “Just fancy how small the world is. Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny.”\n\n“Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street,” said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, “and she happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the living—”\n\n“Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn’t know that I knew you at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: ‘Mr. Beebe is—’”\n\n“Quite right,” said the clergyman. “I move into the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood.”\n\n“Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner.” Mr. Beebe bowed.\n\n“There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it’s not often we get him to ch—— The church is rather far off, I mean.”\n\n“Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.”\n\n“I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it.”\n\nHe preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and he was first in the field. “Don’t neglect the country round,” his advice concluded. “The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort.”\n\n“No!” cried a voice from the top of the table. “Mr. Beebe, you are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to Prato.”\n\n“That lady looks so clever,” whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. “We are in luck.”" +- "And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams,\nhow to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter,\nhow much the place would grow upon them. The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusiastically, that they would do. Whichever way they looked, kind ladies smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of the clever lady, crying: “Prato! They must go to Prato.\nThat place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know.”\n\nThe young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do.\nLucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.\n\nThe father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by another bow,\nbut by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed to be smiling across something.\n\nShe hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains—curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and supported by ’Enery, her little boy,\nand Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South.\nAnd even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really Italy?\n\nMiss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair, which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr.\nBeebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. “We are most grateful to you,” she was saying. “The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly _mauvais quart d’heure_.”\n\nHe expressed his regret.\n\n“Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite us at dinner?”\n\n“Emerson.”\n\n“Is he a friend of yours?”\n\n“We are friendly—as one is in pensions.”\n\n“Then I will say no more.”\n\nHe pressed her very slightly, and she said more.\n\n“I am, as it were,” she concluded, “the chaperon of my young cousin,\nLucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was somewhat unfortunate.\nI hope I acted for the best.”\n\n“You acted very naturally,” said he. He seemed thoughtful, and after a few moments added: “All the same, I don’t think much harm would have come of accepting.”\n\n“No _harm_, of course. But we could not be under an obligation.”\n\n“He is rather a peculiar man.” Again he hesitated, and then said gently: “I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance, nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit—if it is one—of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult—at least, I find it difficult—to understand people who speak the truth.”\n\nLucy was pleased, and said: “I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice.”\n\n“I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect—I may say I hope—you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people’s backs up. He has no tact and no manners—I don’t mean by that that he has bad manners—and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it.”\n\n“Am I to conclude,” said Miss Bartlett, “that he is a Socialist?”\n\nMr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of the lips.\n\n“And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist, too?”" +- "“I hardly know George, for he hasn’t learnt to talk yet. He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father’s mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist.”\n\n“Oh, you relieve me,” said Miss Bartlett. “So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?”\n\n“Not at all,” he answered; “I never suggested that.”\n\n“But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent rudeness?”\n\nHe replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite unnecessary,\nand got up from his seat to go to the smoking-room.\n\n“Was I a bore?” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had disappeared. “Why didn’t you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I’m sure. I do hope I haven’t monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time.”\n\n“He is nice,” exclaimed Lucy. “Just what I remember. He seems to see good in everyone. No one would take him for a clergyman.”\n\n“My dear Lucia—”\n\n“Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man.”\n\n“Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she will approve of Mr. Beebe.”\n\n“I’m sure she will; and so will Freddy.”\n\n“I think everyone at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times.”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy despondently.\n\nThere was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added “I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion.”\n\nAnd the girl again thought: “I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor.”\n\nFortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister’s health, the necessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice, when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea,\nthough one better than something else.\n\n“But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English.”\n\n“Yet our rooms smell,” said poor Lucy. “We dread going to bed.”\n\n“Ah, then you look into the court.” She sighed. “If only Mr. Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner.”\n\n“I think he was meaning to be kind.”\n\n“Undoubtedly he was,” said Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin’s account.”\n\n“Of course,” said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl.\n\nLucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it.\n\n“About old Mr. Emerson—I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time—beautiful?”\n\n“Beautiful?” said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. “Are not beauty and delicacy the same?”\n\n“So one would have thought,” said the other helplessly. “But things are so difficult, I sometimes think.”\n\nShe proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely pleasant." +- "“Miss Bartlett,” he cried, “it’s all right about the rooms. I’m so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room, and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased.”\n\n“Oh, Charlotte,” cried Lucy to her cousin, “we must have the rooms now.\nThe old man is just as nice and kind as he can be.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent.\n\n“I fear,” said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, “that I have been officious. I must apologize for my interference.”\n\nGravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: “My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it. Would you then,\nMr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr. Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?”\n\nShe raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed with her message.\n\n“Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events.”\n\nMr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously:\n\n“Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead.”\n\nThe young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on the floor, so low were their chairs.\n\n“My father,” he said, “is in his bath, so you cannot thank him personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by me to him as soon as he comes out.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of Lucy.\n\n“Poor young man!” said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.\n\n“How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he can do to keep polite.”\n\n“In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready,” said Mr. Beebe. Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary.\n\n“Oh, dear!” breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. “Gentlemen sometimes do not realize—” Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature. Taking up Baedeker’s Handbook to Northern Italy,\nshe committed to memory the most important dates of Florentine History.\nFor she was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, and said:\n\n“I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will superintend the move.”\n\n“How you do do everything,” said Lucy.\n\n“Naturally, dear. It is my affair.”\n\n“But I would like to help you.”\n\n“No, dear.”\n\nCharlotte’s energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet—there was a rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.\n\n“I want to explain,” said Miss Bartlett, “why it is that I have taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given it to you;\nbut I happen to know that it belongs to the young man, and I was sure your mother would not like it.”\n\nLucy was bewildered.\n\n“If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this.”\n\n“Mother wouldn’t mind I’m sure,” said Lucy, but again had the sense of larger and unsuspected issues." +- "Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the cypresses of San Miniato,\nand the foot-hills of the Apennines, black against the rising moon.\n\nMiss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous note of interrogation. Nothing more.\n\n“What does it mean?” she thought, and she examined it carefully by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing,\nobnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that she had no right to do so,\nsince it must be the property of young Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed." +- Chapter II In Santa Croce with No Baedeker +- "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,\nto 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.\n\nOver 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,\nundersized 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.\n\nOver 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.\n\nA conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar lines. Miss Bartlett was,\nafter 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,\nof 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!\n\nAt this point the clever lady broke in.\n\n“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.”\n\nMiss 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.\n\n“I will take you by a dear dirty back way, Miss Honeychurch, and if you bring me luck, we shall have an adventure.”\n\nLucy said that this was most kind, and at once opened the Baedeker, to see where Santa Croce was.\n\n“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.”\n\nThis sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried over her breakfast, and started with her new friend in high spirits. Italy was coming at last.\nThe 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:\n\n“A smell! a true Florentine smell! Every city, let me teach you, has its own smell.”\n\n“Is it a very nice smell?” said Lucy, who had inherited from her mother a distaste to dirt.\n\n“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!”\n\nSo Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of the city of Florence,\nshort, 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,\nonly increased the sense of festivity.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Indeed, I’m not!” exclaimed Lucy. “We are Radicals, too, out and out.\nMy father always voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he was so dreadful about Ireland.”\n\n“I see, I see. And now you have gone over to the enemy.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“Shameful! A manufacturing district, I suppose?”\n\n“No—in the Surrey hills. About five miles from Dorking, looking over the Weald.”\n\nMiss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened her trot.\n\n“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?”\n\n“Very well indeed.”\n\n“And old Mrs. Butterworth the philanthropist?”\n\n“Why, she rents a field of us! How funny!”\n\nMiss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky, and murmured: “Oh, you have property in Surrey?”\n\n“Hardly any,” said Lucy, fearful of being thought a snob. “Only thirty acres—just the garden, all downhill, and some fields.”\n\nMiss 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:\n\n“Bless us! Bless us and save us! We’ve lost the way.”\n\nCertainly 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.\n\n“Lost! lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we have taken a wrong turning. How those horrid Conservatives would jeer at us!\nWhat are we to do? Two lone females in an unknown town. Now, this is what _I_ call an adventure.”\n\nLucy, who wanted to see Santa Croce, suggested, as a possible solution,\nthat they should ask the way there.\n\n“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,\nneither commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of the city abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent of Lady Louisa,\nand 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.\n\nThe 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,\nlarge and dusty, on the farther side of which rose a black-and-white façade of surpassing ugliness. Miss Lavish spoke to it dramatically. It was Santa Croce. The adventure was over.\n\n“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!”\n\n“We sat opposite them at dinner last night. They have given us their rooms. They were so very kind.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“What would you ask us?”\n\nMiss 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:\n\n“There goes my local-colour box! I must have a word with him!”\n\nAnd 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.\n\nLucy 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,\ntalking 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,\nnot 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.\nRuskin, and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop.\nProtestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the prelate’s upturned toes.\n\n“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!”\n\nThe 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.\n\n“Look at him!” said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. “Here’s a mess: a baby hurt,\ncold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?”\n\nThe child’s legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr.\nEmerson 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.\n\n“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—”\n\nHe paused for a phrase.\n\n“Niente,” said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers.\n\n“I’m not sure she understands English,” suggested Lucy.\n\nIn her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and,\nif possible, to erase Miss Bartlett’s civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms.\n\n“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?”\n\n“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.”\n\n“Why shouldn’t you?” said Mr. Emerson.\n\n“Yes, why shouldn’t you come by yourself?” said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time.\n\n“But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker.”\n\n“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.”\n\nLucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her.\n\n“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.\n\n“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.\nI 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;\nbut 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.”\n\nNow, 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.\nEmerson 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.\n\n“I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which they are.”\n\nThe 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.\n\nThe 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.\n\n“Remember,” he was saying, “the facts about this church of Santa Croce;\nhow 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,\nmore pathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!”\n\n“No!” exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church.\n“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.”\n\nHe was referring to the fresco of the “Ascension of St. John.” Inside,\nthe 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.\n\n“Now, did this happen, or didn’t it? Yes or no?”\n\nGeorge replied:\n\n“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.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint,\nwhoever he is, going up. It did happen like that, if it happened at all.”\n\n“Pardon me,” said a frigid voice. “The chapel is somewhat small for two parties. We will incommode you no longer.”\n\nThe lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock,\nfor 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.\n\n“Stop!” cried Mr. Emerson. “There’s plenty of room for us all. Stop!”\n\nThe procession disappeared without a word.\n\nSoon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis.\n\n“George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate.”\n\nGeorge went into the next chapel and returned, saying “Perhaps he is. I don’t remember.”\n\n“Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It’s that Mr.\nEager. 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.”\n\n“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.\n\n“My father has that effect on nearly everyone,” he informed her. “He will try to be kind.”\n\n“I hope we all try,” said she, smiling nervously.\n\n“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.”\n\n“How silly of them!” said Lucy, though in her heart she sympathized; “I think that a kind action done tactfully—”\n\n“Tact!”\n\nHe threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wrong answer. She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel.\nFor 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,\nof 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,\nand she could re-enter the world of rapid talk, which was alone familiar to her.\n\n“Were you snubbed?” asked his son tranquilly.\n\n“But we have spoilt the pleasure of I don’t know how many people. They won’t come back.”\n\n“...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.\n\n“Don’t let us spoil yours,” he continued to Lucy. “Have you looked at those saints?”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy. “They are lovely. Do you know which is the tombstone that is praised in Ruskin?”\n\nHe did not know, and suggested that they should try to guess it.\nGeorge, 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.\n\n“Why will he look at that fresco?” he said uneasily. “I saw nothing in it.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“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.”\n\nLucy again felt that this did not do.\n\n“In Hell,” he repeated. “He’s unhappy.”\n\n“Oh, dear!” said Lucy.\n\n“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.”\n\nShe 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.\n\n“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?”\n\nLucy 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.\nYou might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time.\nYou 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,\nand 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.”\n\nTo this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer.\n\n“I only know what it is that’s wrong with him; not why it is.”\n\n“And what is it?” asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.\n\n“The old trouble; things won’t fit.”\n\n“What things?”\n\n“The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?”\n\nIn his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:\n\n“‘From far, from eve and morning,\n And yon twelve-winded sky,\nThe stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I’\n\n\nGeorge 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.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch assented.\n\n“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.”\n\nSuddenly 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,\nor a Yes, or something!\n\n“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.”\n\nThe old man’s face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand.\nThis 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,\nbefore she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.\n\n“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_.\nThere’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,\nyes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”" +- "“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.\nYou might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time.\nYou 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,\nand 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.”\n\nTo this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer.\n\n“I only know what it is that’s wrong with him; not why it is.”\n\n“And what is it?” asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.\n\n“The old trouble; things won’t fit.”\n\n“What things?”\n\n“The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don’t.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?”\n\nIn his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:\n\n“‘From far, from eve and morning,\n And yon twelve-winded sky,\nThe stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I’\n\n\nGeorge 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.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch assented.\n\n“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.”\n\nSuddenly 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,\nor a Yes, or something!\n\n“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.”\n\nThe old man’s face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand.\nThis 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,\nbefore she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached,\nhis face in the shadow. He said:\n\n“Miss Bartlett.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious me!” said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. “Where? Where?”\n\n“In the nave.”\n\n“I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have—” She checked herself.\n\n“Poor girl!” exploded Mr. Emerson. “Poor girl!”\n\nShe could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.\n\n“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_.\nThere’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,\nyes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church.”\n\nShe joined her cousin." +- "Chapter III Music, Violets, and the Letter “S”" - "It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave.\nThe 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.\nPerhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never.\n\nShe was no dazzling _exécutante;_ 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.\nPassion 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.\nBut 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.\n\nA 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.\n\nMr. 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,\nunder 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.\nBeebe who started the stamping; it was all that one could do.\n\n“Who is she?” he asked the vicar afterwards.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Introduce me.”\n\n“She will be delighted. She and Miss Bartlett are full of the praises of your sermon.”\n\n“My sermon?” cried Mr. Beebe. “Why ever did she listen to it?”\n\nWhen he was introduced he understood why, for Miss Honeychurch,\ndisjoined 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:\n\n“If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be very exciting both for us and for her.”\n\nLucy 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.”\n\n“Doesn’t Mrs. Honeychurch like music?”\n\n“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.\nOnce, 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—”\n\n“Of course,” said he, wondering why she bothered to explain.\n\n“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.\n\nThe street and the river were dirty yellow, the bridge was dirty grey,\nand 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.\n\n“What about music?” said Mr. Beebe.\n\n“Poor Charlotte will be sopped,” was Lucy’s reply.\n\nThe expedition was typical of Miss Bartlett, who would return cold,\ntired, 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.\n\n“Miss Lavish has led your cousin astray. She hopes to find the true Italy in the wet I believe.”\n\n“Miss Lavish is so original,” murmured Lucy. This was a stock remark,\nthe 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.\n\n“Is it true,” continued Lucy in awe-struck tone, “that Miss Lavish is writing a book?”\n\n“They do say so.”\n\n“What is it about?”\n\n“It will be a novel,” replied Mr. Beebe, “dealing with modern Italy.\nLet me refer you for an account to Miss Catharine Alan, who uses words herself more admirably than any one I know.”\n\n“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.”\n\n“The two ladies, at all events, have made it up.”\n\nHe 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,\nbut Mr. Beebe was, from rather profound reasons, somewhat chilly in his attitude towards the other sex, and preferred to be interested rather than enthralled.\n\nLucy, 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.\n\n“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.”\n\nShe 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.\n\n“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,\nand 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.\nYet in their heart of hearts they are—how superficial! They have no conception of the intellectual life. How right is Signora Bertolini,\nwho 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!’”\n\nMiss Alan did not follow, but gathered that she was being mocked in an agreeable way. Her sister was a little disappointed in Mr. Beebe,\nhaving 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?\n\nIn 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.”\n\n“That belongs to Lavish.” said the clergyman. “A good fellow, Lavish,\nbut I wish she’d start a pipe.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Beebe,” said Miss Alan, divided between awe and mirth.\n“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.”\n\n“What was that?” asked Lucy.\n\nMr. 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,\nthen 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.”\n\nMiss 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.\n\n“All the same, she is a little too—I hardly like to say unwomanly, but she behaved most strangely when the Emersons arrived.”\n\nMr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an anecdote which he knew she would be unable to finish in the presence of a gentleman.\n\n“I don’t know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss Pole,\nthe lady who has so much yellow hair, takes lemonade. That old Mr.\nEmerson, who puts things very strangely—”\n\nHer 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;\nit 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!\nI 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.\nCome, too.’ Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable invitation,\nand she had the impertinence to tell me that it would broaden my ideas,\nand 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.”\n\n“Let me finish the story,” said Mr. Beebe, who had returned.\n\n“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.”\n\n“Whatever happened?” cried Lucy.\n\n“No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe—old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want to know.”\n\nMr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the question for herself.\n\n“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?”\n\nThe little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly. Mr.\nBeebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by saying:\n\n“I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan, after that business of the violets.”\n\n“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,\nwho stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett,\nsmarting 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,\nhe knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner.\n\nLucy, 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.\n\n“But aren’t they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?” said the little lady inquisitively.\n\n“Only once. Charlotte didn’t like it, and said something—quite politely, of course.”\n\n“Most right of her. They don’t understand our ways. They must find their level.”\n\nMr. 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.\n\nEvening 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 façade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun.\n\n“Too late to go out,” said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. “All the galleries are shut.”\n\n“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.”\n\nHer two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:\n\n“I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won’t you be better on your feet?”\n\n“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan.\n\n“Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!”\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV Fourth Chapter\n\n\nMr. 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?\nCharlotte 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.\nIndirectly, 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.\nBut 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.\n\nLucy 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.\n\nThere she bought a photograph of Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.” Venus,\nbeing 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.\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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,\nhalf 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.\n\nShe 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,\nstill dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home.\n\nThen something did happen.\n\nTwo 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,\nfell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.\n\nShe thought: “Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“Oh, what have I done?” she murmured, and opened her eyes.\n\nGeorge 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.\n\nThey 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:\n\n“Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“You fainted.”\n\n“I—I am very sorry.”\n\n“How are you now?”\n\n“Perfectly well—absolutely well.” And she began to nod and smile.\n\n“Then let us come home. There’s no point in our stopping.”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you.”\n\nHis hand was still extended.\n\n“Oh, my photographs!” she exclaimed suddenly.\n\n“What photographs?”\n\n“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?”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“Miss Honeychurch!”\n\nShe stopped with her hand on her heart.\n\n“You sit still; you aren’t fit to go home alone.”\n\n“Yes, I am, thank you so very much.”\n\n“No, you aren’t. You’d go openly if you were.”\n\n“But I had rather—”\n\n“Then I don’t fetch your photographs.”\n\n“I had rather be alone.”\n\nHe 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.”\n\nIn the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day,\nand joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,\n“Oh, what have I done?”—the thought that she, as well as the dying man,\nhad crossed some spiritual boundary.\n\nHe 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,\nshe walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.\n\n“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?”\n\nHe had thrown something into the stream.\n\n“What did you throw in?”\n\n“Things I didn’t want,” he said crossly.\n\n“Mr. Emerson!”\n\n“Well?”\n\n“Where are the photographs?”\n\nHe was silent.\n\n“I believe it was my photographs that you threw away.”\n\n“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.\n“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.”\n\nSomething warned Lucy that she must stop him." -- "“It has happened,” he repeated, “and I mean to find out what it is.”\n\n“Mr. Emerson—”\n\nHe turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.\n\n“I want to ask you something before we go in.”\n\nThey 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:\n\n“I have behaved ridiculously.”\n\nHe was following his own thoughts.\n\n“I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me.”\n\n“I nearly fainted myself,” he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.\n\n“Well, I owe you a thousand apologies.”\n\n“Oh, all right.”\n\n“And—this is the real point—you know how silly people are gossiping—ladies especially, I am afraid—you understand what I mean?”\n\n“I’m afraid I don’t.”\n\n“I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?”\n\n“Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right—all right.”\n\n“Thank you so much. And would you—”\n\nShe 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;\nhis 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.\n\n“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”\n\n“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing\n\n\nIt was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one.\n\nFor good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure,\nnot that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events,\ncontradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.\n\nAt breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties—all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.\n\n“No, Charlotte!” cried the girl, with real warmth. “It’s very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather.”" -- "“Very well, dear,” said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her.\n\nShe slipped her arm into her cousin’s, and they started off along the Lung’ Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was “How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!”\n\nLucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.\n\n“Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice.”\n\nSerious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle—queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper—but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett’s insinuations.\n\nBut though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones,\na Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts.\n\nThe exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.\n\n“Oh, let me congratulate you!” said Miss Bartlett. “After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!”\n\n“Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning.” Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.\n\n“But perhaps you would rather not?”\n\n“I’m sorry—if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not.”\n\nThe elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.\n\n“It is I who am sorry,” said Miss Lavish “literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there’s no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn’t pry.”\n\nShe marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o’clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.\n\n“What is the heroine’s name?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Leonora,” said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.\n\n“I do hope she’s nice.”\n\nThat desideratum would not be omitted.\n\n“And what is the plot?”\n\nLove, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.\n\n“I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,” Miss Lavish concluded. “It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist.”\n\n“Oh, you wicked woman,” cried Miss Bartlett. “I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons.”\n\nMiss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile.\n\n“I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen.\nIt is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday’s is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life.”\n\nThere was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square.\n\n“She is my idea of a really clever woman,” said Miss Bartlett. “That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel.”" -- "Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an _ingenué_.\n\n“She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word,”\ncontinued Miss Bartlett slowly. “None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman—Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!”\n\n“Ah, not for me,” said the chaplain blandly, “for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time.”\n\n“We were chatting to Miss Lavish.”\n\nHis brow contracted.\n\n“So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!” The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. “I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week—a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano.\nThere is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour’s ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful—far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures.\nThat man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us.”\n\nMiss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of,\nand saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them.\nLiving in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole’s slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook.\n\nTherefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of.\nBetween the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that—how Lucy would enjoy it!\n\nA few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett—even if culminating in a residential tea-party—was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere.\n\n“So we shall be a _partie carrée_,” said the chaplain. “In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town! Beautiful as it is, it is the town.”\n\nThey assented.\n\n“This very square—so I am told—witnessed yesterday the most sordid of tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola there is something portentous in such desecration—portentous and humiliating.”\n\n“Humiliating indeed,” said Miss Bartlett. “Miss Honeychurch happened to be passing through as it happened. She can hardly bear to speak of it.”\nShe glanced at Lucy proudly.\n\n“And how came we to have you here?” asked the chaplain paternally.\n\nMiss Bartlett’s recent liberalism oozed away at the question. “Do not blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The fault is mine: I left her unchaperoned.”\n\n“So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?” His voice suggested sympathetic reproof but at the same time indicated that a few harrowing details would not be unacceptable. His dark, handsome face drooped mournfully towards her to catch her reply.\n\n“Practically.”\n\n“One of our pension acquaintances kindly brought her home,” said Miss Bartlett, adroitly concealing the sex of the preserver." -- "“For her also it must have been a terrible experience. I trust that neither of you was at all—that it was not in your immediate proximity?”\n\nOf the many things Lucy was noticing to-day, not the least remarkable was this: the ghoulish fashion in which respectable people will nibble after blood. George Emerson had kept the subject strangely pure.\n\n“He died by the fountain, I believe,” was her reply.\n\n“And you and your friend—”\n\n“Were over at the Loggia.”\n\n“That must have saved you much. You have not, of course, seen the disgraceful illustrations which the gutter Press—This man is a public nuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly well, and yet he goes on worrying me to buy his vulgar views.”\n\nSurely the vendor of photographs was in league with Lucy—in the eternal league of Italy with youth. He had suddenly extended his book before Miss Bartlett and Mr. Eager, binding their hands together by a long glossy ribbon of churches, pictures, and views.\n\n“This is too much!” cried the chaplain, striking petulantly at one of Fra Angelico’s angels. She tore. A shrill cry rose from the vendor. The book it seemed, was more valuable than one would have supposed.\n\n“Willingly would I purchase—” began Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Ignore him,” said Mr. Eager sharply, and they all walked rapidly away from the square.\n\nBut an Italian can never be ignored, least of all when he has a grievance. His mysterious persecution of Mr. Eager became relentless;\nthe air rang with his threats and lamentations. He appealed to Lucy;\nwould not she intercede? He was poor—he sheltered a family—the tax on bread. He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed, he was dissatisfied,\nhe did not leave them until he had swept their minds clean of all thoughts whether pleasant or unpleasant.\n\nShopping was the topic that now ensued. Under the chaplain’s guidance they selected many hideous presents and mementoes—florid little picture-frames that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other little frames, more severe, that stood on little easels, and were carven out of oak; a blotting book of vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheap mosaic brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, would never tell from real; pins, pots, heraldic saucers, brown art-photographs; Eros and Psyche in alabaster; St. Peter to match—all of which would have cost less in London.\n\nThis successful morning left no pleasant impressions on Lucy. She had been a little frightened, both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she knew not why. And as they frightened her, she had, strangely enough,\nceased to respect them. She doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist. She doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality and culture as she had been led to suppose. They were tried by some new test, and they were found wanting. As for Charlotte—as for Charlotte she was exactly the same. It might be possible to be nice to her; it was impossible to love her.\n\n“The son of a labourer; I happen to know it for a fact. A mechanic of some sort himself when he was young; then he took to writing for the Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton.”\n\nThey were talking about the Emersons.\n\n“How wonderfully people rise in these days!” sighed Miss Bartlett,\nfingering a model of the leaning Tower of Pisa.\n\n“Generally,” replied Mr. Eager, “one has only sympathy for their success. The desire for education and for social advance—in these things there is something not wholly vile. There are some working men whom one would be very willing to see out here in Florence—little as they would make of it.”\n\n“Is he a journalist now?” Miss Bartlett asked.\n\n“He is not; he made an advantageous marriage.”\n\nHe uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning, and ended with a sigh.\n\n“Oh, so he has a wife.”\n\n“Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder—yes I wonder how he has the effrontery to look me in the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with me. He was in my London parish long ago. The other day in Santa Croce,\nwhen he was with Miss Honeychurch, I snubbed him. Let him beware that he does not get more than a snub.”\n\n“What?” cried Lucy, flushing.\n\n“Exposure!” hissed Mr. Eager." -- "He tried to change the subject; but in scoring a dramatic point he had interested his audience more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett was full of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she wished never to see the Emersons again, was not disposed to condemn them on a single word.\n\n“Do you mean,” she asked, “that he is an irreligious man? We know that already.”\n\n“Lucy, dear—” said Miss Bartlett, gently reproving her cousin’s penetration.\n\n“I should be astonished if you knew all. The boy—an innocent child at the time—I will exclude. God knows what his education and his inherited qualities may have made him.”\n\n“Perhaps,” said Miss Bartlett, “it is something that we had better not hear.”\n\n“To speak plainly,” said Mr. Eager, “it is. I will say no more.” For the first time Lucy’s rebellious thoughts swept out in words—for the first time in her life.\n\n“You have said very little.”\n\n“It was my intention to say very little,” was his frigid reply.\n\nHe gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal indignation.\nShe turned towards him from the shop counter; her breast heaved quickly. He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of her lips. It was intolerable that she should disbelieve him.\n\n“Murder, if you want to know,” he cried angrily. “That man murdered his wife!”\n\n“How?” she retorted.\n\n“To all intents and purposes he murdered her. That day in Santa Croce—did they say anything against me?”\n\n“Not a word, Mr. Eager—not a single word.”\n\n“Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to you. But I suppose it is only their personal charms that makes you defend them.”\n\n“I’m not defending them,” said Lucy, losing her courage, and relapsing into the old chaotic methods. “They’re nothing to me.”\n\n“How could you think she was defending them?” said Miss Bartlett, much discomfited by the unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly listening.\n\n“She will find it difficult. For that man has murdered his wife in the sight of God.”\n\nThe addition of God was striking. But the chaplain was really trying to qualify a rash remark. A silence followed which might have been impressive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bartlett hastily purchased the Leaning Tower, and led the way into the street.\n\n“I must be going,” said he, shutting his eyes and taking out his watch.\n\nMiss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, and spoke with enthusiasm of the approaching drive.\n\n“Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off?”\n\nLucy was recalled to her manners, and after a little exertion the complacency of Mr. Eager was restored.\n\n“Bother the drive!” exclaimed the girl, as soon as he had departed. “It is just the drive we had arranged with Mr. Beebe without any fuss at all. Why should he invite us in that absurd manner? We might as well invite him. We are each paying for ourselves.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, was launched by this remark into unexpected thoughts.\n\n“If that is so, dear—if the drive we and Mr. Beebe are going with Mr.\nEager is really the same as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then I foresee a sad kettle of fish.”\n\n“How?”\n\n“Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish to come, too.”\n\n“That will mean another carriage.”\n\n“Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it herself. The truth must be told; she is too unconventional for him.”\n\nThey were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank. Lucy stood by the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to answer,\nor at all events to formulate the questions rioting in her brain. The well-known world had broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic city where people thought and did the most extraordinary things.\nMurder, accusations of murder, a lady clinging to one man and being rude to another—were these the daily incidents of her streets? Was there more in her frank beauty than met the eye—the power, perhaps, to evoke passions, good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment?" -- "Happy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture with admirable delicacy “where things might lead to,” but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: “Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr.\nEager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor out altogether—which they could scarcely do—but in any case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!”\n\n“It is indeed,” replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic.\n\n“What do you think about it?” asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress.\n\n“I don’t know what I think, nor what I want.”\n\n“Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn’t boring you. Speak the word,\nand, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow.”\n\n“Thank you, Charlotte,” said Lucy, and pondered over the offer.\n\nThere were letters for her at the bureau—one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother’s letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald—all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveller returns.\n\n“And the news?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome,” said Lucy, giving the news that interested her least. “Do you know the Vyses?”\n\n“Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Piazza Signoria.”\n\n“They’re nice people, the Vyses. So clever—my idea of what’s really clever. Don’t you long to be in Rome?”\n\n“I die for it!”\n\nThe Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something,\nand though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god.\n\n“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them." +- "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,\nwho stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett,\nsmarting 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,\nhe knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his parishioner.\n\nLucy, 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.\n\n“But aren’t they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?” said the little lady inquisitively.\n\n“Only once. Charlotte didn’t like it, and said something—quite politely, of course.”\n\n“Most right of her. They don’t understand our ways. They must find their level.”\n\nMr. 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.\n\nEvening 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 façade of San Miniato shone brilliantly in the declining sun.\n\n“Too late to go out,” said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. “All the galleries are shut.”\n\n“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.”\n\nHer two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:\n\n“I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go out alone, won’t you be better on your feet?”\n\n“Italians, dear, you know,” said Miss Alan.\n\n“Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through!”\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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.”" +- Chapter IV Fourth 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?\nCharlotte 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.\nIndirectly, 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.\n\nThere 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.\nBut 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.\n\nLucy 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.\n\nThere she bought a photograph of Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.” Venus,\nbeing 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.\n\nBut 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.\n\n“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,\nhalf 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,\nstill dancing before her eyes when she bent them to the ground and started towards home.\n\nThen something did happen.\n\nTwo 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.\n\nThat 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,\nfell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.\n\nShe thought: “Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“Oh, what have I done?” she murmured, and opened her eyes.\n\nGeorge 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.\n\nThey 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:\n\n“Oh, what have I done?”\n\n“You fainted.”\n\n“I—I am very sorry.”\n\n“How are you now?”\n\n“Perfectly well—absolutely well.” And she began to nod and smile.\n\n“Then let us come home. There’s no point in our stopping.”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you.”\n\nHis hand was still extended.\n\n“Oh, my photographs!” she exclaimed suddenly.\n\n“What photographs?”\n\n“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?”\n\nHe 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.\n\n“Miss Honeychurch!”\n\nShe stopped with her hand on her heart.\n\n“You sit still; you aren’t fit to go home alone.”\n\n“Yes, I am, thank you so very much.”\n\n“No, you aren’t. You’d go openly if you were.”\n\n“But I had rather—”\n\n“Then I don’t fetch your photographs.”\n\n“I had rather be alone.”\n\nHe 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.”\n\nIn the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day,\nand joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the thought occurred to her,\n“Oh, what have I done?”—the thought that she, as well as the dying man,\nhad crossed some spiritual boundary.\n\nHe 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,\nshe walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused him.\n\n“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?”\n\nHe had thrown something into the stream.\n\n“What did you throw in?”\n\n“Things I didn’t want,” he said crossly.\n\n“Mr. Emerson!”\n\n“Well?”\n\n“Where are the photographs?”\n\nHe was silent." +- "“I believe it was my photographs that you threw away.”\n\n“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.\n“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.”\n\nSomething warned Lucy that she must stop him.\n\n“It has happened,” he repeated, “and I mean to find out what it is.”\n\n“Mr. Emerson—”\n\nHe turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in some abstract quest.\n\n“I want to ask you something before we go in.”\n\nThey 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:\n\n“I have behaved ridiculously.”\n\nHe was following his own thoughts.\n\n“I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think what came over me.”\n\n“I nearly fainted myself,” he said; but she felt that her attitude repelled him.\n\n“Well, I owe you a thousand apologies.”\n\n“Oh, all right.”\n\n“And—this is the real point—you know how silly people are gossiping—ladies especially, I am afraid—you understand what I mean?”\n\n“I’m afraid I don’t.”\n\n“I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish behaviour?”\n\n“Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right—all right.”\n\n“Thank you so much. And would you—”\n\nShe 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;\nhis 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.\n\n“Well, thank you so much,” she repeated, “How quickly these accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!”\n\n“I don’t.”\n\nAnxiety moved her to question him.\n\nHis answer was puzzling: “I shall probably want to live.”\n\n“But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?”\n\n“I shall want to live, I say.”\n\nLeaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River Arno,\nwhose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears." +- Chapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing +- "It was a family saying that “you never knew which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent and _désœuvré_, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It might have been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one.\n\nFor good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of “Too much Beethoven.” But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure,\nnot that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events,\ncontradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.\n\nAt breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party? Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and other irksome duties—all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish this morning and could easily accomplish alone.\n\n“No, Charlotte!” cried the girl, with real warmth. “It’s very kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much rather.”\n\n“Very well, dear,” said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to her.\n\nShe slipped her arm into her cousin’s, and they started off along the Lung’ Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength, voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was “How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!”\n\nLucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped exactly where she did.\n\n“Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party. I feared you would repent you of your choice.”\n\nSerious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had been a muddle—queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write down easily on paper—but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett’s insinuations.\n\nBut though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate, led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have believed that stones,\na Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower, would have such significance. For a moment she understood the nature of ghosts.\n\nThe exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a book.\n\n“Oh, let me congratulate you!” said Miss Bartlett. “After your despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!”\n\n“Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning.” Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.\n\n“But perhaps you would rather not?”\n\n“I’m sorry—if you could manage without it, I think I would rather not.”\n\nThe elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is suitable that a girl should feel deeply.\n\n“It is I who am sorry,” said Miss Lavish “literary hacks are shameless creatures. I believe there’s no secret of the human heart into which we wouldn’t pry.”" +- "She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the Piazza since eight o’clock collecting material. A good deal of it was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent plot.\n\n“What is the heroine’s name?” asked Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Leonora,” said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.\n\n“I do hope she’s nice.”\n\nThat desideratum would not be omitted.\n\n“And what is the plot?”\n\nLove, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.\n\n“I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this,” Miss Lavish concluded. “It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be unmerciful to the British tourist.”\n\n“Oh, you wicked woman,” cried Miss Bartlett. “I am sure you are thinking of the Emersons.”\n\nMiss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile.\n\n“I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own countrymen.\nIt is the neglected Italians who attract me, and whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday’s is not the less tragic because it happened in humble life.”\n\nThere was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away across the square.\n\n“She is my idea of a really clever woman,” said Miss Bartlett. “That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be a most pathetic novel.”\n\nLucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an _ingenué_.\n\n“She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the word,”\ncontinued Miss Bartlett slowly. “None but the superficial would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman—Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!”\n\n“Ah, not for me,” said the chaplain blandly, “for I have been watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time.”\n\n“We were chatting to Miss Lavish.”\n\nHis brow contracted.\n\n“So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!” The last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with a courteous smile. “I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week—a drive in the hills? We might go up by Fiesole and back by Settignano.\nThere is a point on that road where we could get down and have an hour’s ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful—far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures.\nThat man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us.”\n\nMiss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of,\nand saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them.\nLiving in delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas on Fiesole’s slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets the coupons of Cook." +- "Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be proud of.\nBetween the two sections of his flock he was often the only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that—how Lucy would enjoy it!\n\nA few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager and Miss Bartlett—even if culminating in a residential tea-party—was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere.\n\n“So we shall be a _partie carrée_,” said the chaplain. “In these days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah, the town! Beautiful as it is, it is the town.”\n\nThey assented.\n\n“This very square—so I am told—witnessed yesterday the most sordid of tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and Savonarola there is something portentous in such desecration—portentous and humiliating.”\n\n“Humiliating indeed,” said Miss Bartlett. “Miss Honeychurch happened to be passing through as it happened. She can hardly bear to speak of it.”\nShe glanced at Lucy proudly.\n\n“And how came we to have you here?” asked the chaplain paternally.\n\nMiss Bartlett’s recent liberalism oozed away at the question. “Do not blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The fault is mine: I left her unchaperoned.”\n\n“So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?” His voice suggested sympathetic reproof but at the same time indicated that a few harrowing details would not be unacceptable. His dark, handsome face drooped mournfully towards her to catch her reply.\n\n“Practically.”\n\n“One of our pension acquaintances kindly brought her home,” said Miss Bartlett, adroitly concealing the sex of the preserver.\n\n“For her also it must have been a terrible experience. I trust that neither of you was at all—that it was not in your immediate proximity?”\n\nOf the many things Lucy was noticing to-day, not the least remarkable was this: the ghoulish fashion in which respectable people will nibble after blood. George Emerson had kept the subject strangely pure.\n\n“He died by the fountain, I believe,” was her reply.\n\n“And you and your friend—”\n\n“Were over at the Loggia.”\n\n“That must have saved you much. You have not, of course, seen the disgraceful illustrations which the gutter Press—This man is a public nuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly well, and yet he goes on worrying me to buy his vulgar views.”\n\nSurely the vendor of photographs was in league with Lucy—in the eternal league of Italy with youth. He had suddenly extended his book before Miss Bartlett and Mr. Eager, binding their hands together by a long glossy ribbon of churches, pictures, and views.\n\n“This is too much!” cried the chaplain, striking petulantly at one of Fra Angelico’s angels. She tore. A shrill cry rose from the vendor. The book it seemed, was more valuable than one would have supposed.\n\n“Willingly would I purchase—” began Miss Bartlett.\n\n“Ignore him,” said Mr. Eager sharply, and they all walked rapidly away from the square.\n\nBut an Italian can never be ignored, least of all when he has a grievance. His mysterious persecution of Mr. Eager became relentless;\nthe air rang with his threats and lamentations. He appealed to Lucy;\nwould not she intercede? He was poor—he sheltered a family—the tax on bread. He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed, he was dissatisfied,\nhe did not leave them until he had swept their minds clean of all thoughts whether pleasant or unpleasant." +- "Shopping was the topic that now ensued. Under the chaplain’s guidance they selected many hideous presents and mementoes—florid little picture-frames that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other little frames, more severe, that stood on little easels, and were carven out of oak; a blotting book of vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheap mosaic brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, would never tell from real; pins, pots, heraldic saucers, brown art-photographs; Eros and Psyche in alabaster; St. Peter to match—all of which would have cost less in London.\n\nThis successful morning left no pleasant impressions on Lucy. She had been a little frightened, both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she knew not why. And as they frightened her, she had, strangely enough,\nceased to respect them. She doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist. She doubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality and culture as she had been led to suppose. They were tried by some new test, and they were found wanting. As for Charlotte—as for Charlotte she was exactly the same. It might be possible to be nice to her; it was impossible to love her.\n\n“The son of a labourer; I happen to know it for a fact. A mechanic of some sort himself when he was young; then he took to writing for the Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton.”\n\nThey were talking about the Emersons.\n\n“How wonderfully people rise in these days!” sighed Miss Bartlett,\nfingering a model of the leaning Tower of Pisa.\n\n“Generally,” replied Mr. Eager, “one has only sympathy for their success. The desire for education and for social advance—in these things there is something not wholly vile. There are some working men whom one would be very willing to see out here in Florence—little as they would make of it.”\n\n“Is he a journalist now?” Miss Bartlett asked.\n\n“He is not; he made an advantageous marriage.”\n\nHe uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning, and ended with a sigh.\n\n“Oh, so he has a wife.”\n\n“Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder—yes I wonder how he has the effrontery to look me in the face, to dare to claim acquaintance with me. He was in my London parish long ago. The other day in Santa Croce,\nwhen he was with Miss Honeychurch, I snubbed him. Let him beware that he does not get more than a snub.”\n\n“What?” cried Lucy, flushing.\n\n“Exposure!” hissed Mr. Eager.\n\nHe tried to change the subject; but in scoring a dramatic point he had interested his audience more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett was full of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she wished never to see the Emersons again, was not disposed to condemn them on a single word.\n\n“Do you mean,” she asked, “that he is an irreligious man? We know that already.”\n\n“Lucy, dear—” said Miss Bartlett, gently reproving her cousin’s penetration.\n\n“I should be astonished if you knew all. The boy—an innocent child at the time—I will exclude. God knows what his education and his inherited qualities may have made him.”\n\n“Perhaps,” said Miss Bartlett, “it is something that we had better not hear.”\n\n“To speak plainly,” said Mr. Eager, “it is. I will say no more.” For the first time Lucy’s rebellious thoughts swept out in words—for the first time in her life.\n\n“You have said very little.”\n\n“It was my intention to say very little,” was his frigid reply.\n\nHe gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal indignation.\nShe turned towards him from the shop counter; her breast heaved quickly. He observed her brow, and the sudden strength of her lips. It was intolerable that she should disbelieve him.\n\n“Murder, if you want to know,” he cried angrily. “That man murdered his wife!”\n\n“How?” she retorted.\n\n“To all intents and purposes he murdered her. That day in Santa Croce—did they say anything against me?”\n\n“Not a word, Mr. Eager—not a single word.”\n\n“Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to you. But I suppose it is only their personal charms that makes you defend them.”\n\n“I’m not defending them,” said Lucy, losing her courage, and relapsing into the old chaotic methods. “They’re nothing to me.”\n\n“How could you think she was defending them?” said Miss Bartlett, much discomfited by the unpleasant scene. The shopman was possibly listening." +- "“She will find it difficult. For that man has murdered his wife in the sight of God.”\n\nThe addition of God was striking. But the chaplain was really trying to qualify a rash remark. A silence followed which might have been impressive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bartlett hastily purchased the Leaning Tower, and led the way into the street.\n\n“I must be going,” said he, shutting his eyes and taking out his watch.\n\nMiss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, and spoke with enthusiasm of the approaching drive.\n\n“Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off?”\n\nLucy was recalled to her manners, and after a little exertion the complacency of Mr. Eager was restored.\n\n“Bother the drive!” exclaimed the girl, as soon as he had departed. “It is just the drive we had arranged with Mr. Beebe without any fuss at all. Why should he invite us in that absurd manner? We might as well invite him. We are each paying for ourselves.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, was launched by this remark into unexpected thoughts.\n\n“If that is so, dear—if the drive we and Mr. Beebe are going with Mr.\nEager is really the same as the one we are going with Mr. Beebe, then I foresee a sad kettle of fish.”\n\n“How?”\n\n“Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish to come, too.”\n\n“That will mean another carriage.”\n\n“Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it herself. The truth must be told; she is too unconventional for him.”\n\nThey were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank. Lucy stood by the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic, trying to answer,\nor at all events to formulate the questions rioting in her brain. The well-known world had broken up, and there emerged Florence, a magic city where people thought and did the most extraordinary things.\nMurder, accusations of murder, a lady clinging to one man and being rude to another—were these the daily incidents of her streets? Was there more in her frank beauty than met the eye—the power, perhaps, to evoke passions, good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment?\n\nHappy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture with admirable delicacy “where things might lead to,” but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: “Whether it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr.\nEager who forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave Eleanor out altogether—which they could scarcely do—but in any case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficult it is!”\n\n“It is indeed,” replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded sympathetic.\n\n“What do you think about it?” asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from the struggle, and buttoning up her dress.\n\n“I don’t know what I think, nor what I want.”\n\n“Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn’t boring you. Speak the word,\nand, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth to-morrow.”\n\n“Thank you, Charlotte,” said Lucy, and pondered over the offer.\n\nThere were letters for her at the bureau—one from her brother, full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only her mother’s letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the view over the Sussex Weald—all hung before her bright and distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, a traveller returns.\n\n“And the news?” asked Miss Bartlett." +- "“Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome,” said Lucy, giving the news that interested her least. “Do you know the Vyses?”\n\n“Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear Piazza Signoria.”\n\n“They’re nice people, the Vyses. So clever—my idea of what’s really clever. Don’t you long to be in Rome?”\n\n“I die for it!”\n\nThe Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance—unless we believe in a presiding genius of places—the statues that relieve its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something,\nand though they are immortal, immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god.\n\n“Charlotte!” cried the girl suddenly. “Here’s an idea. What if we popped off to Rome to-morrow—straight to the Vyses’ hotel? For I do know what I want. I’m sick of Florence. No, you said you’d go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!”\n\nMiss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:\n\n“Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in the hills?”\n\nThey passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square, laughing over the unpractical suggestion." +- "Chapter VI The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager, Mr. Emerson,\nMr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them." - "It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master’s horses up the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying that she was his sister—Persephone, tall and slender and pale, returning with the Spring to her mother’s cottage, and still shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guard against imposition. But the ladies interceded, and when it had been made clear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mount beside the god.\n\nPhaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus enabling himself to drive with his arm round her waist. She did not mind. Mr.\nEager, who sat with his back to the horses, saw nothing of the indecorous proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy. The other two occupants of the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and Miss Lavish. For a dreadful thing had happened: Mr. Beebe, without consulting Mr. Eager, had doubled the size of the party. And though Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how the people were to sit, at the critical moment when the carriages came round they lost their heads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while Miss Bartlett, with George Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind.\n\nIt was hard on the poor chaplain to have his _partie carrée_ thus transformed. Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated it,\nwas now impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain style about them, and Mr. Beebe, though unreliable, was a man of parts. But a shoddy lady writer and a journalist who had murdered his wife in the sight of God—they should enter no villa at his introduction.\n\nLucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and nervous amid these explosive ingredients, attentive to Mr. Eager, repressive towards Miss Lavish, watchful of old Mr. Emerson, hitherto fortunately asleep,\nthanks to a heavy lunch and the drowsy atmosphere of Spring. She looked on the expedition as the work of Fate. But for it she would have avoided George Emerson successfully. In an open manner he had shown that he wished to continue their intimacy. She had refused, not because she disliked him, but because she did not know what had happened, and suspected that he did know. And this frightened her.\n\nFor the real event—whatever it was—had taken place, not in the Loggia,\nbut by the river. To behave wildly at the sight of death is pardonable.\nBut to discuss it afterwards, to pass from discussion into silence, and through silence into sympathy, that is an error, not of a startled emotion, but of the whole fabric. There was really something blameworthy (she thought) in their joint contemplation of the shadowy stream, in the common impulse which had turned them to the house without the passing of a look or word. This sense of wickedness had been slight at first. She had nearly joined the party to the Torre del Gallo. But each time that she avoided George it became more imperative that she should avoid him again. And now celestial irony, working through her cousin and two clergymen, did not suffer her to leave Florence till she had made this expedition with him through the hills.\n\nMeanwhile Mr. Eager held her in civil converse; their little tiff was over.\n\n“So, Miss Honeychurch, you are travelling? As a student of art?”\n\n“Oh, dear me, no—oh, no!”\n\n“Perhaps as a student of human nature,” interposed Miss Lavish, “like myself?”\n\n“Oh, no. I am here as a tourist.”" - "“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Eager. “Are you indeed? If you will not think me rude, we residents sometimes pity you poor tourists not a little—handed about like a parcel of goods from Venice to Florence, from Florence to Rome, living herded together in pensions or hotels, quite unconscious of anything that is outside Baedeker, their one anxiety to get ‘done’\nor ‘through’ and go on somewhere else. The result is, they mix up towns, rivers, palaces in one inextricable whirl. You know the American girl in Punch who says: ‘Say, poppa, what did we see at Rome?’ And the father replies: ‘Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the yaller dog.’ There’s travelling for you. Ha! ha! ha!”\n\n“I quite agree,” said Miss Lavish, who had several times tried to interrupt his mordant wit. “The narrowness and superficiality of the Anglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace.”\n\n“Quite so. Now, the English colony at Florence, Miss Honeychurch—and it is of considerable size, though, of course, not all equally—a few are here for trade, for example. But the greater part are students. Lady Helen Laverstock is at present busy over Fra Angelico. I mention her name because we are passing her villa on the left. No, you can only see it if you stand—no, do not stand; you will fall. She is very proud of that thick hedge. Inside, perfect seclusion. One might have gone back six hundred years. Some critics believe that her garden was the scene of The Decameron, which lends it an additional interest, does it not?”\n\n“It does indeed!” cried Miss Lavish. “Tell me, where do they place the scene of that wonderful seventh day?”\n\nBut Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honeychurch that on the right lived Mr. Someone Something, an American of the best type—so rare!—and that the Somebody Elses were farther down the hill. “Doubtless you know her monographs in the series of ‘Mediæval Byways’? He is working at Gemistus Pletho. Sometimes as I take tea in their beautiful grounds I hear, over the wall, the electric tram squealing up the new road with its loads of hot, dusty, unintelligent tourists who are going to ‘do’\nFiesole in an hour in order that they may say they have been there, and I think—think—I think how little they think what lies so near them.”\n\nDuring this speech the two figures on the box were sporting with each other disgracefully. Lucy had a spasm of envy. Granted that they wished to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to do so. They were probably the only people enjoying the expedition. The carriage swept with agonizing jolts up through the Piazza of Fiesole and into the Settignano road.\n\n“Piano! piano!” said Mr. Eager, elegantly waving his hand over his head.\n\n“Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene,” crooned the driver, and whipped his horses up again.\n\nNow Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on the subject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, or was he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind.\nAs the pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr.\nEmerson was thrown against the chaplain with the regularity of a machine.\n\n“Piano! piano!” said he, with a martyred look at Lucy.\n\nAn extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. Phaethon, who for some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded.\n\nA little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, was most unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered to disentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his _pourboire_, the girl was immediately to get down.\n\n“She is my sister,” said he, turning round on them with piteous eyes.\n\nMr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar.\n\nPhaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation, but at its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated,\nand patted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish,\nthough unwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism." - "“Most certainly I would let them be,” she cried. “But I dare say I shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of the conventions all my life. This is what _I_ call an adventure.”\n\n“We must not submit,” said Mr. Eager. “I knew he was trying it on. He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook’s tourists.”\n\n“Surely no!” said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing.\n\nThe other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behave themselves properly.\n\n“Leave them alone,” Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. “Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers—A king might envy us, and if we part them it’s more like sacrilege than anything I know.”\n\nHere the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd had begun to collect.\n\nMr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a deep-voiced stream,\nwith unexpected cataracts and boulders to preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager’s mouth it resembled nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever higher and higher, and quicker and quicker,\nand more and more shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.\n\n“Signorina!” said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased. Why should he appeal to Lucy?\n\n“Signorina!” echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She pointed at the other carriage. Why?\n\nFor a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone got down from the box.\n\n“Victory at last!” said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as the carriages started again.\n\n“It is not victory,” said Mr. Emerson. “It is defeat. You have parted two people who were happy.”\n\nMr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr. Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to agree with him; he shouted for support to his son.\n\n“We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over his soul.”\n\nMiss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as typically British speaks out of his character.\n\n“He was not driving us well,” she said. “He jolted us.”\n\n“That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting us now.\nCan you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I’d be frightened of the girl,\ntoo. It doesn’t do to injure young people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?”\n\nMiss Lavish bristled.\n\n“Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account of his diminutive stature?”\n\n“The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo the poet. He wrote a line—so I heard yesterday—which runs like this: ‘Don’t go fighting against the Spring.’”\n\nMr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition.\n\n“Non fate guerra al Maggio,” he murmured. “‘War not with the May’ would render a correct meaning.”\n\n“The point is, we have warred with it. Look.” He pointed to the Val d’Arno, which was visible far below them, through the budding trees.\n“Fifty miles of Spring, and we’ve come up to admire them. Do you suppose there’s any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same laws work eternally through both.”" - "No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated,\nwet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d’Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, had become equally enthusiastic.\n\nBut it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti in your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before starting.\nAnd the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of the quest.\n\nThe party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety to keep together being only equalled by their desire to go different directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who were expected to have topics in common, were left to each other.\n\nThe two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered “the railway.” She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not very much hurt at her asking him.\n\n“The railway!” gasped Miss Lavish. “Oh, but I shall die! Of course it was the railway!” She could not control her mirth. “He is the image of a porter—on, on the South-Eastern.”\n\n“Eleanor, be quiet,” plucking at her vivacious companion. “Hush!\nThey’ll hear—the Emersons—”\n\n“I can’t stop. Let me go my wicked way. A porter—”\n\n“Eleanor!”\n\n“I’m sure it’s all right,” put in Lucy. “The Emersons won’t hear, and they wouldn’t mind if they did.”\n\nMiss Lavish did not seem pleased at this.\n\n“Miss Honeychurch listening!” she said rather crossly. “Pouf! Wouf! You naughty girl! Go away!”\n\n“Oh, Lucy, you ought to be with Mr. Eager, I’m sure.”\n\n“I can’t find them now, and I don’t want to either.”\n\n“Mr. Eager will be offended. It is your party.”\n\n“Please, I’d rather stop here with you.”\n\n“No, I agree,” said Miss Lavish. “It’s like a school feast; the boys have got separated from the girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish to converse on high topics unsuited for your ear.”\n\nThe girl was stubborn. As her time at Florence drew to its close she was only at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent. Such a one was Miss Lavish, and such for the moment was Charlotte. She wished she had not called attention to herself; they were both annoyed at her remark and seemed determined to get rid of her.\n\n“How tired one gets,” said Miss Bartlett. “Oh, I do wish Freddy and your mother could be here.”\n\nUnselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely usurped the functions of enthusiasm. Lucy did not look at the view either. She would not enjoy anything till she was safe at Rome.\n\n“Then sit you down,” said Miss Lavish. “Observe my foresight.”\n\nWith many a smile she produced two of those mackintosh squares that protect the frame of the tourist from damp grass or cold marble steps.\nShe sat on one; who was to sit on the other?" - "“Lucy; without a moment’s doubt, Lucy. The ground will do for me.\nReally I have not had rheumatism for years. If I do feel it coming on I shall stand. Imagine your mother’s feelings if I let you sit in the wet in your white linen.” She sat down heavily where the ground looked particularly moist. “Here we are, all settled delightfully. Even if my dress is thinner it will not show so much, being brown. Sit down, dear;\nyou are too unselfish; you don’t assert yourself enough.” She cleared her throat. “Now don’t be alarmed; this isn’t a cold. It’s the tiniest cough, and I have had it three days. It’s nothing to do with sitting here at all.”\n\nThere was only one way of treating the situation. At the end of five minutes Lucy departed in search of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager, vanquished by the mackintosh square.\n\nShe addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in the carriages, perfuming the cushions with cigars. The miscreant, a bony young man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with the courtesy of a host and the assurance of a relative.\n\n“Dove?” said Lucy, after much anxious thought.\n\nHis face lit up. Of course he knew where. Not so far either. His arm swept three-fourths of the horizon. He should just think he did know where. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead and then pushed them towards her, as if oozing with visible extract of knowledge.\n\nMore seemed necessary. What was the Italian for “clergyman”?\n\n“Dove buoni uomini?” said she at last.\n\nGood? Scarcely the adjective for those noble beings! He showed her his cigar.\n\n“Uno—piu—piccolo,” was her next remark, implying “Has the cigar been given to you by Mr. Beebe, the smaller of the two good men?”\n\nShe was correct as usual. He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it to make it stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded his hat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than a quarter of a minute was ready to conduct her. Italians are born knowing the way.\nIt would seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but as a chess-board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces as well as the squares. Any one can find places, but the finding of people is a gift from God.\n\nHe only stopped once, to pick her some great blue violets. She thanked him with real pleasure. In the company of this common man the world was beautiful and direct. For the first time she felt the influence of Spring. His arm swept the horizon gracefully; violets, like other things, existed in great profusion there; “would she like to see them?”\n\n“Ma buoni uomini.”\n\nHe bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceeded briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. They were nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing round them, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into countless pieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the pliant boughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not a twig, was unimportant to her.\n\n“What is that?”\n\nThere was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The voice of Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian’s ignorance is sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She could not make him understand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view was forming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, other hills.\n\n“Eccolo!” he exclaimed.\n\nAt the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end.\n\n“Courage!” cried her companion, now standing some six feet above.\n“Courage and love.”\n\nShe did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into view,\nand violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts, irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion; this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth." -- "Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.\nBut he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.\n\nGeorge had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.\n\nBefore she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII They Return\n\n\nSome complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye.\nCharlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon had lost the game.\n\nThat last fact was undeniable. He climbed on to the box shivering, with his collar up, prophesying the swift approach of bad weather. “Let us go immediately,” he told them. “The signorino will walk.”\n\n“All the way? He will be hours,” said Mr. Beebe.\n\n“Apparently. I told him it was unwise.” He would look no one in the face; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him. He alone had played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the others had used scraps of their intelligence. He alone had divined what things were, and what he wished them to be. He alone had interpreted the message that Lucy had received five days before from the lips of a dying man. Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave—she could interpret it also. Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly,\nand perhaps too late.\n\nThe thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, seldom affect the lives of his employers. He was the most competent of Miss Bartlett’s opponents,\nbut infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the town, he and his insight and his knowledge would trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in the bushes; he might make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what have we to do with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed downwards towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious. They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.\n\nRain and darkness came on together. The two ladies huddled together under an inadequate parasol. There was a lightning flash, and Miss Lavish who was nervous, screamed from the carriage in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally:\n\n“Courage, Miss Honeychurch, courage and faith. If I might say so, there is something almost blasphemous in this horror of the elements. Are we seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all this immense electrical display, is simply called into existence to extinguish you or me?”\n\n“No—of course—”\n\n“Even from the scientific standpoint the chances against our being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage—courage and faith.”\n\nUnder the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin’s hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles,\ngained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination.\n\nShe renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence.\n\n“Mr. Eager!” called Mr. Beebe. “We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?”" -- "“George!” cried Mr. Emerson. “Ask your driver which way George went.\nThe boy may lose his way. He may be killed.”\n\n“Go, Mr. Eager,” said Miss Bartlett, “don’t ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe—, he is nearly demented.”\n\n“He may be killed!” cried the old man. “He may be killed!”\n\n“Typical behaviour,” said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. “In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down.”\n\n“What does he know?” whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone.\n“Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?”\n\n“Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But—” she pointed at the driver—“_he_ knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?” She took out her purse. “It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all.” Tapping Phaethon’s back with her guide-book,\nshe said, “Silenzio!” and offered him a franc.\n\n“Va bene,” he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him.\n\nThere was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity,\nwhich fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good.\n\nThe older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that,\neven if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers,\nthrough miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin.\n\n“Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I—I thought I was developing.”\n\n“Do not cry, dearest. Take your time.”\n\n“I have been obstinate and silly—worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river—Oh, but he isn’t killed—he wouldn’t be killed, would he?”\n\nThe thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone.\n\n“I trust not. One would always pray against that.”\n\n“He is really—I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before.\nBut this time I’m not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book.”\n\n“In a book?”\n\n“Heroes—gods—the nonsense of schoolgirls.”\n\n“And then?”\n\n“But, Charlotte, you know what happened then.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy’s body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.\n\n“I want to be truthful,” she whispered. “It is so hard to be absolutely truthful.”\n\n“Don’t be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room.”\n\nSo they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased,\nand Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of—Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love.\n\nThe luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all." -- "“At last,” thought she, “I shall understand myself. I shan’t again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don’t know what.”\n\nMiss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage.\nWhen it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:\n\n“Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair.”\n\nWith some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said “So what is to be done?”\n\nShe was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.\n\n“What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle.”\n\nThe rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett’s toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.\n\n“It has been raining for nearly four hours,” she said at last.\n\nMiss Bartlett ignored the remark.\n\n“How do you propose to silence him?”\n\n“The driver?”\n\n“My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson.”\n\nLucy began to pace up and down the room.\n\n“I don’t understand,” she said at last.\n\nShe understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.\n\n“How are you going to stop him talking about it?”\n\n“I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do.”\n\n“I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves.”\n\n“Exploits?” cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.\n\n“My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.\n\n“Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man,\nbut obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?”\n\nAn idea rushed across Lucy’s brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.\n\n“I propose to speak to him,” said she.\n\nMiss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.\n\n“You see, Charlotte, your kindness—I shall never forget it. But—as you said—it is my affair. Mine and his.”\n\n“And you are going to _implore_ him, to _beg_ him to keep silence?”\n\n“Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit.”\n\n“But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be—how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy gravely.\n\nSomething in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.\n\n“What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy again.\n\n“When he insulted you, how would you have replied?”\n\n“I hadn’t time to think. You came.”\n\n“Yes, but won’t you tell me now what you would have done?”\n\n“I should have—” She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness.\nShe could not think what she would have done." -- "“Come away from the window, dear,” said Miss Bartlett. “You will be seen from the road.”\n\nLucy obeyed. She was in her cousin’s power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him.\n\nMiss Bartlett became plaintive.\n\n“Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister’s insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman.”\n\nAs she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:\n\n“It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try.”\n\n“What train?”\n\n“The train to Rome.” She looked at her gloves critically.\n\nThe girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.\n\n“When does the train to Rome go?”\n\n“At eight.”\n\n“Signora Bertolini would be upset.”\n\n“We must face that,” said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.\n\n“She will make us pay for a whole week’s pension.”\n\n“I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses’ hotel. Isn’t afternoon tea given there for nothing?”\n\n“Yes, but they pay extra for wine.” After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream.\n\nThey began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished,\nbegan to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte,\nwho was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk,\nvainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old.\nThe girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause.\nShe only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier,\nthe world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love.\nThe impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin’s side and took her in her arms.\n\nMiss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:\n\n“Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?”\n\nLucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:\n\n“Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!”\n\n“You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself,\ntoo. I know well how much I vex you at every turn.”\n\n“But no—”\n\nMiss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.\n\n“Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned—only fit to pack and unpack your things.”\n\n“Please—”\n\n“My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events.”\n\n“You mustn’t say these things,” said Lucy softly.\n\nShe still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other,\nheart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.\n\n“I have been a failure,” said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy’s trunk instead of strapping her own. “Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster.”" -- "“But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn’t a disaster either.”\n\n“It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?”\n\n“Every right.”\n\n“When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her.”\n\nLucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:\n\n“Why need mother hear of it?”\n\n“But you tell her everything?”\n\n“I suppose I do generally.”\n\n“I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it.\nUnless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her.”\n\nThe girl would not be degraded to this.\n\n“Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one.”\n\nHer promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room.\n\nFor a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin’s voice had intervened, and, ever since,\nit was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now,\ncould be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time—indeed,\nfor years—she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better—a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most.\n\nLucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity,\nof her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul.\n\nThe door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,\nthough she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her.\n\nTo reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.\n\nWhether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:\n\n“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”\n\nSoon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\nIn the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII Medieval\n\n\nThe drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,”\nor might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;\nwithin, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man." -- "Two pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.\n\n“Where aren’t they?” said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy’s brother. “I tell you I’m getting fairly sick.”\n\n“For goodness’ sake go out of my drawing-room, then?” cried Mrs.\nHoneychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally.\n\nFreddy did not move or reply.\n\n“I think things are coming to a head,” she observed, rather wanting her son’s opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.\n\n“Time they did.”\n\n“I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more.”\n\n“It’s his third go, isn’t it?”\n\n“Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind.”\n\n“I didn’t mean to be unkind.” Then he added: “But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don’t know how girls manage things, but she can’t have said ‘No’ properly before, or she wouldn’t have to say it again now. Over the whole thing—I can’t explain—I do feel so uncomfortable.”\n\n“Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!”\n\n“I feel—never mind.”\n\nHe returned to his work.\n\n“Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: ‘Dear Mrs.\nVyse.’”\n\n“Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter.”\n\n“I said: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it,\nand I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But—’” She stopped reading, “I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can’t get on without me.”\n\n“Nor me.”\n\n“You?”\n\nFreddy nodded.\n\n“What do you mean?”\n\n“He asked me for my permission also.”\n\nShe exclaimed: “How very odd of him!”\n\n“Why so?” asked the son and heir. “Why shouldn’t my permission be asked?”\n\n“What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?”\n\n“I said to Cecil, ‘Take her or leave her; it’s no business of mine!’”\n\n“What a helpful answer!” But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.\n\n“The bother is this,” began Freddy.\n\nThen he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was.\nMrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.\n\n“Freddy, you must come. There they still are!”\n\n“I don’t see you ought to go peeping like that.”\n\n“Peeping like that! Can’t I look out of my own window?”\n\nBut she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, “Still page 322?” Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased.\n\n“The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully.”\nHe gave a nervous gulp. “Not content with ‘permission’, which I did give—that is to say, I said, ‘I don’t mind’—well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn’t off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn’t it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer—he said it would strengthen his hand.”\n\n“I hope you gave a careful answer, dear.”\n\n“I answered ‘No’” said the boy, grinding his teeth. “There! Fly into a stew! I can’t help it—had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me.”\n\n“Ridiculous child!” cried his mother. “You think you’re so holy and truthful, but really it’s only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?”" -- "“Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn’t say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn’t mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot’s in it.\nOh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work.”\n\n“No,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, “I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house.”\n\n“Not a bit!” he pleaded. “I only let out I didn’t like him. I don’t hate him, but I don’t like him. What I mind is that he’ll tell Lucy.”\n\nHe glanced at the curtains dismally.\n\n“Well, _I_ like him,” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “I know his mother; he’s good, he’s clever, he’s rich, he’s well connected—Oh, you needn’t kick the piano! He’s well connected—I’ll say it again if you like: he’s well connected.” She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: “And he has beautiful manners.”\n\n“I liked him till just now. I suppose it’s having him spoiling Lucy’s first week at home; and it’s also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe?” said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. “I don’t see how Mr. Beebe comes in.”\n\n“You know Mr. Beebe’s funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said: ‘Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.’ I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said ‘Oh, he’s like me—better detached.’ I couldn’t make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn’t been so pleasant, at least—I can’t explain.”\n\n“You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties.”\n\nThe explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one’s own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow’s cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.\n\n“Will this do?” called his mother. “‘Dear Mrs. Vyse,—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.’ Then I put in at the top, ‘and I have told Lucy so.’ I must write the letter out again—‘and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.’\nI said that because I didn’t want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned.\nShe goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid’s dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably—”\n\n“Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?”\n\n“Don’t interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes—‘Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.’ No, I’ll cross that last bit out—it looks patronizing. I’ll stop at ‘because she tells me everything.’ Or shall I cross that out,\ntoo?”\n\n“Cross it out, too,” said Freddy.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left it in.\n\n“Then the whole thing runs: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse.—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know—’”\n\n“Look out!” cried Freddy.\n\nThe curtains parted." -- "Cecil’s first movement was one of irritation. He couldn’t bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture.\nInstinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world.\n\nCecil entered.\n\nAppearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral.\nWell educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision,\nworshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow’s cap.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!” she exclaimed—“oh, Cecil, do tell me!”\n\n“I promessi sposi,” said he.\n\nThey stared at him anxiously.\n\n“She has accepted me,” he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human.\n\n“I am so glad,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences.\n\n“Welcome as one of the family!” said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. “This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy.”\n\n“I hope so,” replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling.\n\n“We mothers—” simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic—all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room;\nlooking very cross and almost handsome?\n\n“I say, Lucy!” called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag.\n\nLucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother’s face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, “Steady on!”\n\n“Not a kiss for me?” asked her mother.\n\nLucy kissed her also.\n\n“Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?” Cecil suggested. “And I’d stop here and tell my mother.”\n\n“We go with Lucy?” said Freddy, as if taking orders.\n\n“Yes, you go with Lucy.”\n\nThey passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace,\nand descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend—he knew their ways—past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed,\nuntil they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed.\n\nSmiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that had led to such a happy conclusion." +- "Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good man.\nBut he was not the good man that she had expected, and he was alone.\n\nGeorge had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward and kissed her.\n\nBefore she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice called,\n“Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” The silence of life had been broken by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view." +- Chapter VII They Return +- "Some complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with a questioning eye.\nCharlotte had repulsed him with much small talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst them—not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost everyone, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George. Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon had lost the game.\n\nThat last fact was undeniable. He climbed on to the box shivering, with his collar up, prophesying the swift approach of bad weather. “Let us go immediately,” he told them. “The signorino will walk.”\n\n“All the way? He will be hours,” said Mr. Beebe.\n\n“Apparently. I told him it was unwise.” He would look no one in the face; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him. He alone had played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the others had used scraps of their intelligence. He alone had divined what things were, and what he wished them to be. He alone had interpreted the message that Lucy had received five days before from the lips of a dying man. Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave—she could interpret it also. Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly,\nand perhaps too late.\n\nThe thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, seldom affect the lives of his employers. He was the most competent of Miss Bartlett’s opponents,\nbut infinitely the least dangerous. Once back in the town, he and his insight and his knowledge would trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was most unpleasant; she had seen his black head in the bushes; he might make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what have we to do with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was of drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed downwards towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager sat opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious. They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.\n\nRain and darkness came on together. The two ladies huddled together under an inadequate parasol. There was a lightning flash, and Miss Lavish who was nervous, screamed from the carriage in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr. Eager addressed her professionally:\n\n“Courage, Miss Honeychurch, courage and faith. If I might say so, there is something almost blasphemous in this horror of the elements. Are we seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all this immense electrical display, is simply called into existence to extinguish you or me?”\n\n“No—of course—”\n\n“Even from the scientific standpoint the chances against our being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And, in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking. Courage—courage and faith.”\n\nUnder the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin’s hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles,\ngained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or cross examination.\n\nShe renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into Florence.\n\n“Mr. Eager!” called Mr. Beebe. “We want your assistance. Will you interpret for us?”\n\n“George!” cried Mr. Emerson. “Ask your driver which way George went.\nThe boy may lose his way. He may be killed.”\n\n“Go, Mr. Eager,” said Miss Bartlett, “don’t ask our driver; our driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe—, he is nearly demented.”\n\n“He may be killed!” cried the old man. “He may be killed!”\n\n“Typical behaviour,” said the chaplain, as he quitted the carriage. “In the presence of reality that kind of person invariably breaks down.”" +- "“What does he know?” whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone.\n“Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?”\n\n“Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But—” she pointed at the driver—“_he_ knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?” She took out her purse. “It is dreadful to be entangled with low-class people. He saw it all.” Tapping Phaethon’s back with her guide-book,\nshe said, “Silenzio!” and offered him a franc.\n\n“Va bene,” he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him.\n\nThere was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and the floods of love and sincerity,\nwhich fructify every hour of life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages; they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized vast possibilities of good.\n\nThe older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish calculated that,\neven if they had continued, they would not have been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate prayer. But the drivers,\nthrough miles of dark squalid road, poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy poured out hers to her cousin.\n\n“Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I—I thought I was developing.”\n\n“Do not cry, dearest. Take your time.”\n\n“I have been obstinate and silly—worse than you know, far worse. Once by the river—Oh, but he isn’t killed—he wouldn’t be killed, would he?”\n\nThe thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thought it must be near to everyone.\n\n“I trust not. One would always pray against that.”\n\n“He is really—I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was before.\nBut this time I’m not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like someone in a book.”\n\n“In a book?”\n\n“Heroes—gods—the nonsense of schoolgirls.”\n\n“And then?”\n\n“But, Charlotte, you know what happened then.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn. With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy’s body was shaken by deep sighs, which nothing could repress.\n\n“I want to be truthful,” she whispered. “It is so hard to be absolutely truthful.”\n\n“Don’t be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will talk it over before bed-time in my room.”\n\nSo they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm had ceased,\nand Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of—Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love.\n\nThe luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.\n\n“At last,” thought she, “I shall understand myself. I shan’t again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don’t know what.”" +- "Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story about lost luggage.\nWhen it was over she capped it by a story of her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:\n\n“Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair.”\n\nWith some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said “So what is to be done?”\n\nShe was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon.\n\n“What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle.”\n\nThe rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett’s toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.\n\n“It has been raining for nearly four hours,” she said at last.\n\nMiss Bartlett ignored the remark.\n\n“How do you propose to silence him?”\n\n“The driver?”\n\n“My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson.”\n\nLucy began to pace up and down the room.\n\n“I don’t understand,” she said at last.\n\nShe understood very well, but she no longer wished to be absolutely truthful.\n\n“How are you going to stop him talking about it?”\n\n“I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do.”\n\n“I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves.”\n\n“Exploits?” cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.\n\n“My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?”\n\n“Yes,” said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.\n\n“Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young man,\nbut obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?”\n\nAn idea rushed across Lucy’s brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.\n\n“I propose to speak to him,” said she.\n\nMiss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.\n\n“You see, Charlotte, your kindness—I shall never forget it. But—as you said—it is my affair. Mine and his.”\n\n“And you are going to _implore_ him, to _beg_ him to keep silence?”\n\n“Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit.”\n\n“But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be—how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy gravely.\n\nSomething in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.\n\n“What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived?”\n\n“I can’t think,” said Lucy again.\n\n“When he insulted you, how would you have replied?”\n\n“I hadn’t time to think. You came.”\n\n“Yes, but won’t you tell me now what you would have done?”\n\n“I should have—” She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness.\nShe could not think what she would have done.\n\n“Come away from the window, dear,” said Miss Bartlett. “You will be seen from the road.”" +- "Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin’s power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him.\n\nMiss Bartlett became plaintive.\n\n“Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister’s insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman.”\n\nAs she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into her gloves and said:\n\n“It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try.”\n\n“What train?”\n\n“The train to Rome.” She looked at her gloves critically.\n\nThe girl received the announcement as easily as it had been given.\n\n“When does the train to Rome go?”\n\n“At eight.”\n\n“Signora Bertolini would be upset.”\n\n“We must face that,” said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given notice already.\n\n“She will make us pay for a whole week’s pension.”\n\n“I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at the Vyses’ hotel. Isn’t afternoon tea given there for nothing?”\n\n“Yes, but they pay extra for wine.” After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream.\n\nThey began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished,\nbegan to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a subtler ill. Charlotte,\nwho was practical without ability, knelt by the side of an empty trunk,\nvainly endeavouring to pave it with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old.\nThe girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause.\nShe only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier,\nthe world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love.\nThe impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin’s side and took her in her arms.\n\nMiss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth. But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:\n\n“Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?”\n\nLucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace a little, and she said:\n\n“Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to forgive!”\n\n“You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive myself,\ntoo. I know well how much I vex you at every turn.”\n\n“But no—”\n\nMiss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely aged martyr.\n\n“Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want someone younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too uninteresting and old-fashioned—only fit to pack and unpack your things.”\n\n“Please—”\n\n“My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about these rooms, at all events.”\n\n“You mustn’t say these things,” said Lucy softly.\n\nShe still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each other,\nheart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.\n\n“I have been a failure,” said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled with the straps of Lucy’s trunk instead of strapping her own. “Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after this disaster.”\n\n“But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble, and it isn’t a disaster either.”" +- "“It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish?”\n\n“Every right.”\n\n“When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as clearly as I do, when you tell her.”\n\nLucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:\n\n“Why need mother hear of it?”\n\n“But you tell her everything?”\n\n“I suppose I do generally.”\n\n“I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in it.\nUnless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her.”\n\nThe girl would not be degraded to this.\n\n“Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one.”\n\nHer promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her good-night, and sent her to her own room.\n\nFor a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgement. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin’s voice had intervened, and, ever since,\nit was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now,\ncould be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time—indeed,\nfor years—she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better—a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most.\n\nLucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity,\nof her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously upon the soul.\n\nThe door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus it was that,\nthough she saw someone standing in the wet below, he, though he looked up, did not see her.\n\nTo reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over.\n\nWhether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice said:\n\n“I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson, please.”\n\nSoon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said: “Good-night, Mr.\nEmerson.”\n\nHis heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.\n\nLucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly.”\n\nMiss Bartlett tapped on the wall.\n\n“Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get.”\n\nIn the morning they left for Rome.\n\n\n\n\nPART TWO" +- Chapter VIII Medieval +- "The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet—none was present—might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,”\nor might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;\nwithin, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man.\n\nTwo pleasant people sat in the room. One—a boy of nineteen—was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.\n\n“Where aren’t they?” said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy’s brother. “I tell you I’m getting fairly sick.”\n\n“For goodness’ sake go out of my drawing-room, then?” cried Mrs.\nHoneychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it literally.\n\nFreddy did not move or reply.\n\n“I think things are coming to a head,” she observed, rather wanting her son’s opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.\n\n“Time they did.”\n\n“I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more.”\n\n“It’s his third go, isn’t it?”\n\n“Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind.”\n\n“I didn’t mean to be unkind.” Then he added: “But I do think Lucy might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don’t know how girls manage things, but she can’t have said ‘No’ properly before, or she wouldn’t have to say it again now. Over the whole thing—I can’t explain—I do feel so uncomfortable.”\n\n“Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!”\n\n“I feel—never mind.”\n\nHe returned to his work.\n\n“Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: ‘Dear Mrs.\nVyse.’”\n\n“Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter.”\n\n“I said: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission about it,\nand I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But—’” She stopped reading, “I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he can’t get on without me.”\n\n“Nor me.”\n\n“You?”\n\nFreddy nodded.\n\n“What do you mean?”\n\n“He asked me for my permission also.”\n\nShe exclaimed: “How very odd of him!”\n\n“Why so?” asked the son and heir. “Why shouldn’t my permission be asked?”\n\n“What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did you say?”\n\n“I said to Cecil, ‘Take her or leave her; it’s no business of mine!’”\n\n“What a helpful answer!” But her own answer, though more normal in its wording, had been to the same effect.\n\n“The bother is this,” began Freddy.\n\nThen he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother was.\nMrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.\n\n“Freddy, you must come. There they still are!”\n\n“I don’t see you ought to go peeping like that.”\n\n“Peeping like that! Can’t I look out of my own window?”\n\nBut she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed her son, “Still page 322?” Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never ceased.\n\n“The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most awfully.”\nHe gave a nervous gulp. “Not content with ‘permission’, which I did give—that is to say, I said, ‘I don’t mind’—well, not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn’t off my head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn’t it a splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have an answer—he said it would strengthen his hand.”\n\n“I hope you gave a careful answer, dear.”" +- "“I answered ‘No’” said the boy, grinding his teeth. “There! Fly into a stew! I can’t help it—had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never to have asked me.”\n\n“Ridiculous child!” cried his mother. “You think you’re so holy and truthful, but really it’s only abominable conceit. Do you suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say no?”\n\n“Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn’t say yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn’t mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel my foot’s in it.\nOh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some work.”\n\n“No,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has considered the subject, “I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him out of my house.”\n\n“Not a bit!” he pleaded. “I only let out I didn’t like him. I don’t hate him, but I don’t like him. What I mind is that he’ll tell Lucy.”\n\nHe glanced at the curtains dismally.\n\n“Well, _I_ like him,” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “I know his mother; he’s good, he’s clever, he’s rich, he’s well connected—Oh, you needn’t kick the piano! He’s well connected—I’ll say it again if you like: he’s well connected.” She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: “And he has beautiful manners.”\n\n“I liked him till just now. I suppose it’s having him spoiling Lucy’s first week at home; and it’s also something that Mr. Beebe said, not knowing.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe?” said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. “I don’t see how Mr. Beebe comes in.”\n\n“You know Mr. Beebe’s funny way, when you never quite know what he means. He said: ‘Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.’ I was very cute, I asked him what he meant. He said ‘Oh, he’s like me—better detached.’ I couldn’t make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn’t been so pleasant, at least—I can’t explain.”\n\n“You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties.”\n\nThe explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it. But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made one talk in one’s own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow’s cap. Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.\n\n“Will this do?” called his mother. “‘Dear Mrs. Vyse,—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it.’ Then I put in at the top, ‘and I have told Lucy so.’ I must write the letter out again—‘and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves.’\nI said that because I didn’t want Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned.\nShe goes in for lectures and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue under the beds, and the maid’s dirty thumb-marks where you turn on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably—”\n\n“Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the country?”\n\n“Don’t interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes—‘Young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked her first.’ No, I’ll cross that last bit out—it looks patronizing. I’ll stop at ‘because she tells me everything.’ Or shall I cross that out,\ntoo?”\n\n“Cross it out, too,” said Freddy.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left it in." +- "“Then the whole thing runs: ‘Dear Mrs. Vyse.—Cecil has just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me everything. But I do not know—’”\n\n“Look out!” cried Freddy.\n\nThe curtains parted.\n\nCecil’s first movement was one of irritation. He couldn’t bear the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture.\nInstinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet which hovered in the air above the tremulous world.\n\nCecil entered.\n\nAppearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral.\nWell educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision,\nworshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow’s cap.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towards her young acquaintance.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!” she exclaimed—“oh, Cecil, do tell me!”\n\n“I promessi sposi,” said he.\n\nThey stared at him anxiously.\n\n“She has accepted me,” he said, and the sound of the thing in English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human.\n\n“I am so glad,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge in Scriptural reminiscences.\n\n“Welcome as one of the family!” said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her hand at the furniture. “This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that you will make our dear Lucy happy.”\n\n“I hope so,” replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the ceiling.\n\n“We mothers—” simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that she was affected, sentimental, bombastic—all the things she hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the middle of the room;\nlooking very cross and almost handsome?\n\n“I say, Lucy!” called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag.\n\nLucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she saw her brother’s face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. He said, “Steady on!”\n\n“Not a kiss for me?” asked her mother.\n\nLucy kissed her also.\n\n“Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch all about it?” Cecil suggested. “And I’d stop here and tell my mother.”\n\n“We go with Lucy?” said Freddy, as if taking orders.\n\n“Yes, you go with Lucy.”\n\nThey passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the terrace,\nand descend out of sight by the steps. They would descend—he knew their ways—past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed,\nuntil they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed.\n\nSmiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events that had led to such a happy conclusion." - "He had known Lucy for several years, but only as a commonplace girl who happened to be musical. He could still remember his depression that afternoon at Rome, when she and her terrible cousin fell on him out of the blue, and demanded to be taken to St. Peter’s. That day she had seemed a typical tourist—shrill, crude, and gaunt with travel. But Italy worked some marvel in her. It gave her light, and—which he held more precious—it gave her shadow. Soon he detected in her a wonderful reticence. She was like a woman of Leonardo da Vinci’s, whom we love not so much for herself as for the things that she will not tell us.\nThe things are assuredly not of this life; no woman of Leonardo’s could have anything so vulgar as a “story.” She did develop most wonderfully day by day.\n\nSo it happened that from patronizing civility he had slowly passed if not to passion, at least to a profound uneasiness. Already at Rome he had hinted to her that they might be suitable for each other. It had touched him greatly that she had not broken away at the suggestion. Her refusal had been clear and gentle; after it—as the horrid phrase went—she had been exactly the same to him as before. Three months later, on the margin of Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked her again in bald, traditional language. She reminded him of a Leonardo more than ever; her sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic rock;\nat his words she had turned and stood between him and the light with immeasurable plains behind her. He walked home with her unashamed,\nfeeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things that really mattered were unshaken.\n\nSo now he had asked her once more, and, clear and gentle as ever, she had accepted him, giving no coy reasons for her delay, but simply saying that she loved him and would do her best to make him happy. His mother, too, would be pleased; she had counselled the step; he must write her a long account.\n\nGlancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy’s chemicals had come off on it, he moved to the writing table. There he saw “Dear Mrs. Vyse,”\nfollowed by many erasures. He recoiled without reading any more, and after a little hesitation sat down elsewhere, and pencilled a note on his knee.\n\nThen he lit another cigarette, which did not seem quite as divine as the first, and considered what might be done to make Windy Corner drawing-room more distinctive. With that outlook it should have been a successful room, but the trail of Tottenham Court Road was upon it; he could almost visualize the motor-vans of Messrs. Shoolbred and Messrs.\nMaple arriving at the door and depositing this chair, those varnished book-cases, that writing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch’s letter. He did not want to read that letter—his temptations never lay in that direction; but he worried about it none the less. It was his own fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and so he had asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for Freddy—“He is only a boy,” he reflected. “I represent all that he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?”\n\nThe Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps—he did not put it very definitely—he ought to introduce her into more congenial circles as soon as possible.\n\n“Mr. Beebe!” said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy’s praise of him in her letters from Florence.\n\nCecil greeted him rather critically.\n\n“I’ve come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get it?”\n\n“I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here—Don’t sit in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it.”\n\n“Pfui!”\n\n“I know,” said Cecil. “I know. I can’t think why Mrs. Honeychurch allows it.”\n\nFor Cecil considered the bone and the Maples’ furniture separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into the life that he desired.\n\n“I’ve come for tea and for gossip. Isn’t this news?”\n\n“News? I don’t understand you,” said Cecil. “News?”\n\nMr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled forward." - "“I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!”\n\n“Has he indeed?” said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a bounder.\n\n“Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have been run up opposite the church! I’ll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you.”\n\n“I’m shockingly stupid over local affairs,” said the young man languidly. “I can’t even remember the difference between a Parish Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference,\nor perhaps those aren’t the right names. I only go into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where I don’t feel to exist on sufferance.”\n\nMr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and Albert,\ndetermined to shift the subject.\n\n“Let me see, Mr. Vyse—I forget—what is your profession?”\n\n“I have no profession,” said Cecil. “It is another example of my decadence. My attitude—quite an indefensible one—is that so long as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don’t care a straw about, but somehow, I’ve not been able to begin.”\n\n“You are very fortunate,” said Mr. Beebe. “It is a wonderful opportunity, the possession of leisure.”\n\nHis voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular occupation must feel, that others should have it also.\n\n“I am glad that you approve. I daren’t face the healthy person—for example, Freddy Honeychurch.”\n\n“Oh, Freddy’s a good sort, isn’t he?”\n\n“Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is.”\n\nCecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively after Mr. Beebe’s mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards philosophy and science.\n\n“Where are the others?” said Mr. Beebe at last, “I insist on extracting tea before evening service.”\n\n“I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly, and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary—I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we look in the garden?”\n\n“I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on the stairs.”\n\n“The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop the suet sufficiently small.”\n\nThey both laughed, and things began to go better.\n\n“The faults of Freddy—” Cecil continued.\n\n“Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are not innumerable.”\n\n“She has none,” said the young man, with grave sincerity.\n\n“I quite agree. At present she has none.”\n\n“At present?”\n\n“I’m not cynical. I’m only thinking of my pet theory about Miss Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will break down,\nand music and life will mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good,\nheroically bad—too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad.”\n\nCecil found his companion interesting.\n\n“And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?”\n\n“Well, I must say I’ve only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she has been away. You saw her, didn’t you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn’t wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be.”\n\n“In what way?”" - "Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing up and down the terrace.\n\n“I could as easily tell you what tune she’ll play next. There was simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them. I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture number two: the string breaks.”\n\nThe sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards, when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given surreptitious tugs to the string himself.\n\n“But the string never broke?”\n\n“No. I mightn’t have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall.”\n\n“It has broken now,” said the young man in low, vibrating tones.\n\nImmediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous,\ncontemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst. He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him?\n\n“Broken? What do you mean?”\n\n“I meant,” said Cecil stiffly, “that she is going to marry me.”\n\nThe clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which he could not keep out of his voice.\n\n“I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant, superficial way.\nMr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me.” And down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed.\n\nCecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of it which he encountered.\n\nOccasionally he could be quite crude.\n\n“I am sorry I have given you a shock,” he said dryly. “I fear that Lucy’s choice does not meet with your approval.”\n\n“Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. I know Miss Honeychurch only a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have discussed her so freely with any one; certainly not with you.”\n\n“You are conscious of having said something indiscreet?”\n\nMr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really, Mr. Vyse had the art of placing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to use the prerogatives of his profession.\n\n“No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it.\nShe has learnt—you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely—she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides.” It was now time for him to wave his hat at the approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. “She has learnt through you,” and if his voice was still clerical, it was now also sincere; “let it be your care that her knowledge is profitable to her.”\n\n“Grazie tante!” said Cecil, who did not like parsons.\n\n“Have you heard?” shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the sloping garden. “Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?”\n\nFreddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth seldom criticizes the accomplished fact.\n\n“Indeed I have!” he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he could not act the parson any longer—at all events not without apology. “Mrs.\nHoneychurch, I’m going to do what I am always supposed to do, but generally I’m too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing on them,\ngrave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want my tea.”\n\n“You only asked for it just in time,” the lady retorted. “How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?”\n\nHe took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence, no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be serious any more." -- "An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present.\n\nSo it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne,\nputting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped.\nFreddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art\n\n\nA few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\nfor naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man.\n\nCecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers.\n\nAt tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been.\n\n“Do you go to much of this sort of thing?” he asked when they were driving home.\n\n“Oh, now and then,” said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself.\n\n“Is it typical of country society?”\n\n“I suppose so. Mother, would it be?”\n\n“Plenty of society,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses.\n\nSeeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said:\n\n“To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous.”\n\n“I am so sorry that you were stranded.”\n\n“Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property—a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!”\n\n“One has to go through it, I suppose. They won’t notice us so much next time.”\n\n“But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement—horrid word in the first place—is a private matter, and should be treated as such.”\n\nYet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them,\nrejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different—personal love. Hence Cecil’s irritation and Lucy’s belief that his irritation was just.\n\n“How tiresome!” she said. “Couldn’t you have escaped to tennis?”\n\n“I don’t play tennis—at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato.”\n\n“Inglese Italianato?”\n\n“E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?”\n\nShe did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement,\nhad taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing.\n\n“Well,” said he, “I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them.”" -- "“We all have our limitations, I suppose,” said wise Lucy.\n\n“Sometimes they are forced on us, though,” said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.\n\n“How?”\n\n“It makes a difference doesn’t it, whether we fully fence ourselves in,\nor whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?”\n\nShe thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference.\n\n“Difference?” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. “I don’t see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place.”\n\n“We were speaking of motives,” said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred.\n\n“My dear Cecil, look here.” She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. “This is me. That’s Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here.”\n\n“We weren’t talking of real fences,” said Lucy, laughing.\n\n“Oh, I see, dear—poetry.”\n\nShe leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused.\n\n“I tell you who has no ‘fences,’ as you call them,” she said, “and that’s Mr. Beebe.”\n\n“A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless.”\n\nLucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil’s epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it.\n\n“Don’t you like Mr. Beebe?” she asked thoughtfully.\n\n“I never said so!” he cried. “I consider him far above the average. I only denied—” And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant.\n\n“Now, a clergyman that I do hate,” said she wanting to say something sympathetic, “a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere—not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things.”\n\n“What sort of things?”\n\n“There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife.”\n\n“Perhaps he had.”\n\n“No!”\n\n“Why ‘no’?”\n\n“He was such a nice old man, I’m sure.”\n\nCecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence.\n\n“Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague—said the old man had ‘practically’ murdered his wife—had murdered her in the sight of God.”\n\n“Hush, dear!” said Mrs. Honeychurch absently.\n\n“But isn’t it intolerable that a person whom we’re told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn’t that.”\n\n“Poor old man! What was his name?”\n\n“Harris,” said Lucy glibly.\n\n“Let’s hope that Mrs. Harris there warn’t no sich person,” said her mother.\n\nCecil nodded intelligently.\n\n“Isn’t Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?” he asked.\n\n“I don’t know. I hate him. I’ve heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I _hate_ him.”\n\n“My goodness gracious me, child!” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “You’ll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen.”\n\nHe smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy’s moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman’s power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, he thought—lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch’s mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch." -- "“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.\nHoneychurch?”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil,\nwho was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again.\n\nLucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’\n\n\nLet us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\nThe woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.\nPretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil.\n\n“Cissie” was the name of one of these villas, “Albert” of the other.\nThese titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. “Albert”\nwas inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. “Cissie” was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions.\n\n“The place is ruined!” said the ladies mechanically. “Summer Street will never be the same again.”\n\nAs the carriage passed, “Cissie’s” door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.\n\n“Stop!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.\n“Here’s Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!”\n\nSir Harry Otway—who need not be described—came to the carriage and said “Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can’t, I really can’t turn out Miss Flack.”\n\n“Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew’s time?”\n\n“But what can I do?” He lowered his voice. “An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden.”\n\n“Turn her out,” said Cecil bravely." -- "Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack’s intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm.\nHe called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,—a most reasonable and respectful man—who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ,\nhowever, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the façade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative.\n\nMr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, “and all the capitals different—one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack’s initials—every one different.” For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy.\n\nThis futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch’s carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well.\nHe had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever.\nAll he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for “Cissie”—someone really desirable.\n\n“The rent is absurdly low,” he told them, “and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves.”\n\nCecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful.\n\n“You ought to find a tenant at once,” he said maliciously. “It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk.”\n\n“Exactly!” said Sir Harry excitedly. “That is exactly what I fear, Mr.\nVyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved—a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?”\n\n“Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,” said Lucy.\n\nCecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.\n\n“Sir Harry!” she exclaimed, “I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?”\n\n“My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?”\n\n“Yes; I met them abroad.”\n\n“Gentlewomen?” he asked tentatively.\n\n“Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week—Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I’m really not joking.\nThey are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?”\n\n“Indeed you may!” he cried. “Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities—please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents’ fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote—a tactful letter, you know—asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory—people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!”\n\nShe nodded.\n\n“My advice,” put in Mrs. Honeychurch, “is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It’s a sad thing, but I’d far rather let to some one who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down.”\n\n“I think I follow you,” said Sir Harry; “but it is, as you say, a very sad thing.”\n\n“The Misses Alan aren’t that!” cried Lucy." -- "“Yes, they are,” said Cecil. “I haven’t met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood.”\n\n“Don’t listen to him, Sir Harry—he’s tiresome.”\n\n“It’s I who am tiresome,” he replied. “I oughtn’t to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help.”\n\n“Then may I write to my Misses Alan?”\n\n“Please!”\n\nBut his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:\n\n“Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man.”\n\n“Really—” he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.\n\n“Men don’t gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there’s an end of them—they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they’re vulgar,\nthey somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn’t spread so. Give me a man—of course, provided he’s clean.”\n\nSir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time,\nshould descend from the carriage and inspect “Cissie” for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale.\n\nCecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.\n\n“Mrs. Honeychurch,” he said, “what if we two walk home and leave you?”\n\n“Certainly!” was her cordial reply.\n\nSir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, “Aha! young people, young people!” and then hastened to unlock the house.\n\n“Hopeless vulgarian!” exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!”\n\n“I can’t help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man.”\n\n“He isn’t clever, but really he is nice.”\n\n“No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and every one—even your mother—is taken in.”\n\n“All that you say is quite true,” said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. “I wonder whether—whether it matters so very much.”\n\n“It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party.\nOh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he’ll get some vulgar tenant in that villa—some woman so really vulgar that he’ll notice it.\n_Gentlefolks!_ Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let’s forget him.”\n\nThis Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever,\nnor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, “It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy”? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps,\nduring the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.\n\n“Which way shall we go?” she asked him.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, she thought—was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad.\n\n“Are there two ways?”\n\n“Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we’re got up smart.”\n\n“I’d rather go through the wood,” said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. “Why is it,\nLucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?”\n\n“Haven’t I? The wood, then,” said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning.\n\nShe led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards." -- "“I had got an idea—I dare say wrongly—that you feel more at home with me in a room.”\n\n“A room?” she echoed, hopelessly bewildered.\n\n“Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this.”\n\n“Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person.”\n\n“I don’t know that you aren’t. I connect you with a view—a certain type of view. Why shouldn’t you connect me with a room?”\n\nShe reflected a moment, and then said, laughing:\n\n“Do you know that you’re right? I do. I must be a poetess after all.\nWhen I think of you it’s always as in a room. How funny!”\n\nTo her surprise, he seemed annoyed.\n\n“A drawing-room, pray? With no view?”\n\n“Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?”\n\n“I’d rather,” he said reproachfully, “that you connected me with the open air.”\n\nShe said again, “Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?”\n\nAs no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm.\n\nPresently they came to a little clearing among the pines—another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool.\n\nShe exclaimed, “The Sacred Lake!”\n\n“Why do you call it that?”\n\n“I can’t remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It’s only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can’t get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it.”\n\n“And you?”\n\nHe meant, “Are you fond of it?” But she answered dreamily, “I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row.”\n\nAt another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool’s edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it,\nand she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green.\n\n“Who found you out?”\n\n“Charlotte,” she murmured. “She was stopping with us.\nCharlotte—Charlotte.”\n\n“Poor girl!”\n\nShe smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk, now appeared practical.\n\n“Lucy!”\n\n“Yes, I suppose we ought to be going,” was her reply.\n\n“Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before.”\n\nAt the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards him.\n\n“What, Cecil?”\n\n“Hitherto never—not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry me—”\n\nHe became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were observed. His courage had gone.\n\n“Yes?”\n\n“Up to now I have never kissed you.”\n\nShe was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately.\n\n“No—more you have,” she stammered.\n\n“Then I ask you—may I now?”\n\n“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can’t run at you, you know.”\n\nAt that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.\nAs he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them." -- "Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. Lucy was standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.\n\nThey left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.\n\n“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X Cecil as a Humourist\n\n\nThe society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,\nand, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter.\nOther houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility. “I cannot think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction—which few honest solicitors despise—of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable.\n\nThe best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were rather dull,\nand Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy.\nHitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning—their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags,\norange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to speak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and identical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the London fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished.\nHer senses expanded; she felt that there was no one whom she might not get to like, that social barriers were irremovable, doubtless, but not particularly high. You jump over them just as you jump into a peasant’s olive-yard in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returned with new eyes.\n\nSo did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not to tolerance, but to irritation. He saw that the local society was narrow, but, instead of saying, “Does that very much matter?” he rebelled, and tried to substitute for it the society he called broad. He did not realize that Lucy had consecrated her environment by the thousand little civilities that create a tenderness in time, and that though her eyes saw its defects, her heart refused to despise it entirely. Nor did he realize a more important point—that if she was too great for this society, she was too great for all society, and had reached the stage where personal intercourse would alone satisfy her. A rebel she was, but not of the kind he understood—a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling-room, but equality beside the man she loved. For Italy was offering her the most priceless of all possessions—her own soul." -- "Playing bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece to the rector, and aged thirteen—an ancient and most honourable game, which consists in striking tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over the net and immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs. Honeychurch; others are lost.\nThe sentence is confused, but the better illustrates Lucy’s state of mind, for she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the same time.\n\n“Oh, it has been such a nuisance—first he, then they—no one knowing what they wanted, and everyone so tiresome.”\n\n“But they really are coming now,” said Mr. Beebe. “I wrote to Miss Teresa a few days ago—she was wondering how often the butcher called,\nand my reply of once a month must have impressed her favourably. They are coming. I heard from them this morning.\n\n“I shall hate those Miss Alans!” Mrs. Honeychurch cried. “Just because they’re old and silly one’s expected to say ‘How sweet!’ I hate their ‘if’-ing and ‘but’-ing and ‘and’-ing. And poor Lucy—serve her right—worn to a shadow.”\n\nMr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and shouting over the tennis-court. Cecil was absent—one did not play bumble-puppy when he was there.\n\n“Well, if they are coming—No, Minnie, not Saturn.” Saturn was a tennis-ball whose skin was partially unsewn. When in motion his orb was encircled by a ring. “If they are coming, Sir Harry will let them move in before the twenty-ninth, and he will cross out the clause about whitewashing the ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in the fair wear and tear one.—That doesn’t count. I told you not Saturn.”\n\n“Saturn’s all right for bumble-puppy,” cried Freddy, joining them.\n“Minnie, don’t you listen to her.”\n\n“Saturn doesn’t bounce.”\n\n“Saturn bounces enough.”\n\n“No, he doesn’t.”\n\n“Well; he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil.”\n\n“Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Honeychurch.\n\n“But look at Lucy—complaining of Saturn, and all the time’s got the Beautiful White Devil in her hand, ready to plug it in. That’s right,\nMinnie, go for her—get her over the shins with the racquet—get her over the shins!”\n\nLucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand.\n\nMr. Beebe picked it up, and said: “The name of this ball is Vittoria Corombona, please.” But his correction passed unheeded.\n\nFreddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little girls to fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie from a well-mannered child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house Cecil heard them, and, though he was full of entertaining news, he did not come down to impart it, in case he got hurt. He was not a coward and bore necessary pain as well as any man. But he hated the physical violence of the young. How right it was! Sure enough it ended in a cry.\n\n“I wish the Miss Alans could see this,” observed Mr. Beebe, just as Lucy, who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted off her feet by her brother.\n\n“Who are the Miss Alans?” Freddy panted.\n\n“They have taken Cissie Villa.”\n\n“That wasn’t the name—”\n\nHere his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the grass. An interval elapses.\n\n“Wasn’t what name?” asked Lucy, with her brother’s head in her lap.\n\n“Alan wasn’t the name of the people Sir Harry’s let to.”\n\n“Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it.”\n\n“Nonsense yourself! I’ve this minute seen him. He said to me: ‘Ahem!\nHoneychurch,’”—Freddy was an indifferent mimic—“‘ahem! ahem! I have at last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.’ I said, ‘ooray, old boy!’\nand slapped him on the back.”\n\n“Exactly. The Miss Alans?”\n\n“Rather not. More like Anderson.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious, there isn’t going to be another muddle!” Mrs.\nHoneychurch exclaimed. “Do you notice, Lucy, I’m always right? I _said_ don’t interfere with Cissie Villa. I’m always right. I’m quite uneasy at being always right so often.”\n\n“It’s only another muddle of Freddy’s. Freddy doesn’t even know the name of the people he pretends have taken it instead.”" -- "“Yes, I do. I’ve got it. Emerson.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“Emerson. I’ll bet you anything you like.”\n\n“What a weathercock Sir Harry is,” said Lucy quietly. “I wish I had never bothered over it at all.”\n\nThen she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe,\nwhose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that _that_ was the proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong.\n\nMeanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch from the contemplation of her own abilities.\n\n“Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?”\n\n“I don’t know whether they’re any Emersons,” retorted Freddy, who was democratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he was naturally attracted by the idea of equality, and the undeniable fact that there are different kinds of Emersons annoyed him beyond measure.\n\n“I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy”—she was sitting up again—“I see you looking down your nose and thinking your mother’s a snob. But there is a right sort and a wrong sort, and it’s affectation to pretend there isn’t.”\n\n“Emerson’s a common enough name,” Lucy remarked.\n\nShe was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she could see the pine-clad promontories descending one beyond another into the Weald. The further one descended the garden, the more glorious was this lateral view.\n\n“I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were no relations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray, does that satisfy you?”\n\n“Oh, yes,” he grumbled. “And you will be satisfied, too, for they’re friends of Cecil; so”—elaborate irony—“you and the other country families will be able to call in perfect safety.”\n\n“_Cecil?_” exclaimed Lucy.\n\n“Don’t be rude, dear,” said his mother placidly. “Lucy, don’t screech.\nIt’s a new bad habit you’re getting into.”\n\n“But has Cecil—”\n\n“Friends of Cecil’s,” he repeated, “‘and so really dee-sire-rebel.\nAhem! Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.’”\n\nShe got up from the grass.\n\nIt was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized with her very much. While she believed that her snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She might well “screech” when she heard that it came partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was a tease—something worse than a tease: he took a malicious pleasure in thwarting people. The clergyman, knowing this, looked at Miss Honeychurch with more than his usual kindness.\n\nWhen she exclaimed, “But Cecil’s Emersons—they can’t possibly be the same ones—there is that—” he did not consider that the exclamation was strange, but saw in it an opportunity of diverting the conversation while she recovered her composure. He diverted it as follows:\n\n“The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don’t suppose it will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friends of Mr. Vyse’s. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerest people! For our part we liked them, didn’t we?” He appealed to Lucy.\n“There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets and filled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who have failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine’s great stories. ‘My dear sister loves flowers,’ it began. They found the whole room a mass of blue—vases and jugs—and the story ends with ‘So ungentlemanly and yet so beautiful.’ It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect those Florentine Emersons with violets.”\n\n“Fiasco’s done you this time,” remarked Freddy, not seeing that his sister’s face was very red. She could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe saw it, and continued to divert the conversation.\n\n“These particular Emersons consisted of a father and a son—the son a goodly, if not a good young man; not a fool, I fancy, but very immature—pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the father—such a sentimental darling, and people declared he had murdered his wife.”" -- "In his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have repeated such gossip,\nbut he was trying to shelter Lucy in her little trouble. He repeated any rubbish that came into his head.\n\n“Murdered his wife?” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “Lucy, don’t desert us—go on playing bumble-puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have been the oddest place. That’s the second murderer I’ve heard of as being there. Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop? By-the-by, we really must ask Charlotte here some time.”\n\nMr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He suggested that his hostess was mistaken. At the hint of opposition she warmed. She was perfectly sure that there had been a second tourist of whom the same story had been told. The name escaped her. What was the name? Oh, what was the name? She clasped her knees for the name. Something in Thackeray. She struck her matronly forehead.\n\nLucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in.\n\n“Oh, don’t go!” he cried, and tried to catch her by the ankles.\n\n“I must go,” she said gravely. “Don’t be silly. You always overdo it when you play.”\n\nAs she left them her mother’s shout of “Harris!” shivered the tranquil air, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had never put it right. Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves and made her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil’s, with a pair of nondescript tourists. Hitherto truth had come to her naturally. She saw that for the future she must be more vigilant, and be—absolutely truthful? Well, at all events, she must not tell lies. She hurried up the garden, still flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would soothe her, she was sure.\n\n“Cecil!”\n\n“Hullo!” he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed in high spirits. “I was hoping you’d come. I heard you all bear-gardening, but there’s better fun up here. I, even I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith’s right—the cause of Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don’t be angry! Don’t be angry! You’ll forgive me when you hear it all.”\n\nHe looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings at once.\n\n“I have heard,” she said. “Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing!\nCertainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I’d rather have nice friends of yours. But you oughtn’t to tease one so.”\n\n“Friends of mine?” he laughed. “But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come!\nCome here.” But she remained standing where she was. “Do you know where I met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up to see my mother last week.”\n\n“What an odd place to meet people!” she said nervously. “I don’t quite understand.”\n\n“In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca Signorelli—of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy.”\n\n“But, Cecil—” proceeded hilariously.\n\n“In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country cottage—the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends. I thought, ‘What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!’ and I took their address and a London reference, found they weren’t actual blackguards—it was great sport—and wrote to him, making out—”\n\n“Cecil! No, it’s not fair. I’ve probably met them before—”\n\nHe bore her down.\n\n“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time.\nNo, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—”\n\n“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”\n\nHe stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”\n\nHer face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago." -- "“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”\n\nShe left him.\n\n“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows.\n\nNo, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n\n\nThe Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,\nmet Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die.\n\nLucy—to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows because there are hills—Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least.\nNow that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little thinking, and—so illogical are girls—the event remained rather greater and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa while she was safe in the London flat.\n\n“Cecil—Cecil darling,” she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept into his arms.\n\nCecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should,\nand looked up to him because he was a man.\n\n“So you do love me, little thing?” he murmured.\n\n“Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don’t know what I should do without you.”\n\nSeveral days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what Charlotte would call “the flight to Rome,” and in Rome it had increased amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy’s, and once, in the Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses—Mrs. Vyse was an acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.\n\n“TUNBRIDGE WELLS,\n“_September_.\n\n\n“DEAREST LUCIA," -- "“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house. He _said_ he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune,\nand I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\nLucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W.\n\n\n\n\n“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,\nand cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,\nthey would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.\nAs for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January.\n\n“Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do not put ‘Private’ outside your envelope again. No one opens my letters.\n\n\n“Yours affectionately,\n“L. M. HONEYCHURCH.”\n\n\nSecrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil’s life if he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.\n“Emerson, not Harris”; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she stopped.\n\nShe and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool,\nand it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the past.\n\nThe grandchildren asked her to play the piano." -- "She played Schumann. “Now some Beethoven” called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete—the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art—throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and “Too much Schumann” was not the remark that Mr.\nBeebe had passed to himself when she returned.\n\nWhen the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son.\nMrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another’s,\nhad been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd.\n\n“Make Lucy one of us,” she said, looking round intelligently at the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again.\n“Lucy is becoming wonderful—wonderful.”\n\n“Her music always was wonderful.”\n\n“Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made.”\n\n“Italy has done it.”\n\n“Perhaps,” she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. “It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January.\nShe is one of us already.”\n\n“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to London. I don’t believe in these London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”\n\n“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.\n\nAs she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek.\n\n“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”\n\nThe elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII Twelfth Chapter\n\n\nIt was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.\nAll that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n“M’m.”\n\n“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in.\n\n“I suggested we should hinder them,” said Mr. Beebe. “They are worth it.” Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. “Hullo!” he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible.\n\nA grave voice replied, “Hullo!”\n\n“I’ve brought someone to see you.”\n\n“I’ll be down in a minute.”" -- "The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books.\n\n“Are these people great readers?” Freddy whispered. “Are they that sort?”\n\n“I fancy they know how to read—a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German.\nUm—um—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, look at that,” said Freddy in awestruck tones.\n\nOn the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: “Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.”\n\n“I know. Isn’t it jolly? I like that. I’m certain that’s the old man’s doing.”\n\n“How very odd of him!”\n\n“Surely you agree?”\n\nBut Freddy was his mother’s son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture.\n\n“Pictures!” the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.\n“Giotto—they got that at Florence, I’ll be bound.”\n\n“The same as Lucy’s got.”\n\n“Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?”\n\n“She came back yesterday.”\n\n“I suppose she had a good time?”\n\n“Yes, very,” said Freddy, taking up a book. “She and Cecil are thicker than ever.”\n\n“That’s good hearing.”\n\n“I wish I wasn’t such a fool, Mr. Beebe.”\n\nMr. Beebe ignored the remark.\n\n“Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it’ll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books.”\n\n“So will you.”\n\n“Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards.\nCecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful.\nThere are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says—”\n\n“What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson—we think we’ll come another time.”\n\nGeorge ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking.\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour.”\n\nThen Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George’s face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, “How d’ye do? Come and have a bathe.”\n\n“Oh, all right,” said George, impassive.\n\nMr. Beebe was highly entertained.\n\n“‘How d’ye do? how d’ye do? Come and have a bathe,’” he chuckled.\n“That’s the best conversational opening I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with ‘How do you do? Come and have a bathe’? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal.”\n\n“I tell you that they shall be,” said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same.”\n\n“We are to raise ladies to our level?” the clergyman inquired.\n\n“The Garden of Eden,” pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, “which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies.”\n\nMr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.\n\n“In this—not in other things—we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden.”\n\n“I say, what about this bathe?” murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him.\n\n“I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage.”\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence.”" -- "“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry.\nMarriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr.\nVyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”\n\n“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. “I must—that is to say, I have to—have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope.”\n\n“_Call_, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country.”\n\nMr. Beebe came to the rescue.\n\n“Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days’ interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon.”\n\n“Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can’t believe he’s well.”\n\nGeorge bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture.\n\n“Do you really want this bathe?” Freddy asked him. “It is only a pond,\ndon’t you know. I dare say you are used to something better.”\n\n“Yes—I have said ‘Yes’ already.”\n\nMr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads.\n\n“And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?”\n\n“I did not. Miss Lavish told me.”\n\n“When I was a young man, I always meant to write a ‘History of Coincidence.’”\n\nNo enthusiasm.\n\n“Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn’t purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect.”\n\nTo his relief, George began to talk.\n\n“It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate—flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us—we settle nothing—”\n\n“You have not reflected at all,” rapped the clergyman. “Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don’t say, ‘I didn’t do this,’ for you did it, ten to one. Now I’ll cross-question you.\nWhere did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?”\n\n“Italy.”\n\n“And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?”\n\n“National Gallery.”\n\n“Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it.”\n\n“It is Fate that I am here,” persisted George. “But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy.”\n\nMr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George.\n\n“And so for this and for other reasons my ‘History of Coincidence’ is still to write.”\n\nSilence.\n\nWishing to round off the episode, he added; “We are all so glad that you have come.”\n\nSilence.\n\n“Here we are!” called Freddy.\n\n“Oh, good!” exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow." -- "“In there’s the pond. I wish it was bigger,” he added apologetically.\n\nThey climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond,\nset in its little alp of green—only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool.\n\n“It’s distinctly successful, as ponds go,” said Mr. Beebe. “No apologies are necessary for the pond.”\n\nGeorge sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots.\n\n“Aren’t those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What’s the name of this aromatic plant?”\n\nNo one knew, or seemed to care.\n\n“These abrupt changes of vegetation—this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle—heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, aren’t you bathing?” called Freddy, as he stripped himself.\n\nMr. Beebe thought he was not.\n\n“Water’s wonderful!” cried Freddy, prancing in.\n\n“Water’s water,” murmured George. Wetting his hair first—a sure sign of apathy—he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.\n\n“Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,” went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud.\n\n“Is it worth it?” asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin.\n\nThe bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly.\n\n“Hee-poof—I’ve swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water’s wonderful,\nwater’s simply ripping.”\n\n“Water’s not so bad,” said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun.\n\n“Water’s wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do.”\n\n“Apooshoo, kouf.”\n\nMr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible,\nlooked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind—these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man?\n\n“I may as well wash too”; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water.\n\nIt was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Götterdämmerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit—for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out.\nHe smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool.\n\n“Race you round it, then,” cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run—a memorable sight.\n\nThey ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the sward, proclaiming:\n\n“No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in the end.”\n\n“A try! A try!” yelled Freddy, snatching up George’s bundle and placing it beside an imaginary goal-post.\n\n“Socker rules,” George retorted, scattering Freddy’s bundle with a kick.\n\n“Goal!”" -- "“Goal!”\n\n“Pass!”\n\n“Take care my watch!” cried Mr. Beebe.\n\nClothes flew in all directions.\n\n“Take care my hat! No, that’s enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!”\n\nBut the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair.\n\n“That’ll do!” shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. “Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!”\n\nYells, and widening circles over the dappled earth.\n\n“Hi! hi! _Ladies!_”\n\nNeither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe’s last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch,\nCecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth.\nFreddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe’s hat.\n\n“Gracious alive!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch. “Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too!\nWhatever has happened?”\n\n“Come this way immediately,” commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed.\n\n“Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil,\nMr. Beebe’s waistcoat—”\n\nNo business of ours, said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently “minded.”\n\n“I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond.”\n\n“This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way.”\n\nThey followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.\n\n“Well, _I_ can’t help it,” said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. “I can’t be trodden on, can I?”\n\n“Good gracious me, dear; so it’s you! What miserable management! Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?”\n\n“Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow’s got to dry, and if another fellow—”\n\n“Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy.” They turned. “Oh, look—don’t look! Oh, poor Mr.\nBeebe! How unfortunate again—”\n\nFor Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.\n\n“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”\n\n“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”\n\n“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”\n\n“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.\n\nHe regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed.\n\nThat evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome" +- "An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another—is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present.\n\nSo it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne,\nputting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped.\nFreddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the “Fiasco”—family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy." +- Chapter IX Lucy As a Work of Art +- "A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood,\nfor naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man.\n\nCecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers.\n\nAt tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy’s figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been.\n\n“Do you go to much of this sort of thing?” he asked when they were driving home.\n\n“Oh, now and then,” said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself.\n\n“Is it typical of country society?”\n\n“I suppose so. Mother, would it be?”\n\n“Plenty of society,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses.\n\nSeeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said:\n\n“To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous.”\n\n“I am so sorry that you were stranded.”\n\n“Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property—a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!”\n\n“One has to go through it, I suppose. They won’t notice us so much next time.”\n\n“But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement—horrid word in the first place—is a private matter, and should be treated as such.”\n\nYet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them,\nrejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different—personal love. Hence Cecil’s irritation and Lucy’s belief that his irritation was just.\n\n“How tiresome!” she said. “Couldn’t you have escaped to tennis?”\n\n“I don’t play tennis—at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato.”\n\n“Inglese Italianato?”\n\n“E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?”\n\nShe did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement,\nhad taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing.\n\n“Well,” said he, “I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them.”\n\n“We all have our limitations, I suppose,” said wise Lucy.\n\n“Sometimes they are forced on us, though,” said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.\n\n“How?”\n\n“It makes a difference doesn’t it, whether we fully fence ourselves in,\nor whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?”\n\nShe thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference.\n\n“Difference?” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. “I don’t see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place.”\n\n“We were speaking of motives,” said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred.\n\n“My dear Cecil, look here.” She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. “This is me. That’s Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here.”\n\n“We weren’t talking of real fences,” said Lucy, laughing.\n\n“Oh, I see, dear—poetry.”\n\nShe leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused.\n\n“I tell you who has no ‘fences,’ as you call them,” she said, “and that’s Mr. Beebe.”\n\n“A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless.”\n\nLucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil’s epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it.\n\n“Don’t you like Mr. Beebe?” she asked thoughtfully." +- "“I never said so!” he cried. “I consider him far above the average. I only denied—” And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was brilliant.\n\n“Now, a clergyman that I do hate,” said she wanting to say something sympathetic, “a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly insincere—not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such unkind things.”\n\n“What sort of things?”\n\n“There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his wife.”\n\n“Perhaps he had.”\n\n“No!”\n\n“Why ‘no’?”\n\n“He was such a nice old man, I’m sure.”\n\nCecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence.\n\n“Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the point. He prefers it vague—said the old man had ‘practically’ murdered his wife—had murdered her in the sight of God.”\n\n“Hush, dear!” said Mrs. Honeychurch absently.\n\n“But isn’t it intolerable that a person whom we’re told to imitate should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he certainly wasn’t that.”\n\n“Poor old man! What was his name?”\n\n“Harris,” said Lucy glibly.\n\n“Let’s hope that Mrs. Harris there warn’t no sich person,” said her mother.\n\nCecil nodded intelligently.\n\n“Isn’t Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?” he asked.\n\n“I don’t know. I hate him. I’ve heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I _hate_ him.”\n\n“My goodness gracious me, child!” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “You’ll blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to hate any more clergymen.”\n\nHe smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy’s moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman’s power and charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, he thought—lay around them. He praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch’s mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.\n\n“I count myself a lucky person,” he concluded, “When I’m in London I feel I could never live out of it. When I’m in the country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be the best. It’s true that in nine cases out of ten they don’t seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.\nHoneychurch?”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending. Cecil,\nwho was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again.\n\nLucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still looked furiously cross—the result, he concluded, of too much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an August wood.\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’” he quoted, and touched her knee with his own.\n\nShe flushed again and said: “What height?”\n\n“‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,\nWhat pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).\nIn height and in the splendour of the hills?’" +- "Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and hate clergymen no more.\nWhat’s this place?”\n\n“Summer Street, of course,” said Lucy, and roused herself.\n\nThe woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.\nPretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was near the church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas—the villas that had competed with Cecil’s engagement,\nhaving been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been acquired by Cecil.\n\n“Cissie” was the name of one of these villas, “Albert” of the other.\nThese titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. “Albert”\nwas inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. “Cissie” was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was yellow with dandelions.\n\n“The place is ruined!” said the ladies mechanically. “Summer Street will never be the same again.”\n\nAs the carriage passed, “Cissie’s” door opened, and a gentleman came out of her.\n\n“Stop!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.\n“Here’s Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down at once!”\n\nSir Harry Otway—who need not be described—came to the carriage and said “Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can’t, I really can’t turn out Miss Flack.”\n\n“Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew’s time?”\n\n“But what can I do?” He lowered his voice. “An old lady, so very vulgar, and almost bedridden.”\n\n“Turn her out,” said Cecil bravely.\n\nSir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full warning of Mr. Flack’s intentions, and might have bought the plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm.\nHe called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,—a most reasonable and respectful man—who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ,\nhowever, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to relieve the façade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative.\n\nMr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, “and all the capitals different—one with dragons in the foliage, another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack’s initials—every one different.” For he had read his Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy.\n\nThis futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch’s carriage. He had failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well.\nHe had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever.\nAll he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for “Cissie”—someone really desirable.\n\n“The rent is absurdly low,” he told them, “and perhaps I am an easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves.”\n\nCecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more fruitful." +- "“You ought to find a tenant at once,” he said maliciously. “It would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk.”\n\n“Exactly!” said Sir Harry excitedly. “That is exactly what I fear, Mr.\nVyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has improved—a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?”\n\n“Rather a strenuous clerk it would be,” said Lucy.\n\nCecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.\n\n“Sir Harry!” she exclaimed, “I have an idea. How would you like spinsters?”\n\n“My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?”\n\n“Yes; I met them abroad.”\n\n“Gentlewomen?” he asked tentatively.\n\n“Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last week—Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I’m really not joking.\nThey are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them to write to you?”\n\n“Indeed you may!” he cried. “Here we are with the difficulty solved already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities—please tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents’ fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when I wrote—a tactful letter, you know—asking her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most unsatisfactory—people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!”\n\nShe nodded.\n\n“My advice,” put in Mrs. Honeychurch, “is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It’s a sad thing, but I’d far rather let to some one who is going up in the world than to someone who has come down.”\n\n“I think I follow you,” said Sir Harry; “but it is, as you say, a very sad thing.”\n\n“The Misses Alan aren’t that!” cried Lucy.\n\n“Yes, they are,” said Cecil. “I haven’t met them but I should say they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood.”\n\n“Don’t listen to him, Sir Harry—he’s tiresome.”\n\n“It’s I who am tiresome,” he replied. “I oughtn’t to come with my troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no real help.”\n\n“Then may I write to my Misses Alan?”\n\n“Please!”\n\nBut his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:\n\n“Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man.”\n\n“Really—” he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her remark.\n\n“Men don’t gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there’s an end of them—they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they’re vulgar,\nthey somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn’t spread so. Give me a man—of course, provided he’s clean.”\n\nSir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time,\nshould descend from the carriage and inspect “Cissie” for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they were on a small scale.\n\nCecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.\n\n“Mrs. Honeychurch,” he said, “what if we two walk home and leave you?”\n\n“Certainly!” was her cordial reply.\n\nSir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed at them knowingly, said, “Aha! young people, young people!” and then hastened to unlock the house.\n\n“Hopeless vulgarian!” exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of earshot.\n\n“Oh, Cecil!”" +- "“I can’t help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man.”\n\n“He isn’t clever, but really he is nice.”\n\n“No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and every one—even your mother—is taken in.”\n\n“All that you say is quite true,” said Lucy, though she felt discouraged. “I wonder whether—whether it matters so very much.”\n\n“It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party.\nOh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he’ll get some vulgar tenant in that villa—some woman so really vulgar that he’ll notice it.\n_Gentlefolks!_ Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let’s forget him.”\n\nThis Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever,\nnor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, “It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy”? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps,\nduring the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.\n\n“Which way shall we go?” she asked him.\n\nNature—simplest of topics, she thought—was around them. Summer Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged from the highroad.\n\n“Are there two ways?”\n\n“Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we’re got up smart.”\n\n“I’d rather go through the wood,” said Cecil, With that subdued irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. “Why is it,\nLucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?”\n\n“Haven’t I? The wood, then,” said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning.\n\nShe led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they had gone a dozen yards.\n\n“I had got an idea—I dare say wrongly—that you feel more at home with me in a room.”\n\n“A room?” she echoed, hopelessly bewildered.\n\n“Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real country like this.”\n\n“Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person.”\n\n“I don’t know that you aren’t. I connect you with a view—a certain type of view. Why shouldn’t you connect me with a room?”\n\nShe reflected a moment, and then said, laughing:\n\n“Do you know that you’re right? I do. I must be a poetess after all.\nWhen I think of you it’s always as in a room. How funny!”\n\nTo her surprise, he seemed annoyed.\n\n“A drawing-room, pray? With no view?”\n\n“Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?”\n\n“I’d rather,” he said reproachfully, “that you connected me with the open air.”\n\nShe said again, “Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?”\n\nAs no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost none of its charm.\n\nPresently they came to a little clearing among the pines—another tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool.\n\nShe exclaimed, “The Sacred Lake!”\n\n“Why do you call it that?”\n\n“I can’t remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It’s only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and can’t get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of it.”\n\n“And you?”" +- "He meant, “Are you fond of it?” But she answered dreamily, “I bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row.”\n\nAt another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as she stood by the pool’s edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it,\nand she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green.\n\n“Who found you out?”\n\n“Charlotte,” she murmured. “She was stopping with us.\nCharlotte—Charlotte.”\n\n“Poor girl!”\n\nShe smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk, now appeared practical.\n\n“Lucy!”\n\n“Yes, I suppose we ought to be going,” was her reply.\n\n“Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before.”\n\nAt the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards him.\n\n“What, Cecil?”\n\n“Hitherto never—not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry me—”\n\nHe became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were observed. His courage had gone.\n\n“Yes?”\n\n“Up to now I have never kissed you.”\n\nShe was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately.\n\n“No—more you have,” she stammered.\n\n“Then I ask you—may I now?”\n\n“Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can’t run at you, you know.”\n\nAt that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.\nAs he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them.\n\nSuch was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy—nay, as any young man behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. Lucy was standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.\n\nThey left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.\n\n“Emerson was the name, not Harris.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“The old man’s.”\n\n“What old man?”\n\n“That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to.”\n\nHe could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had ever had." +- Chapter X Cecil as a Humourist +- "The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up,\nand, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter.\nOther houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or humility. “I cannot think what people are doing,” she would say, “but it is extremely fortunate for the children.” She called everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactly of their _milieu_, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction—which few honest solicitors despise—of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable.\n\nThe best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were rather dull,\nand Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy.\nHitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning—their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags,\norange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to speak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and identical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the London fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished.\nHer senses expanded; she felt that there was no one whom she might not get to like, that social barriers were irremovable, doubtless, but not particularly high. You jump over them just as you jump into a peasant’s olive-yard in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returned with new eyes.\n\nSo did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not to tolerance, but to irritation. He saw that the local society was narrow, but, instead of saying, “Does that very much matter?” he rebelled, and tried to substitute for it the society he called broad. He did not realize that Lucy had consecrated her environment by the thousand little civilities that create a tenderness in time, and that though her eyes saw its defects, her heart refused to despise it entirely. Nor did he realize a more important point—that if she was too great for this society, she was too great for all society, and had reached the stage where personal intercourse would alone satisfy her. A rebel she was, but not of the kind he understood—a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling-room, but equality beside the man she loved. For Italy was offering her the most priceless of all possessions—her own soul.\n\nPlaying bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece to the rector, and aged thirteen—an ancient and most honourable game, which consists in striking tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over the net and immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs. Honeychurch; others are lost.\nThe sentence is confused, but the better illustrates Lucy’s state of mind, for she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the same time.\n\n“Oh, it has been such a nuisance—first he, then they—no one knowing what they wanted, and everyone so tiresome.”\n\n“But they really are coming now,” said Mr. Beebe. “I wrote to Miss Teresa a few days ago—she was wondering how often the butcher called,\nand my reply of once a month must have impressed her favourably. They are coming. I heard from them this morning.\n\n“I shall hate those Miss Alans!” Mrs. Honeychurch cried. “Just because they’re old and silly one’s expected to say ‘How sweet!’ I hate their ‘if’-ing and ‘but’-ing and ‘and’-ing. And poor Lucy—serve her right—worn to a shadow.”\n\nMr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and shouting over the tennis-court. Cecil was absent—one did not play bumble-puppy when he was there." +- "“Well, if they are coming—No, Minnie, not Saturn.” Saturn was a tennis-ball whose skin was partially unsewn. When in motion his orb was encircled by a ring. “If they are coming, Sir Harry will let them move in before the twenty-ninth, and he will cross out the clause about whitewashing the ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in the fair wear and tear one.—That doesn’t count. I told you not Saturn.”\n\n“Saturn’s all right for bumble-puppy,” cried Freddy, joining them.\n“Minnie, don’t you listen to her.”\n\n“Saturn doesn’t bounce.”\n\n“Saturn bounces enough.”\n\n“No, he doesn’t.”\n\n“Well; he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil.”\n\n“Hush, dear,” said Mrs. Honeychurch.\n\n“But look at Lucy—complaining of Saturn, and all the time’s got the Beautiful White Devil in her hand, ready to plug it in. That’s right,\nMinnie, go for her—get her over the shins with the racquet—get her over the shins!”\n\nLucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand.\n\nMr. Beebe picked it up, and said: “The name of this ball is Vittoria Corombona, please.” But his correction passed unheeded.\n\nFreddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little girls to fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie from a well-mannered child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house Cecil heard them, and, though he was full of entertaining news, he did not come down to impart it, in case he got hurt. He was not a coward and bore necessary pain as well as any man. But he hated the physical violence of the young. How right it was! Sure enough it ended in a cry.\n\n“I wish the Miss Alans could see this,” observed Mr. Beebe, just as Lucy, who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted off her feet by her brother.\n\n“Who are the Miss Alans?” Freddy panted.\n\n“They have taken Cissie Villa.”\n\n“That wasn’t the name—”\n\nHere his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the grass. An interval elapses.\n\n“Wasn’t what name?” asked Lucy, with her brother’s head in her lap.\n\n“Alan wasn’t the name of the people Sir Harry’s let to.”\n\n“Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it.”\n\n“Nonsense yourself! I’ve this minute seen him. He said to me: ‘Ahem!\nHoneychurch,’”—Freddy was an indifferent mimic—“‘ahem! ahem! I have at last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.’ I said, ‘ooray, old boy!’\nand slapped him on the back.”\n\n“Exactly. The Miss Alans?”\n\n“Rather not. More like Anderson.”\n\n“Oh, good gracious, there isn’t going to be another muddle!” Mrs.\nHoneychurch exclaimed. “Do you notice, Lucy, I’m always right? I _said_ don’t interfere with Cissie Villa. I’m always right. I’m quite uneasy at being always right so often.”\n\n“It’s only another muddle of Freddy’s. Freddy doesn’t even know the name of the people he pretends have taken it instead.”\n\n“Yes, I do. I’ve got it. Emerson.”\n\n“What name?”\n\n“Emerson. I’ll bet you anything you like.”\n\n“What a weathercock Sir Harry is,” said Lucy quietly. “I wish I had never bothered over it at all.”\n\nThen she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe,\nwhose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that _that_ was the proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong.\n\nMeanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch from the contemplation of her own abilities.\n\n“Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?”\n\n“I don’t know whether they’re any Emersons,” retorted Freddy, who was democratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he was naturally attracted by the idea of equality, and the undeniable fact that there are different kinds of Emersons annoyed him beyond measure.\n\n“I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy”—she was sitting up again—“I see you looking down your nose and thinking your mother’s a snob. But there is a right sort and a wrong sort, and it’s affectation to pretend there isn’t.”\n\n“Emerson’s a common enough name,” Lucy remarked." +- "She was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she could see the pine-clad promontories descending one beyond another into the Weald. The further one descended the garden, the more glorious was this lateral view.\n\n“I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were no relations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray, does that satisfy you?”\n\n“Oh, yes,” he grumbled. “And you will be satisfied, too, for they’re friends of Cecil; so”—elaborate irony—“you and the other country families will be able to call in perfect safety.”\n\n“_Cecil?_” exclaimed Lucy.\n\n“Don’t be rude, dear,” said his mother placidly. “Lucy, don’t screech.\nIt’s a new bad habit you’re getting into.”\n\n“But has Cecil—”\n\n“Friends of Cecil’s,” he repeated, “‘and so really dee-sire-rebel.\nAhem! Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.’”\n\nShe got up from the grass.\n\nIt was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized with her very much. While she believed that her snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She might well “screech” when she heard that it came partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was a tease—something worse than a tease: he took a malicious pleasure in thwarting people. The clergyman, knowing this, looked at Miss Honeychurch with more than his usual kindness.\n\nWhen she exclaimed, “But Cecil’s Emersons—they can’t possibly be the same ones—there is that—” he did not consider that the exclamation was strange, but saw in it an opportunity of diverting the conversation while she recovered her composure. He diverted it as follows:\n\n“The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don’t suppose it will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friends of Mr. Vyse’s. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerest people! For our part we liked them, didn’t we?” He appealed to Lucy.\n“There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets and filled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who have failed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine’s great stories. ‘My dear sister loves flowers,’ it began. They found the whole room a mass of blue—vases and jugs—and the story ends with ‘So ungentlemanly and yet so beautiful.’ It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect those Florentine Emersons with violets.”\n\n“Fiasco’s done you this time,” remarked Freddy, not seeing that his sister’s face was very red. She could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe saw it, and continued to divert the conversation.\n\n“These particular Emersons consisted of a father and a son—the son a goodly, if not a good young man; not a fool, I fancy, but very immature—pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the father—such a sentimental darling, and people declared he had murdered his wife.”\n\nIn his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have repeated such gossip,\nbut he was trying to shelter Lucy in her little trouble. He repeated any rubbish that came into his head.\n\n“Murdered his wife?” said Mrs. Honeychurch. “Lucy, don’t desert us—go on playing bumble-puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have been the oddest place. That’s the second murderer I’ve heard of as being there. Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop? By-the-by, we really must ask Charlotte here some time.”\n\nMr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He suggested that his hostess was mistaken. At the hint of opposition she warmed. She was perfectly sure that there had been a second tourist of whom the same story had been told. The name escaped her. What was the name? Oh, what was the name? She clasped her knees for the name. Something in Thackeray. She struck her matronly forehead.\n\nLucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in.\n\n“Oh, don’t go!” he cried, and tried to catch her by the ankles.\n\n“I must go,” she said gravely. “Don’t be silly. You always overdo it when you play.”" +- "As she left them her mother’s shout of “Harris!” shivered the tranquil air, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had never put it right. Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves and made her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil’s, with a pair of nondescript tourists. Hitherto truth had come to her naturally. She saw that for the future she must be more vigilant, and be—absolutely truthful? Well, at all events, she must not tell lies. She hurried up the garden, still flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would soothe her, she was sure.\n\n“Cecil!”\n\n“Hullo!” he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed in high spirits. “I was hoping you’d come. I heard you all bear-gardening, but there’s better fun up here. I, even I, have won a great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith’s right—the cause of Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don’t be angry! Don’t be angry! You’ll forgive me when you hear it all.”\n\nHe looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her ridiculous forebodings at once.\n\n“I have heard,” she said. “Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing!\nCertainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I’d rather have nice friends of yours. But you oughtn’t to tease one so.”\n\n“Friends of mine?” he laughed. “But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come!\nCome here.” But she remained standing where she was. “Do you know where I met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up to see my mother last week.”\n\n“What an odd place to meet people!” she said nervously. “I don’t quite understand.”\n\n“In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca Signorelli—of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and they refreshed me not a little. They had been to Italy.”\n\n“But, Cecil—” proceeded hilariously.\n\n“In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country cottage—the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends. I thought, ‘What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!’ and I took their address and a London reference, found they weren’t actual blackguards—it was great sport—and wrote to him, making out—”\n\n“Cecil! No, it’s not fair. I’ve probably met them before—”\n\nHe bore her down.\n\n“Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his ‘decayed gentlewomen.’ I meant to read him a lesson some time.\nNo, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in democracy—”\n\n“No, you don’t,” she snapped. “You don’t know what the word means.”\n\nHe stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque. “No, you don’t!”\n\nHer face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago.\n\n“It isn’t fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you.”\n\nShe left him.\n\n“Temper!” he thought, raising his eyebrows.\n\nNo, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner." +- "Chapter XI In Mrs. Vyse’s Well-Appointed Flat\n\n\nThe Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,\nmet Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse’s equipment that she permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head, to be forgotten, and to die.\n\nLucy—to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows because there are hills—Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least.\nNow that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little thinking, and—so illogical are girls—the event remained rather greater and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa while she was safe in the London flat.\n\n“Cecil—Cecil darling,” she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept into his arms.\n\nCecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should,\nand looked up to him because he was a man.\n\n“So you do love me, little thing?” he murmured.\n\n“Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don’t know what I should do without you.”\n\nSeveral days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what Charlotte would call “the flight to Rome,” and in Rome it had increased amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy’s, and once, in the Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses—Mrs. Vyse was an acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.\n\n“TUNBRIDGE WELLS,\n“_September_.\n\n\n“DEAREST LUCIA,\n\n\n“I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father had just taken the house. He _said_ he did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune,\nand I dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.\n\n\n“Believe me,\n“Your anxious and loving cousin,\n“CHARLOTTE.”\n\n\nLucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:\n\n“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS, S.W." +- "“DEAR CHARLOTTE,\n\n“Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,\nand cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable people—which I _do_ think—and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,\nthey would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.\nAs for the son, I am sorry for _him_ when we meet, rather than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January.\n\n“Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do not put ‘Private’ outside your envelope again. No one opens my letters.\n\n\n“Yours affectionately,\n“L. M. HONEYCHURCH.”" +- "Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil’s life if he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.\n“Emerson, not Harris”; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she stopped.\n\nShe and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool,\nand it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the past.\n\nThe grandchildren asked her to play the piano.\n\nShe played Schumann. “Now some Beethoven” called Cecil, when the querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete—the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art—throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and “Too much Schumann” was not the remark that Mr.\nBeebe had passed to himself when she returned.\n\nWhen the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son.\nMrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another’s,\nhad been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd.\n\n“Make Lucy one of us,” she said, looking round intelligently at the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again.\n“Lucy is becoming wonderful—wonderful.”\n\n“Her music always was wonderful.”\n\n“Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made.”\n\n“Italy has done it.”\n\n“Perhaps,” she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy to her. “It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January.\nShe is one of us already.”\n\n“But her music!” he exclaimed. “The style of her! How she kept to Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then—not till then—let them come to London. I don’t believe in these London educations—” He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, “At all events, not for women.”\n\n“Make her one of us,” repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.\n\nAs she was dozing off, a cry—the cry of nightmare—rang from Lucy’s room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on her cheek.\n\n“I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse—it is these dreams.”\n\n“Bad dreams?”\n\n“Just dreams.”" +- "The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: “You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than ever. Dream of that.”\n\nLucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.\nVyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.\nDarkness enveloped the flat." +- Chapter XII Twelfth Chapter +- "It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant rains,\nand the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn.\nAll that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life’s amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant by him, smoking a pendant pipe.\n\n“Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a little.”\n\n“M’m.”\n\n“They might amuse you.”\n\nFreddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only just moved in.\n\n“I suggested we should hinder them,” said Mr. Beebe. “They are worth it.” Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green to Cissie Villa. “Hullo!” he cried, shouting in at the open door, through which much squalor was visible.\n\nA grave voice replied, “Hullo!”\n\n“I’ve brought someone to see you.”\n\n“I’ll be down in a minute.”\n\nThe passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books.\n\n“Are these people great readers?” Freddy whispered. “Are they that sort?”\n\n“I fancy they know how to read—a rare accomplishment. What have they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German.\nUm—um—Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business, Honeychurch.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, look at that,” said Freddy in awestruck tones.\n\nOn the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had painted this inscription: “Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes.”\n\n“I know. Isn’t it jolly? I like that. I’m certain that’s the old man’s doing.”\n\n“How very odd of him!”\n\n“Surely you agree?”\n\nBut Freddy was his mother’s son and felt that one ought not to go on spoiling the furniture.\n\n“Pictures!” the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.\n“Giotto—they got that at Florence, I’ll be bound.”\n\n“The same as Lucy’s got.”\n\n“Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?”\n\n“She came back yesterday.”\n\n“I suppose she had a good time?”\n\n“Yes, very,” said Freddy, taking up a book. “She and Cecil are thicker than ever.”\n\n“That’s good hearing.”\n\n“I wish I wasn’t such a fool, Mr. Beebe.”\n\nMr. Beebe ignored the remark.\n\n“Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it’ll be very different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books.”\n\n“So will you.”\n\n“Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards.\nCecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful.\nThere are all kinds of things in it that we have never noticed. Cecil says—”\n\n“What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson—we think we’ll come another time.”\n\nGeorge ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without speaking.\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour.”\n\nThen Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that George’s face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with, “How d’ye do? Come and have a bathe.”\n\n“Oh, all right,” said George, impassive.\n\nMr. Beebe was highly entertained.\n\n“‘How d’ye do? how d’ye do? Come and have a bathe,’” he chuckled.\n“That’s the best conversational opening I’ve ever heard. But I’m afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with ‘How do you do? Come and have a bathe’? And yet you will tell me that the sexes are equal.”\n\n“I tell you that they shall be,” said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowly descending the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same.”\n\n“We are to raise ladies to our level?” the clergyman inquired." +- "“The Garden of Eden,” pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending, “which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we no longer despise our bodies.”\n\nMr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.\n\n“In this—not in other things—we men are ahead. We despise the body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter the garden.”\n\n“I say, what about this bathe?” murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass of philosophy that was approaching him.\n\n“I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It is our heritage.”\n\n“Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember at Florence.”\n\n“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry.\nMarriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr.\nVyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”\n\n“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. “I must—that is to say, I have to—have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope.”\n\n“_Call_, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country.”\n\nMr. Beebe came to the rescue.\n\n“Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days’ interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon.”\n\n“Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can’t believe he’s well.”\n\nGeorge bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture.\n\n“Do you really want this bathe?” Freddy asked him. “It is only a pond,\ndon’t you know. I dare say you are used to something better.”\n\n“Yes—I have said ‘Yes’ already.”\n\nMr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads.\n\n“And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?”\n\n“I did not. Miss Lavish told me.”\n\n“When I was a young man, I always meant to write a ‘History of Coincidence.’”\n\nNo enthusiasm.\n\n“Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn’t purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect.”\n\nTo his relief, George began to talk.\n\n“It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate—flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us—we settle nothing—”\n\n“You have not reflected at all,” rapped the clergyman. “Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don’t say, ‘I didn’t do this,’ for you did it, ten to one. Now I’ll cross-question you.\nWhere did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?”\n\n“Italy.”\n\n“And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?”\n\n“National Gallery.”" +- "“Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it.”\n\n“It is Fate that I am here,” persisted George. “But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy.”\n\nMr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George.\n\n“And so for this and for other reasons my ‘History of Coincidence’ is still to write.”\n\nSilence.\n\nWishing to round off the episode, he added; “We are all so glad that you have come.”\n\nSilence.\n\n“Here we are!” called Freddy.\n\n“Oh, good!” exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow.\n\n“In there’s the pond. I wish it was bigger,” he added apologetically.\n\nThey climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond,\nset in its little alp of green—only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool.\n\n“It’s distinctly successful, as ponds go,” said Mr. Beebe. “No apologies are necessary for the pond.”\n\nGeorge sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots.\n\n“Aren’t those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What’s the name of this aromatic plant?”\n\nNo one knew, or seemed to care.\n\n“These abrupt changes of vegetation—this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle—heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming.”\n\n“Mr. Beebe, aren’t you bathing?” called Freddy, as he stripped himself.\n\nMr. Beebe thought he was not.\n\n“Water’s wonderful!” cried Freddy, prancing in.\n\n“Water’s water,” murmured George. Wetting his hair first—a sure sign of apathy—he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.\n\n“Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,” went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud.\n\n“Is it worth it?” asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin.\n\nThe bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly.\n\n“Hee-poof—I’ve swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water’s wonderful,\nwater’s simply ripping.”\n\n“Water’s not so bad,” said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun.\n\n“Water’s wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do.”\n\n“Apooshoo, kouf.”\n\nMr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible,\nlooked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind—these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man?\n\n“I may as well wash too”; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water." +- "It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs in Götterdämmerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit—for some reason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out.\nHe smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool.\n\n“Race you round it, then,” cried Freddy, and they raced in the sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run—a memorable sight.\n\nThey ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on the sward, proclaiming:\n\n“No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To us shall all flesh turn in the end.”\n\n“A try! A try!” yelled Freddy, snatching up George’s bundle and placing it beside an imaginary goal-post.\n\n“Socker rules,” George retorted, scattering Freddy’s bundle with a kick.\n\n“Goal!”\n\n“Goal!”\n\n“Pass!”\n\n“Take care my watch!” cried Mr. Beebe.\n\nClothes flew in all directions.\n\n“Take care my hat! No, that’s enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I say!”\n\nBut the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair.\n\n“That’ll do!” shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a Rural Dean. “Hi! Steady on! I see people coming you fellows!”\n\nYells, and widening circles over the dappled earth.\n\n“Hi! hi! _Ladies!_”\n\nNeither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not hear Mr. Beebe’s last warning or they would have avoided Mrs. Honeychurch,\nCecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on old Mrs. Butterworth.\nFreddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet, and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe’s hat.\n\n“Gracious alive!” cried Mrs. Honeychurch. “Whoever were those unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too!\nWhatever has happened?”\n\n“Come this way immediately,” commanded Cecil, who always felt that he must lead women, though he knew not whither, and protect them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddy sat concealed.\n\n“Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path? Cecil,\nMr. Beebe’s waistcoat—”\n\nNo business of ours, said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all parasol and evidently “minded.”\n\n“I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond.”\n\n“This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way.”\n\nThey followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.\n\n“Well, _I_ can’t help it,” said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. “I can’t be trodden on, can I?”\n\n“Good gracious me, dear; so it’s you! What miserable management! Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid on?”\n\n“Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow’s got to dry, and if another fellow—”\n\n“Dear, no doubt you’re right as usual, but you are in no position to argue. Come, Lucy.” They turned. “Oh, look—don’t look! Oh, poor Mr.\nBeebe! How unfortunate again—”" +- "For Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, on whose surface garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.\n\n“And me, I’ve swallowed one,” answered he of the bracken. “I’ve swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die—Emerson you beast, you’ve got on my bags.”\n\n“Hush, dears,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remain shocked. “And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly.”\n\n“Mother, do come away,” said Lucy. “Oh for goodness’ sake, do come.”\n\n“Hullo!” cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.\n\nHe regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:\n\n“Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!”\n\n“Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow.”\n\nMiss Honeychurch bowed.\n\nThat evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice for youth." +- Chapter XIII How Miss Bartlett’s Boiler Was So Tiresome - "How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these.\nBut she had never imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star.\n\nIndoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean too much. “I will bow,” she had thought. “I will not shake hands with him.\nThat will be just the proper thing.” She had bowed—but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that cumbers the world.\n\nSo ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, and made long, clever answers where “Yes” or “No” would have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed,\nthough not in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover.\n\n“Lucy,” said her mother, when they got home, “is anything the matter with Cecil?”\n\nThe question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved with charity and restraint.\n\n“No, I don’t think so, mother; Cecil’s all right.”\n\n“Perhaps he’s tired.”\n\nLucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired.\n\n“Because otherwise”—she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering displeasure—“because otherwise I cannot account for him.”\n\n“I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that.”\n\n“Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a little girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoid fever. No—it is just the same thing everywhere.”\n\n“Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?”\n\n“Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?”\n\n“Cecil has a very high standard for people,” faltered Lucy, seeing trouble ahead. “It’s part of his ideals—it is really that that makes him sometimes seem—”\n\n“Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he gets rid of them the better,” said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet.\n\n“Now, mother! I’ve seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!”\n\n“Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way.\nNo. It is the same with Cecil all over.”\n\n“By-the-by—I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I was away in London.”\n\nThis attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs.\nHoneychurch resented it.\n\n“Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him.\nWhenever I speak he winces;—I see him, Lucy; it is useless to contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture;\nyour father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindly remember.”\n\n“I—I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn’t to. But he does not mean to be uncivil—he once explained—it is the _things_ that upset him—he is easily upset by ugly things—he is not uncivil to _people_.”\n\n“Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?”\n\n“You can’t expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as we do.”\n\n“Then why didn’t he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering and spoiling everyone’s pleasure?”" - "“We mustn’t be unjust to people,” faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations had clashed—Cecil hinted that they might—and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song.\n\nShe remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy—she knew not why—wished that the trouble could have come at any other time.\n\n“Go and dress, dear; you’ll be late.”\n\n“All right, mother—”\n\n“Don’t say ‘All right’ and stop. Go.”\n\nShe obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to herself, “Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?” It seemed to her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to have mentioned Miss Bartlett’s letter. She must be more careful;\nher mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?—and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved.\n\n“I say, those are topping people.”\n\n“My dear baby, how tiresome you’ve been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it’s much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban.”\n\n“I say, is anything on to-morrow week?”\n\n“Not that I know of.”\n\n“Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis.”\n\n“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Freddy, I wouldn’t do that with all this muddle.”\n\n“What’s wrong with the court? They won’t mind a bump or two, and I’ve ordered new balls.”\n\n“I meant _it’s_ better not. I really mean it.”\n\nHe seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: “Lucy, what a noise you’re making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?” and Freddy ran away.\n\n“Yes. I really can’t stop. I must dress too.”\n\n“How’s Charlotte?”\n\n“All right.”\n\n“Lucy!”\n\nThe unfortunate girl returned.\n\n“You’ve a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one’s sentences.\nDid Charlotte mention her boiler?”\n\n“Her _what?_”\n\n“Don’t you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?”\n\n“I can’t remember all Charlotte’s worries,” said Lucy bitterly. “I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil.”\n\nMrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: “Come here, old lady—thank you for putting away my bonnet—kiss me.” And,\nthough nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect.\n\nSo the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner.\nAt the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods—perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own.\n\nDinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry.\nNothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said:\n\n“Lucy, what’s Emerson like?”\n\n“I saw him in Florence,” said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply.\n\n“Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?”" - "“Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here.”\n\n“He is the clever sort, like myself,” said Cecil.\n\nFreddy looked at him doubtfully.\n\n“How well did you know them at the Bertolini?” asked Mrs. Honeychurch.\n\n“Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did.”\n\n“Oh, that reminds me—you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter.”\n\n“One thing and another,” said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie. “Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she’d come up and see us, and mercifully didn’t.”\n\n“Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind.”\n\n“She was a novelist,” said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one,\nfor nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: “If books must be written, let them be written by men”; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at “This year, next year, now, never,”\nwith his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother’s wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost—that touch of lips on her cheek—had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once.\nBut it had begotten a spectral family—Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett’s letter, Mr. Beebe’s memories of violets—and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil’s very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness.\n\n“I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte’s. How is she?”\n\n“I tore the thing up.”\n\n“Didn’t she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?”\n\n“Oh, yes I suppose so—no—not very cheerful, I suppose.”\n\n“Then, depend upon it, it _is_ the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one’s mind. I would rather anything else—even a misfortune with the meat.”\n\nCecil laid his hand over his eyes.\n\n“So would I,” asserted Freddy, backing his mother up—backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance.\n\n“And I have been thinking,” she added rather nervously, “surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while the plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long.”\n\nIt was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother’s goodness to her upstairs.\n\n“Mother, no!” she pleaded. “It’s impossible. We can’t have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we’re squeezed to death as it is. Freddy’s got a friend coming Tuesday, there’s Cecil, and you’ve promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can’t be done.”\n\n“Nonsense! It can.”\n\n“If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise.”\n\n“Minnie can sleep with you.”\n\n“I won’t have her.”\n\n“Then, if you’re so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy.”\n\n“Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett,” moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes.\n\n“It’s impossible,” repeated Lucy. “I don’t want to make difficulties,\nbut it really isn’t fair on the maids to fill up the house so.”\n\nAlas!\n\n“The truth is, dear, you don’t like Charlotte.”\n\n“No, I don’t. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven’t seen her lately, and don’t realize how tiresome she can be,\nthough so good. So please, mother, don’t worry us this last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come.”\n\n“Hear, hear!” said Cecil.\n\nMrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling than she usually permitted herself, replied: “This isn’t very kind of you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are,\nand however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like to grow old.”\n\nCecil crumbled his bread." -- "“I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on my bike,” put in Freddy. “She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right.”\n\n“I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return.”\n\nBut Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”\n\n“From your own account, you told her as much.”\n\n“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—”\n\nThe ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.\n\n“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”\n\nCecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely\n\n\nOf course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week.\n\nLucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.” Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed.\n\nIt is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, “She loves young Emerson.” A reader in Lucy’s place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome “nerves”\nor any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?\n\nBut the external situation—she will face that bravely.\n\nThe meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,\nand George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy,\nand was glad that he did not seem shy either.\n\n“A nice fellow,” said Mr. Beebe afterwards “He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully.”\n\nLucy said, “He seems in better spirits. He laughs more.”\n\n“Yes,” replied the clergyman. “He is waking up.”" -- "That was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs.\nHoneychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o’clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea.\n\n“I shall never forgive myself,” said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain. “I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate.”\n\n“Our visitors never do such dreadful things,” said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: “Just what I’ve been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour.”\n\n“I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor,” said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove.\n\n“All right, if you’d really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver.”\n\nMiss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: “But who am I to give the sovereign to?”\n\n“Let’s leave it all till mother comes back,” suggested Lucy.\n\n“No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts.”\n\nHere Freddy’s friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett’s quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance,\nand turned round.\n\nBut this did not do, either.\n\n“Please—please—I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost.”\n\n“Freddy owes me fifteen shillings,” interposed Cecil. “So it will work out right if you give the pound to me.”\n\n“Fifteen shillings,” said Miss Bartlett dubiously. “How is that, Mr.\nVyse?”\n\n“Because, don’t you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths.\nFor a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle.\n\n“But I don’t see that!” exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. “I don’t see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid.”\n\n“Because of the fifteen shillings and the five,” they said solemnly.\n“Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see.”\n\n“But I don’t see—”\n\nThey tried to stifle her with cake.\n\n“No, thank you. I’m done. I don’t see why—Freddy, don’t poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother’s hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd’s ten shillings? Ow! No, I don’t see and I never shall see why Miss What’s-her-name shouldn’t pay that bob for the driver.”\n\n“I had forgotten the driver,” said Miss Bartlett, reddening. “Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?”\n\n“I’ll get it,” said the young hostess, rising with decision.\n\n“Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I’ll get Euphemia to change it, and we’ll start the whole thing again from the beginning.”" -- "“Lucy—Lucy—what a nuisance I am!” protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: “Have you told him about him yet?”\n\n“No, I haven’t,” replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. “Let me see—a sovereign’s worth of silver.”\n\nShe escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett’s sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul.\n\n“No, I haven’t told Cecil or any one,” she remarked, when she returned.\n“I promised you I shouldn’t. Here is your money—all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St.\nJohn ascending, which had been framed.\n\n“How dreadful!” she murmured, “how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source.”\n\n“Oh, no, Charlotte,” said the girl, entering the battle. “George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?”\n\nMiss Bartlett considered. “For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth.”\n\nLucy shuddered a little. “We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren’t careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?”\n\n“We must think of every possibility.”\n\n“Oh, it’s all right.”\n\n“Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know.”\n\n“I don’t care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it.”\n\n“To contradict it?”\n\n“No, to laugh at it.” But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched.\n\n“Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different.”\n\n“Now, Charlotte!” She struck at her playfully. “You kind, anxious thing. What _would_ you have me do? First you say ‘Don’t tell’; and then you say, ‘Tell’. Which is it to be? Quick!”\n\nMiss Bartlett sighed “I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me.”\n\n“Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don’t.”\n\nFor the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon.\n\n“Dear, one moment—we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?”\n\n“Yes, I have.”\n\n“What happened?”\n\n“We met at the Rectory.”\n\n“What line is he taking up?”\n\n“No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won’t be any nuisance, Charlotte.”\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion.”\n\nLucy paused. “Cecil said one day—and I thought it so profound—that there are two kinds of cads—the conscious and the subconscious.” She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil’s profundity.\nThrough the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith’s library. Her mother must have returned from the station.\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad,” droned Miss Bartlett." -- "“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him,\nand has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden.” She took hold of her guest by the arm. “Suppose we don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.”\n\nLucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV The Disaster Within\n\n\nThe Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells.\n\nThe garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her,\nno nonsense”—“Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!”—“Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?” For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church.\n\nThe sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan;\non George Emerson cleaning his father’s boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly,\nas though acknowledging the caress.\n\nPresently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies—an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little—not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills.\n\n“Lucy! Lucy! What’s that book? Who’s been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?”\n\n“It’s only the library book that Cecil’s been reading.”\n\n“But pick it up, and don’t stand idling there like a flamingo.”" -- "Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, “What! you aren’t forgetting your Italy already?” And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun.\n\n“Lucy—have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?”\n\nShe hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster.\n\n“It’s a special collection—I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book’s all warped.\n(Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press.\nMinnie!”\n\n“Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch—” from the upper regions.\n\n“Minnie, don’t be late. Here comes the horse”—it was always the horse,\nnever the carriage. “Where’s Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte—How I do detest blouses! Minnie!”\n\nPaganism is infectious—more infectious than diphtheria or piety—and the Rector’s niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn’t see why. Why shouldn’t she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs.\nHoneychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs.\n\n“Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change—nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me—”\n\n“Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame.”\n\n“If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?” said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued,\nand then they drove off.\n\n“Good-bye! Be good!” called out Cecil.\n\nLucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of “church and so on” they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different.\n\nShe saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden.\n\n“Introduce me,” said her mother. “Unless the young man considers that he knows me already.”\n\nHe probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic,\nand asked him how he liked his new house.\n\n“Very much,” he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice;\nshe had never known him offended before. He added: “We find, though,\nthat the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out.\nWomen mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it.”\n\n“I believe that there was some misunderstanding,” said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily.\n\n“Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person,”\nsaid George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. “He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed.”" -- "“And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?” He appealed to Lucy.\n\n“Oh, stop now you have come,” said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned,\nthough his name was never mentioned.\n\n“So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind.”\n\n“There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world,” said George,\nwatching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages.\n\n“Yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. “That’s exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?”\n\n“There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,” he continued in measured tones. “We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm—yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you’re clever!”\n\n“Eh—?”\n\n“I see you’re going to be clever. I hope you didn’t go behaving like that to poor Freddy.”\n\nGeorge’s eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well.\n\n“No, I didn’t,” he said. “He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first.”\n\n“What _do_ you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don’t explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday—?”\n\n“George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday—”\n\n“Very well, George doesn’t mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That’s settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased.”\n\nHe thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days.\n\nShe turned to George: “And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans.”\n\n“I know,” said George, and put his arm round his father’s neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape—a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection.\n\nMiss Bartlett approached.\n\n“You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett,” said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly.\n“You met her with my daughter in Florence.”\n\n“Yes, indeed!” said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine.\nIt was the old, old battle of the room with the view.\n\nGeorge did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: “I—I’ll come up to tennis if I can manage it,” and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno.\n\n“George, don’t go,” cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. “George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon.”\n\nLucy caught her cousin’s eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. “Yes,” she said, raising her voice, “I do hope he will.” Then she went to the carriage and murmured, “The old man hasn’t been told; I knew it was all right.” Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away." -- "Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy’s spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses’ hoofs sang a tune to her: “He has not told, he has not told.” Her brain expanded the melody: “He has not told his father—to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone.” She raised her hand to her cheek. “He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did!\nBut he has not told. He will not tell.”\n\nShe longed to shout the words: “It is all right. It’s a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear.” She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded.\n\nOnly three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:\n\n“The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously.”\n\n“How are my protégés?” asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them,\nand had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes.\n\n“Protégés!” she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl’s soul yearned.\n\n“You shall see for yourself how your protégés are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don’t—” She nearly said, “Don’t protect him.” But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte.\n\nLunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning,\nwould never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”\n\n“From your own account, you told her as much.”\n\n“Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried—”\n\nThe ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.\n\n“I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.\n\n“I didn’t mean the egg was _well_ boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”\n\nCecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,\nhydrangeas, maids—of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence.\n“We don’t want no dessert.”" +- Chapter XIV How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely +- "Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room—something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And,\nequally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week.\n\nLucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to George—they met again almost immediately at the Rectory—his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.” Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed.\n\nIt is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, “She loves young Emerson.” A reader in Lucy’s place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome “nerves”\nor any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?\n\nBut the external situation—she will face that bravely.\n\nThe meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate allusions to Italy,\nand George had replied. She was anxious to show that she was not shy,\nand was glad that he did not seem shy either.\n\n“A nice fellow,” said Mr. Beebe afterwards “He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully.”\n\nLucy said, “He seems in better spirits. He laughs more.”\n\n“Yes,” replied the clergyman. “He is waking up.”\n\nThat was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty. In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at Dorking, whither Mrs.\nHoneychurch drove to meet her. She arrived at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o’clock, and these, with little Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper lawn for tea.\n\n“I shall never forgive myself,” said Miss Bartlett, who kept on rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company to remain. “I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people! But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate.”\n\n“Our visitors never do such dreadful things,” said Lucy, while her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: “Just what I’ve been trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour.”\n\n“I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor,” said Miss Bartlett, and looked at her frayed glove.\n\n“All right, if you’d really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to the driver.”\n\nMiss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: “But who am I to give the sovereign to?”\n\n“Let’s leave it all till mother comes back,” suggested Lucy.\n\n“No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts.”\n\nHere Freddy’s friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett’s quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance,\nand turned round.\n\nBut this did not do, either." +- "“Please—please—I know I am a sad spoil-sport, but it would make me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost.”\n\n“Freddy owes me fifteen shillings,” interposed Cecil. “So it will work out right if you give the pound to me.”\n\n“Fifteen shillings,” said Miss Bartlett dubiously. “How is that, Mr.\nVyse?”\n\n“Because, don’t you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling.”\n\nMiss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths.\nFor a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle.\n\n“But I don’t see that!” exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched the iniquitous transaction. “I don’t see why Mr. Vyse is to have the quid.”\n\n“Because of the fifteen shillings and the five,” they said solemnly.\n“Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see.”\n\n“But I don’t see—”\n\nThey tried to stifle her with cake.\n\n“No, thank you. I’m done. I don’t see why—Freddy, don’t poke me. Miss Honeychurch, your brother’s hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd’s ten shillings? Ow! No, I don’t see and I never shall see why Miss What’s-her-name shouldn’t pay that bob for the driver.”\n\n“I had forgotten the driver,” said Miss Bartlett, reddening. “Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any one give me change for half a crown?”\n\n“I’ll get it,” said the young hostess, rising with decision.\n\n“Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign. I’ll get Euphemia to change it, and we’ll start the whole thing again from the beginning.”\n\n“Lucy—Lucy—what a nuisance I am!” protested Miss Bartlett, and followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and said quite briskly: “Have you told him about him yet?”\n\n“No, I haven’t,” replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. “Let me see—a sovereign’s worth of silver.”\n\nShe escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett’s sudden transitions were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul.\n\n“No, I haven’t told Cecil or any one,” she remarked, when she returned.\n“I promised you I shouldn’t. Here is your money—all shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicely now.”\n\nMiss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph of St.\nJohn ascending, which had been framed.\n\n“How dreadful!” she murmured, “how more than dreadful, if Mr. Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source.”\n\n“Oh, no, Charlotte,” said the girl, entering the battle. “George Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?”\n\nMiss Bartlett considered. “For instance, the driver. I saw him looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth.”\n\nLucy shuddered a little. “We shall get the silly affair on our nerves if we aren’t careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold of Cecil?”\n\n“We must think of every possibility.”\n\n“Oh, it’s all right.”\n\n“Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to know.”\n\n“I don’t care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter, but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh at it.”\n\n“To contradict it?”\n\n“No, to laugh at it.” But she knew in her heart that she could not trust him, for he desired her untouched.\n\n“Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly different.”\n\n“Now, Charlotte!” She struck at her playfully. “You kind, anxious thing. What _would_ you have me do? First you say ‘Don’t tell’; and then you say, ‘Tell’. Which is it to be? Quick!”" +- "Miss Bartlett sighed “I am no match for you in conversation, dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. You will never forgive me.”\n\n“Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we don’t.”\n\nFor the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being scalped with a teaspoon.\n\n“Dear, one moment—we may not have this chance for a chat again. Have you seen the young one yet?”\n\n“Yes, I have.”\n\n“What happened?”\n\n“We met at the Rectory.”\n\n“What line is he taking up?”\n\n“No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad, to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He really won’t be any nuisance, Charlotte.”\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion.”\n\nLucy paused. “Cecil said one day—and I thought it so profound—that there are two kinds of cads—the conscious and the subconscious.” She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil’s profundity.\nThrough the window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith’s library. Her mother must have returned from the station.\n\n“Once a cad, always a cad,” droned Miss Bartlett.\n\n“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;\nit makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn’t admire me, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him,\nand has asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has improved; he doesn’t always look as if he’s going to burst into tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager’s office at one of the big railways—not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden.” She took hold of her guest by the arm. “Suppose we don’t talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting.”\n\nLucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain." +- Chapter XV The Disaster Within +- "The Sunday after Miss Bartlett’s arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells.\n\nThe garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. “The men say they won’t go”—“Well, I don’t blame them”—Minnie says, “need she go?”—“Tell her,\nno nonsense”—“Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!”—“Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?” For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church.\n\nThe sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan;\non George Emerson cleaning his father’s boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly,\nas though acknowledging the caress.\n\nPresently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies—an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little—not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills.\n\n“Lucy! Lucy! What’s that book? Who’s been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?”\n\n“It’s only the library book that Cecil’s been reading.”\n\n“But pick it up, and don’t stand idling there like a flamingo.”\n\nLucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said, “What! you aren’t forgetting your Italy already?” And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun.\n\n“Lucy—have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?”\n\nShe hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster.\n\n“It’s a special collection—I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book’s all warped.\n(Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press.\nMinnie!”\n\n“Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch—” from the upper regions.\n\n“Minnie, don’t be late. Here comes the horse”—it was always the horse,\nnever the carriage. “Where’s Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte—How I do detest blouses! Minnie!”\n\nPaganism is infectious—more infectious than diphtheria or piety—and the Rector’s niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn’t see why. Why shouldn’t she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs.\nHoneychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs." +- "“Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change—nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me—”\n\n“Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame.”\n\n“If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?” said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued,\nand then they drove off.\n\n“Good-bye! Be good!” called out Cecil.\n\nLucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of “church and so on” they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different.\n\nShe saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden.\n\n“Introduce me,” said her mother. “Unless the young man considers that he knows me already.”\n\nHe probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic,\nand asked him how he liked his new house.\n\n“Very much,” he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice;\nshe had never known him offended before. He added: “We find, though,\nthat the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out.\nWomen mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it.”\n\n“I believe that there was some misunderstanding,” said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily.\n\n“Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person,”\nsaid George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. “He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed.”\n\n“And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?” He appealed to Lucy.\n\n“Oh, stop now you have come,” said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned,\nthough his name was never mentioned.\n\n“So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind.”\n\n“There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world,” said George,\nwatching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages.\n\n“Yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. “That’s exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?”\n\n“There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,” he continued in measured tones. “We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm—yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.”\n\n“Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you’re clever!”\n\n“Eh—?”\n\n“I see you’re going to be clever. I hope you didn’t go behaving like that to poor Freddy.”\n\nGeorge’s eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get on rather well.\n\n“No, I didn’t,” he said. “He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation first.”\n\n“What _do_ you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don’t explain. He looks forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind tennis on Sunday—?”\n\n“George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish between Sunday—”\n\n“Very well, George doesn’t mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That’s settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so pleased.”" +- "He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter about in these days.\n\nShe turned to George: “And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss Alans.”\n\n“I know,” said George, and put his arm round his father’s neck. The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape—a touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never spoken against affection.\n\nMiss Bartlett approached.\n\n“You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett,” said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly.\n“You met her with my daughter in Florence.”\n\n“Yes, indeed!” said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine.\nIt was the old, old battle of the room with the view.\n\nGeorge did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: “I—I’ll come up to tennis if I can manage it,” and went into the house. Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno.\n\n“George, don’t go,” cried his father, who thought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. “George has been in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon.”\n\nLucy caught her cousin’s eye. Something in its mute appeal made her reckless. “Yes,” she said, raising her voice, “I do hope he will.” Then she went to the carriage and murmured, “The old man hasn’t been told; I knew it was all right.” Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove away.\n\nSatisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade; yet Lucy’s spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses’ hoofs sang a tune to her: “He has not told, he has not told.” Her brain expanded the melody: “He has not told his father—to whom he tells all things. It was not an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone.” She raised her hand to her cheek. “He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did!\nBut he has not told. He will not tell.”\n\nShe longed to shout the words: “It is all right. It’s a secret between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear.” She was even glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was guarded.\n\nOnly three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:\n\n“The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously.”\n\n“How are my protégés?” asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them,\nand had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for educational purposes.\n\n“Protégés!” she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl’s soul yearned.\n\n“You shall see for yourself how your protégés are. George Emerson is coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only don’t—” She nearly said, “Don’t protect him.” But the bell was ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte." +- "Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: “It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men.” But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning,\nwould never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had seen Gluck’s Armide that year, and played from memory the music of the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: “Now play us the other garden—the one in Parsifal.”\n\nShe closed the instrument." +- "*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW ***\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\nMost people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks." diff --git a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@room_with_a_view.txt.snap b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@room_with_a_view.txt.snap index 32a9fdac..ed7f073b 100644 --- a/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@room_with_a_view.txt.snap +++ b/tests/snapshots/text_splitter_snapshots__tiktoken_trim@room_with_a_view.txt.snap @@ -25,7 +25,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - EBOOK A ROOM WITH A VIEW *** - "[Illustration]" - A Room With A View -- "By E. M. Forster\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS" +- By E. M. Forster +- CONTENTS - "Part One.\n Chapter I. The Bertolini" - Chapter II. - In Santa Croce with No Baedeker @@ -60,7 +61,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Honeychurch, Freddy, and The Servants" - Chapter XIX. Lying to Mr. Emerson - Chapter XX. The End of the Middle Ages -- "PART ONE\n\n\n\n\nChapter I The Bertolini" +- PART ONE +- Chapter I The Bertolini - "“The Signora had no business to do it,”" - "said Miss Bartlett, “no business at all" - "." @@ -2383,7 +2385,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Leaning her elbows on the parapet," - "she contemplated the River Arno," - whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her ears -- ".\n\n\n\n\nChapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing" +- "." +- Chapter V Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing - It was a family saying that “you never knew - which way Charlotte Bartlett would turn.” - She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy’s adventure @@ -6326,7 +6329,8 @@ input_file: tests/inputs/text/room_with_a_view.txt - "Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows" - ":" - "“BEAUCHAMP MANSIONS," -- "S.W.\n\n\n\n\n“DEAR CHARLOTTE," +- S.W. +- "“DEAR CHARLOTTE," - “Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. - "Emerson forgot himself on the mountain, you made" - "me promise not to tell mother, because you said"