It was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a bright bare room, with a floor of red tiles which look clean though they are not; with a painted ceiling whereon pink griffins and blue amorini sport in a forest of yellow violins and bassoons. It was pleasant, too, to fling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in unfamiliar fastenings, to lean out into sunshine with beautiful hills and trees and marble churches opposite, and close below, the Arno, gurgling against the embankment of the road.
Over the river men were at work with spades and sieves on the sandy foreshore, and on the river was a boat, also diligently employed for some mysterious end. An electric tram came rushing underneath the window. No one was inside it, except one tourist; but its platforms were overflowing with Italians, who preferred to stand. Children tried to hang on behind, and the conductor, with no malice, spat in their faces to make them let go. Then soldiers appeared--good-looking, undersized men--wearing each a knapsack covered with mangy fur, and a great-coat which had been cut for some larger soldier. Beside them walked officers, looking foolish and fierce, and before them went little boys, turning somersaults in time with the band. The tramcar became entangled in their ranks, and moved on painfully, like a caterpillar in a swarm of ants. One of the little boys fell down, and some white bullocks came out of an archway. Indeed, if it had not been for the good advice of an old man who was selling button-hooks, the road might never have got clear.
Over such trivialities as these many a valuable hour may slip away, and the traveller who has gone to Italy to study the tactile values of Giotto, or the corruption of the Papacy, may return remembering nothing but the blue sky and the men and women who live under it. So it was as well that Miss Bartlett should tap and come in, and having commented on Lucy's leaving the door unlocked, and on her leaning out of the window before she was fully dressed, should urge her to hasten herself, or the best of the day would be gone. By the time Lucy was ready her cousin had done her breakfast, and was listening to the clever lady among the crumbs.
A conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar lines. Miss Bartlett was, after all, a wee bit tired, and thought they had better spend the morning settling in; unless Lucy would at all like to go out? Lucy would rather like to go out, as it was her first day in Florence, but, of course, she could go alone. Miss Bartlett could not allow this. Of course she would accompany Lucy everywhere. Oh, certainly not; Lucy would stop with her cousin. Oh, no! that would never do. Oh, yes!
At this point the clever lady broke in.
"If it is Mrs. Grundy who is troubling you, I do assure you that you can neglect the good person. Being English, Miss Honeychurch will be perfectly safe. Italians understand. A dear friend of mine, Contessa Baroncelli, has two daughters, and when she cannot send a maid to school with them, she lets them go in sailor-hats instead. Every one takes them for English, you see, especially if their hair is strained tightly behind."
Miss Bartlett was unconvinced by the safety of Contessa Baroncelli's daughters. She was determined to take Lucy herself, her head not being so very bad. The clever lady then said that she was going to spend a long morning in Santa Croce, and if Lucy would come too, she would be delighted.
"I will take you by a dear dirty back way, Miss Honeychurch, and if you bring me luck, we shall have an adventure."
Lucy said that this was most kind, and at once opened the Baedeker, to see where Santa Croce was.
"Tut, tut! Miss Lucy! I hope we shall soon emancipate you from Baedeker. He does but touch the surface of things. As to the true Italy--he does not even dream of it. The true Italy is only to be found by patient observation."
This sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried over her breakfast, and started with her new friend in high spirits. Italy was coming at last. The Cockney Signora and her works had vanished like a bad dream.
Miss Lavish--for that was the clever lady's name--turned to the right along the sunny Lung' Arno. How delightfully warm! But a wind down the side streets cut like a knife, didn't it? Ponte alle Grazie--particularly interesting, mentioned by Dante. San Miniato--beautiful as well as interesting; the crucifix that kissed a murderer--Miss Honeychurch would remember the story. The men on the river were fishing. (Untrue; but then, so is most information.) Then Miss Lavish darted under the archway of the white bullocks, and she stopped, and she cried:
"A smell! a true Florentine smell! Every city, let me teach you, has its own smell."
"Is it a very nice smell?" said Lucy, who had inherited from her mother a distaste to dirt.
"One doesn't come to Italy for niceness," was the retort; "one comes for life. Buon giorno! Buon giorno!" bowing right and left. "Look at that adorable wine-cart! How the driver stares at us, dear, simple soul!"
So Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of the city of Florence, short, fidgety, and playful as a kitten, though without a kitten's grace. It was a treat for the girl to be with any one so clever and so cheerful; and a blue military cloak, such as an Italian officer wears, only increased the sense of festivity.
"Buon giorno! Take the word of an old woman, Miss Lucy: you will never repent of a little civility to your inferiors. That is the true democracy. Though I am a real Radical as well. There, now you're shocked."
"Indeed, I'm not!" exclaimed Lucy. "We are Radicals, too, out and out. My father always voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he was so dreadful about Ireland."
"I see, I see. And now you have gone over to the enemy."
"Oh, please--! If my father was alive, I am sure he would vote Radical again now that Ireland is all right. And as it is, the glass over our front door was broken last election, and Freddy is sure it was the Tories; but mother says nonsense, a tramp."
"Shameful! A manufacturing district, I suppose?"
"No--in the Surrey hills. About five miles from Dorking, looking over the Weald."
Miss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened her trot.
"What a delightful part; I know it so well. It is full of the very nicest people. Do you know Sir Harry Otway--a Radical if ever there was?"
"Very well indeed."
"And old Mrs. Butterworth the philanthropist?" "Why, she rents a field of us! How funny!"
Miss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky, and murmured: "Oh, you have property in Surrey?"
"Hardly any," said Lucy, fearful of being thought a snob. "Only thirty acres--just the garden, all downhill, and some fields."
Miss Lavish was not disgusted, and said it was just the size of her aunt's Suffolk estate. Italy receded. They tried to remember the last name of Lady Louisa some one, who had taken a house near Summer Street the other year, but she had not liked it, which was odd of her. And just as Miss Lavish had got the name, she broke off and exclaimed:
"Bless us! Bless us and save us! We've lost the way."
Certainly they had seemed a long time in reaching Santa Croce, the tower of which had been plainly visible from the landing window. But Miss Lavish had said so much about knowing her Florence by heart, that Lucy had followed her with no misgivings.
"Lost! lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we have taken a wrong turning. How those horrid Conservatives would jeer at us! What are we to do? Two lone females in an unknown town. Now, this is what I call an adventure."
Lucy, who wanted to see Santa Croce, suggested, as a possible solution, that they should ask the way there.
"Oh, but that is the word of a craven! And no, you are not, not, NOT to look at your Baedeker. Give it to me; I shan't let you carry it. We will simply drift."
Accordingly they drifted through a series of those grey-brown streets, neither commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of the city abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent of Lady Louisa, and became discontented herself. For one ravishing moment Italy appeared. She stood in the Square of the Annunziata and saw in the living terra-cotta those divine babies whom no cheap reproduction can ever stale. There they stood, with their shining limbs bursting from the garments of charity, and their strong white arms extended against circlets of heaven. Lucy thought she had never seen anything more beautiful; but Miss Lavish, with a shriek of dismay, dragged her forward, declaring that they were out of their path now by at least a mile.
The hour was approaching at which the continental breakfast begins, or rather ceases, to tell, and the ladies bought some hot chestnut paste out of a little shop, because it looked so typical. It tasted partly of the paper in which it was wrapped, partly of hair oil, partly of the great unknown. But it gave them strength to drift into another Piazza, large and dusty, on the farther side of which rose a black-and-white facade of surpassing ugliness. Miss Lavish spoke to it dramatically. It was Santa Croce. The adventure was over.
"Stop a minute; let those two people go on, or I shall have to speak to them. I do detest conventional intercourse. Nasty! they are going into the church, too. Oh, the Britisher abroad!"
"We sat opposite them at dinner last night. They have given us their rooms. They were so very kind."
"Look at their figures!" laughed Miss Lavish. "They walk through my Italy like a pair of cows. It's very naughty of me, but I would like to set an examination paper at Dover, and turn back every tourist who couldn't pass it."
"What would you ask us?"
Miss Lavish laid her hand pleasantly on Lucy's arm, as if to suggest that she, at all events, would get full marks. In this exalted mood they reached the steps of the great church, and were about to enter it when Miss Lavish stopped, squeaked, flung up her arms, and cried:
"There goes my local-colour box! I must have a word with him!"
And in a moment she was away over the Piazza, her military cloak flapping in the wind; nor did she slacken speed till she caught up an old man with white whiskers, and nipped him playfully upon the arm.
Lucy waited for nearly ten minutes. Then she began to get tired. The beggars worried her, the dust blew in her eyes, and she remembered that a young girl ought not to loiter in public places. She descended slowly into the Piazza with the intention of rejoining Miss Lavish, who was really almost too original. But at that moment Miss Lavish and her local-colour box moved also, and disappeared down a side street, both gesticulating largely. Tears of indignation came to Lucy's eyes partly because Miss Lavish had jilted her, partly because she had taken her Baedeker. How could she find her way home? How could she find her way about in Santa Croce? Her first morning was ruined, and she might never be in Florence again. A few minutes ago she had been all high spirits, talking as a woman of culture, and half persuading herself that she was full of originality. Now she entered the church depressed and humiliated, not even able to remember whether it was built by the Franciscans or the Dominicans. Of course, it must be a wonderful building. But how like a barn! And how very cold! Of course, it contained frescoes by Giotto, in the presence of whose tactile values she was capable of feeling what was proper. But who was to tell her which they were? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling to be enthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date. There was no one even to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved the nave and transepts, was the one that was really beautiful, the one that had been most praised by Mr. Ruskin.
Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on her, and, instead of acquiring information, she began to be happy. She puzzled out the Italian notices--the notices that forbade people to introduce dogs into the church--the notice that prayed people, in the interest of health and out of respect to the sacred edifice in which they found themselves, not to spit. She watched the tourists; their noses were as red as their Baedekers, so cold was Santa Croce. She beheld the horrible fate that overtook three Papists--two he-babies and a she-baby--who began their career by sousing each other with the Holy Water, and then proceeded to the Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed. Advancing towards it very slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone with their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and then retreated. What could this mean? They did it again and again. Then Lucy realized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for some saint, hoping to acquire virtue. Punishment followed quickly. The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of the sepulchral slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin, and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop. Protestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the prelate's upturned toes.
"Hateful bishop!" exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had darted forward also. "Hard in life, hard in death. Go out into the sunshine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is where you ought to be. Intolerable bishop!"
The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadful people who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him not to be superstitious.
"Look at him!" said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. "Here's a mess: a baby hurt, cold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?"
The child's legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr. Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little boy's back-bone and imparted strength to his knees. He stood. Still gibbering with agitation, he walked away.
"You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson. "You have done more than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe--"
He paused for a phrase.
"Niente," said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers.
"I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy.
In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms.
"That woman understands everything," was Mr. Emerson's reply. "But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church?"
"No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door --it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come in by myself."
"Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson.
"Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time.
"But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker."
"Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's THAT you minded. It's worth minding, the loss of a Baedeker. THAT'S worth minding."
Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her.
"If you've no Baedeker," said the son, "you'd better join us." Was this where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her dignity.
"Thank you very much, but I could not think of that. I hope you do not suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with the child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. I hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience."
"My dear," said the old man gently, "I think that you are repeating what you have heard older people say. You are pretending to be touchy; but you are not really. Stop being so tiresome, and tell me instead what part of the church you want to see. To take you to it will be a real pleasure."
Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she ought to have been furious. But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one's temper as it is difficult at other times to keep it. Lucy could not get cross. Mr. Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl might humour him. On the other hand, his son was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to be offended with him, or at all events be offended before him. It was at him that she gazed before replying.
"I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which they are."
The son nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the way to the Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of the teacher about him. She felt like a child in school who had answered a question rightly.
The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation, and out of them rose the voice of a lecturer, directing them how to worship Giotto, not by tactful valuations, but by the standards of the spirit.
"Remember," he was saying, "the facts about this church of Santa Croce; how it was built by faith in the full fervour of medievalism, before any taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Observe how Giotto in these frescoes--now, unhappily, ruined by restoration--is untroubled by the snares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, more pathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!"
"No!" exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church. "Remember nothing of the sort! Built by faith indeed! That simply means the workmen weren't paid properly. And as for the frescoes, I see no truth in them. Look at that fat man in blue! He must weigh as much as I do, and he is shooting into the sky like an air balloon."
He was referring to the fresco of the "Ascension of St. John." Inside, the lecturer's voice faltered, as well it might. The audience shifted uneasily, and so did Lucy. She was sure that she ought not to be with these men; but they had cast a spell over her. They were so serious and so strange that she could not remember how to behave.
"Now, did this happen, or didn't it? Yes or no?"
George replied:
"It happened like this, if it happened at all. I would rather go up to heaven by myself than be pushed by cherubs; and if I got there I should like my friends to lean out of it, just as they do here."
"You will never go up," said his father. "You and I, dear boy, will lie at peace in the earth that bore us, and our names will disappear as surely as our work survives."
"Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint, whoever he is, going up. It did happen like that, if it happened at all."
"Pardon me," said a frigid voice. "The chapel is somewhat small for two parties. We will incommode you no longer."
The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock, for they held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini--Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan.
"Stop!" cried Mr. Emerson. "There's plenty of room for us all. Stop!"
The procession disappeared without a word.
Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis.
"George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate."
George went into the next chapel and returned, saying "Perhaps he is. I don't remember."
"Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It's that Mr. Eager. Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? How vexatious. I shall go and say we are sorry. Hadn't I better? Then perhaps he will come back."
"He will not come back," said George.
But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize to the Rev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear the lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive voice of the old man, the curt, injured replies of his opponent. The son, who took every little contretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening also.
"My father has that effect on nearly every one," he informed her. "He will try to be kind."
"I hope we all try," said she, smiling nervously.
"Because we think it improves our characters. But he is kind to people because he loves them; and they find him out, and are offended, or frightened."
"How silly of them!" said Lucy, though in her heart she sympathized; "I think that a kind action done tactfully--"
"Tact!"
He threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wrong answer. She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel. For a young man his face was rugged, and--until the shadows fell upon it--hard. Enshadowed, it sprang into tenderness. She saw him once again at Rome, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, carrying a burden of acorns. Healthy and muscular, he yet gave her the feeling of greyness, of tragedy that might only find solution in the night. The feeling soon passed; it was unlike her to have entertained anything so subtle. Born of silence and of unknown emotion, it passed when Mr. Emerson returned, and she could re-enter the world of rapid talk, which was alone familiar to her.
"Were you snubbed?" asked his son tranquilly.
"But we have spoilt the pleasure of I don't know how many people. They won't come back."
"...full of innate sympathy...quickness to perceive good in others...vision of the brotherhood of man..." Scraps of the lecture on St. Francis came floating round the partition wall.
"Don't let us spoil yours," he continued to Lucy. "Have you looked at those saints?"
"Yes," said Lucy. "They are lovely. Do you know which is the tombstone that is praised in Ruskin?"
He did not know, and suggested that they should try to guess it. George, rather to her relief, refused to move, and she and the old man wandered not unpleasantly about Santa Croce, which, though it is like a barn, has harvested many beautiful things inside its walls. There were also beggars to avoid. and guides to dodge round the pillars, and an old lady with her dog, and here and there a priest modestly edging to his Mass through the groups of tourists. But Mr. Emerson was only half interested. He watched the lecturer, whose success he believed he had impaired, and then he anxiously watched his son.
"Why will he look at that fresco?" he said uneasily. "I saw nothing in it."
"I like Giotto," she replied. "It is so wonderful what they say about his tactile values. Though I like things like the Della Robbia babies better."
"So you ought. A baby is worth a dozen saints. And my baby's worth the whole of Paradise, and as far as I can see he lives in Hell."
Lucy again felt that this did not do.
"In Hell," he repeated. "He's unhappy."
"Oh, dear!" said Lucy.
"How can he be unhappy when he is strong and alive? What more is one to give him? And think how he has been brought up--free from all the superstition and ignorance that lead men to hate one another in the name of God. With such an education as that, I thought he was bound to grow up happy."
She was no theologian, but she felt that here was a very foolish old man, as well as a very irreligious one. She also felt that her mother might not like her talking to that kind of person, and that Charlotte would object most strongly.
"What are we to do with him?" he asked. "He comes out for his holiday to Italy, and behaves--like that; like the little child who ought to have been playing, and who hurt himself upon the tombstone. Eh? What did you say?"
Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said:
"Now don't be stupid over this. I don't require you to fall in love with my boy, but I do think you might try and understand him. You are nearer his age, and if you let yourself go I am sure you are sensible. You might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time. You stop here several weeks, I suppose? But let yourself go. You are inclined to get muddled, if I may judge from last night. Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them. By understanding George you may learn to understand yourself. It will be good for both of you."
To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer.
"I only know what it is that's wrong with him; not why it is."
"And what is it?" asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.
"The old trouble; things won't fit."
"What things?"
"The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don't."
"Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?"
In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:
"'From far, from eve and morning, And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I'
George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow."
Miss Honeychurch assented.
"Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."
Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!
"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but --" Then she became matronly. "Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or the Lakes."
The old man's face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand. This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had impressed him and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed her at all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago esthetically, before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached, his face in the shadow. He said:
"Miss Bartlett."
"Oh, good gracious me!" said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. "Where? Where?"
"In the nave."
"I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have--" She checked herself.
"Poor girl!" exploded Mr. Emerson. "Poor girl!"
She could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself.
"Poor girl? I fail to understand the point of that remark. I think myself a very fortunate girl, I assure you. I'm thoroughly happy, and having a splendid time. Pray don't waste time mourning over me. There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it. Good-bye. Thank you both so much for all your kindness. Ah, yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church."
She joined her cousin.
圣克罗彻（译注：即指圣米尼亚托教堂。它坐落在佛罗伦萨东南的克罗彻小山上。）
这是相当愉快的事——在佛罗伦萨一觉醒来，睁眼看到的是一间光线充足的空荡荡的房间，红瓷砖地虽然并不清洁，但是看上去相当干净；彩色天花板上画着粉红色的鹰头狮身双翅怪兽和蓝色的双翅小天使在一大簇黄色小提琴与低音管之中戏耍。同样愉快的是用手猛然推开窗户，让窗子开得大大的，搭上钩子，由于第一次不太熟悉，手指被轧了一下；探身出去，迎面都是阳光，前面山峦起伏，树木苍翠，煞是好看，还有大理石砌成的教堂；窗下不远处就是阿诺河，水流拍击路边的堤岸，发出淙淙声响。
男人们有的抡着铁锹，有的端着筛子，在河边的沙滩上千活，下面就是河，河面上有条小船，船上人也在忙碌，吃不透他们在干什么。一辆电车在窗下疾驰而过。车内除了一位游客外，并无他人；但是平台上却挤满了意大利人，他们都宁愿站立。好几个小孩试图吊在后面，售票员在他们脸上啐唾沫，不过没有什么恶意，只是要他们松手罢了。接着士兵们出现了——这些人面目清秀，个子矮小，每人背着个用肮脏的毛皮覆盖着的背包，穿着适合身材更加高大的人穿的大衣。走在士兵旁边的是一些军官，凶神恶煞似的，却又一脸蠢相。士兵前面有几个小男孩，跟着乐队的节拍在翻筋斗。电车陷在这些人的队伍里，挣扎着前进，就像一条毛毛虫落在一大群蚂蚁里。小男孩中有一个跌倒在地，几条白色小公牛从拱廊里跑了出来。说真的，要不是一位出售扣子钩的老人出了个好主意，那条道路很可能会一直堵塞不通呢！
很多宝贵光阴就在这样一些鸡毛蒜皮的小事上偷偷地溜走了，到意大利来研究乔托（译注：乔托（1267-1337）．意大利文艺复兴初期画家、雕塑家和建筑师。）壁画的浑厚坚实的质感或罗马教廷的腐败统治的游客，回去后很可能除了蔚蓝的天空及居住在这天空下的男男女女外，什么都不记得。因此巴特利特小姐的这些做法正是顶合适的；她轻轻地叩了叩门，走进房间，先是提出露西忘了锁房门，没有完全穿戴好便探身窗外，接着敦促她行动要快一点，不然一天最好的时光便要虚度了。等到露西准备就绪，她的表姐已吃完早餐，正在听那位还在吃面包的聪明女士高谈阔论哩！
接着是一番按照我们并不感到生疏的方式进行的谈话。巴特利特小姐毕竟有一点累了，认为上午她们还是待在屋里适应一下新环境好；除非露西想出去？露西宁愿出去，因为这是她在佛罗伦萨的第一天；不过，当然她可以一个人出去的。巴特利特小姐可不能同意这一点。她当然愿意奉陪露西到任何地方去。噢，这当然不行；露西将和她表姐一起待在屋里。啊，不！一定不可以这样！噢，就这样吧！
这当儿那位聪明女士插话了。
“要是葛伦迪太太①（译注：①葛伦迪太太是英国剧作家托马斯·摩顿（1764-1838）的剧本《加快犁地的速度》(1798)中的一位拘泥世俗常规、爱以风化监督者自居的人物。此处指巴特利特小姐。）在使你感到为难，那么你完全可以放心，不必顾虑这位好心人。霍尼彻奇小姐是英国人，绝对不会有安全问题。意大利人是懂得这一点的。我的一位好友巴隆切丽伯爵夫人有两个女儿，当她不能派女仆送她们上学时，她就让两个女儿戴上水手帽自己去。你知道，这样每个人都把她们当作英国人了，特别是如果她们的头发紧紧扎住，垂在脑后。”
巴隆切丽伯爵夫人的女儿们的安全并不足以说服巴特利特小姐。她决意亲自带露西出去，反正她头痛得不算十分厉害。于是那聪明女士说她将在圣克罗彻度过一个漫长的上午，如果露西愿意去，她将十分高兴。
“霍尼彻奇小姐，我将带你走后面的一条可爱的肮脏小路，如果你给我带来运气，我们就会有一番奇遇。”
露西说这样安排是再好也没有了，便立刻翻开旅游指南，查看圣克罗彻在哪里。
“啧啧！露西小姐！我希望我们能很快把你从旅游指南中解放出来。这个作者只点到了表面的东西。至于真正的意大利——他做梦也没有看到过。真正的意大利只有通过细心的观察才能看到。”
这段话听起来很诱人，于是露西赶紧吃完早饭，兴高采烈地与她这新朋友一起出发。意大利终于来临了。那讲伦敦土话的房东太太和她的所作所为像恶梦一样消失了。
拉维希小姐—一这是聪明女士的姓氏——向右拐弯，沿着阳光和煦的河滨大道走去。暖洋洋的，多舒服啊！不过从那些小街上刮来的风却像刀子那样犀利，可不是吗？感恩桥——特别吸引人，那是但丁提起过的。圣米尼亚托教堂——既吸引人又漂亮；那个吻过谋杀者的十字架——霍尼彻奇小姐会记住这个传说①（译注：①据传说，圣乔瓦尼·瓜尔贝托曾放弃为兄复仇的机会，一个大十字架为了表示嘉许，向他倾斜来吻他。该十字架在今圣三一教堂。）的。男人们在河上钓鱼。（不是真的；不过大多数消息何尝都是真的。）接着，拉维希小姐窜进那些小白牛出现的那个拱道，突然停了下来，大声叫道：
“一种气味！一种真正的佛罗伦萨气味！让我指点你吧，每个城市都有它自己的气味。”
“这是种非常好闻的气味吗？”露西说，她从她母亲那里继承了一种洁癖。
“人们到意大利来不是贪图舒适的，”对方反驳道，“而是来找生活气息的。早晨好！早晨好！”她向右边又向左边行鞠躬礼。“瞧那辆可爱的运酒车！那司机正盯着我们看，这可爱纯朴的人！”
就这样，拉维希小姐穿过了佛罗伦萨城市的几条街道。她身材娇小，心情急躁，像一只小猫那样顽皮，但姿态却没有小猫那么优美。对露西说来，同这样一位聪明的乐天派在一起实在可算趣事一桩，更何况她披了一件意大利军官所穿的那种蓝色军人披风，更加增添了欢乐的气氛。
“早晨好！露西小姐，请相信一个老太婆的话：对地位不如你的人客气一些，你永远也不会感到后悔。这就是真正的民主。虽然我也是个真正的激进分子。你看，你现在感到吃惊了吧！”
“说真的，我不吃惊！”露西叫了起来。“我们也是激进分子，地地道道的激进分子。我父亲一直投格莱斯顿先生①（译注：格莱斯顿（1809-1898），英国自由党领导人，维多利亚女王时期曾四次出任首相。）的票，直到他对爱尔兰实施那么糟糕的政策。”
“我明白了，我明白了。而你现在却已倒向敌人一边了。”
“哦，别说了——既然现在爱尔兰也没有什么问题了，如果我父亲还活着的话，我敢肯定他会重新投激进党的票的。说实在的，我们前门上面的玻璃就是上次选举时给砸碎的，而弗雷迪肯定这是保守党人干的；不过妈妈认为这是胡说八道，是流浪汉干的。”
“太可耻了！我想是在工业区吧？”
“不——在萨里郡②（译注：在伦敦的南面。）的山区。离开多金大约五英里，南面就是威尔德地区③。（译注：古自然地区，在英格兰东南端，包括萨里郡的南部，古代由大片森林所覆盖，现在是农业区。）”
拉维希小姐似乎很感兴趣，步子也放慢了。
“那一带可吸引人啊！我非常熟悉。住在那里的都是非常好、非常好的人。你认识哈里·奥特韦爵士吗？——一个真正的激进派？”
“非常熟悉。”
“还有慈善家巴特沃思老太太？”
“是吗？她租了我们的一块地！真有意思！”
拉维希小姐望着狭得像缎带那样的天空，低声说道：
“哦，你们在萨里郡有产业？”
“说不上什么，”露西说，怕别人认为她是个势利小人。“只有三十英亩——只不过一片园地，从山坡一直下去，还有一些田地。”
拉维希小姐并不感到厌恶，而是说露西家的产业正好和她姑妈在萨福克郡的房地产的规模差不多。意大利暂时告退。她们试图回忆一位某某路易莎夫人的姓氏，那一年她在夏街附近租了一幢房子，但是怪的是她并不喜欢这幢楼房。正当拉维希小姐想起那个姓氏时，她突然中断了讲话，叫喊起来：
“哎呀，天哪！老天保佑！我们迷路了。”
看来她们来到圣克罗彻确实花了好多时间，从她们住的公寓的楼梯平台窗口可以清清楚楚地看到它的钟楼。可是拉维希小姐说了许多她对佛罗伦萨了若指掌的话，露西便毫无顾虑地跟着她走了。
“迷路了！迷路了！我亲爱的露西小姐，正当我们对政治冷嘲热讽时，我们拐错了弯。那些可怕的保守派将会怎样嘲笑我们呀！我们该怎么办呢？两个孤身女人在一个完全陌生的地方。嘿，我就把这个叫做历险。”
露西想去看看圣克罗彻，提出她们应该向人问路，这不失为一种可行的办法。
“哦，不过这是胆小鬼的说法！不，你别、别、别去看你的旅游指南。把它给我；我不许你带这个。我们走到哪里是哪里。”
于是她们信步走去，穿过好几条灰褐色的街道，既不宽敞，又无景色可言，佛罗伦萨城的东部就多的是这样的街道。露西很快便对路易莎夫人的不满失去兴趣，竟然自己感到不满起来。意大利一下子出现了，使人陶醉。她站在领报圣母广场上，看到那些活生生的赤陶雕塑的圣洁的婴儿①（译注：①该广场东南部有一家过去的儿童医院，其拱廊上有十四座赤陶制的圆形雕像，为中世纪意大利雕塑家德拉·罗比亚所作，其形象为襁褓婴儿。），那是任何廉价的复制品永远也不可能使之失去光辉的。他们就站在那里，闪闪发亮的四肢从人们施舍的衣服里伸展出来，雪白强壮的手臂高高举向苍穹。露西认为她从来没有看到过这样美丽的景象；可是拉维希小姐却神情沮丧地尖叫一声，拖着她向前走去，说她们至少走错有一英里路了。
欧洲大陆式的早餐（译注：欧洲大陆式的早餐为一种简易的早餐，通常包括面包卷、咖啡或茶。）开始起作用，或者更确切地说，停止起作用的时刻已迫近，两位小姐便从一家小铺买了一些热栗子糊充饥，因为看来它是典型的意大利食品。它的味道有一点像它的包装纸，有一点像头油，还有一点说不出是什么的味道。然而它为她们补充了气力，使她们得以漫步走人另外一片广场，它相当大，尘土飞扬，在另一边矗立着一座建筑物的门面，黑白交加，难看得无以复加。拉维希小姐煞有介事地对着它开口了。这就是圣克罗彻教堂。历险已完成了。
“停一下；让那两个人过去，不然我就不得不和他们讲话了。我非常讨厌敷衍应酬。真是活见鬼！他们也在进入教堂。唉，海外的英国人啊！”
“昨天晚上吃晚饭时，我们就坐在他们对面。他们把自己的房间让给了我们。真是好心人。”
“你瞧他们的身材！”拉维希小姐笑出声来。“他们像两头母牛，走在我这意大利土地上。我这样说实在刻薄，不过我真巴不得在多佛（译注：英格兰东南端一城市，为横渡英吉利海峡到法国和欧洲大陆的必经之地。）设立一个考场，凡是不及格的游客都给我打回票。”
“那么你要考我们什么呢？”
拉维希小姐愉快地把手搭在露西臂上，似乎想表示反正后者在任何情况下都会得满分的。她们就这样得意洋洋地来到了这大教堂的石阶前，正要进去时，拉维希小姐停住了脚步，尖叫了一声，刷地举起双臂说：
“我那有本地特色的唠叨鬼来了！我必须同他讲几句话！”
一瞬间，她已跑到广场的远处去了，她那件军人披风在风中不断拍动着，她一直没有放慢步子，直到追上了一位白胡髭老人，开玩笑地在他的臂上掐了一下。
露西等了将近十分钟。她开始有点不耐烦了。周围的乞丐使她不安，灰沙吹进了她的眼睛，她想起一个年轻姑娘不应该在公共场所踯躅。她便慢慢地走下石阶，踏上广场，想再和拉维希小姐会合，但是这位小姐委实太会别出心裁了。就在那个关头，拉维希小姐和她那有本地特色的唠叨鬼两人也走动起来，手舞足蹈地拐进一条支路，消失了踪影。
露西的眼睛里涌出气愤的眼泪——部分是因为拉维希小姐抛弃了她，部分却是因为她把她的旅行指南带走了。她怎样寻找回家的路呢？她怎么才能在圣克罗彻这一带找到她的路呢？第一天上午就这样毁了，而且她可能再也不会到佛罗伦萨来了。不过几分钟前，她还是兴高采烈的，像一个有文化修养的女人在谈天说地，还有几分相信自己顶不落俗套呢。可是现在她走进教堂，心情沉重，十分委屈，甚至连这座教堂是由方济各会修士还是多明我会（译注：①这是罗马天主教会的两大托钵修道会。该教堂实为方济各会修士建造的。）修士建造的都记不起来了。
当然，这座教堂一定是了不起的一大建筑。不过它多么像一座仓库啊！又多么冷啊！不错，里面有乔托的壁画，壁画的浑厚质感原可以感染她，使她体会什么才是恰到好处。可是又有谁来告诉她哪些壁画是乔托的作品呢？她倨傲地来回走动，不愿对她还没有弄清作者和年代的杰作显示热情。甚至没有人来告诉她铺设在教堂中殿及十字形耳堂的所有的墓石中哪一块真正算得上是美的，是罗斯金先生（译注：罗斯金（1819-1900），英国作家、文艺评论家。他访问佛罗伦萨时第一天早晨就去观光圣克罗彻教堂，在《在佛罗伦萨度过的一些早晨》一书中赞美这些墓石。）所最推崇的。
此刻，意大利的蛊惑魅力使她着魔了，于是她没有去请教别人，竟然开始感到逍遥自在。她经过苦思，终于弄懂了那些意大利文告示——禁止人们把狗带人教堂的告示——请求人们为了大众健康，及出于对这座他们已进入的庄严神圣的大厦的尊敬不要随地吐痰的告示。她观望着那些游客：他们的鼻子像他们所携带的红封面的旅游指南一样通红通红，可见圣克罗彻是多么冷了。她亲眼目睹了三位天主教徒的悲惨命运——两名男童和一名女童——他们起初相互用圣水将对方弄湿，然后走向马基雅维里②（译注：马基雅维里（1469-1527）。意大利政治家、政治理论家。）纪念碑，水珠不断从他们身上滴下，但他们却变得神圣了。他们非常慢地向纪念碑走去，而距离又非常远，到了碑前，他们先是用手指、后来用手绢、最后用头颅碰了碰石碑，然后退下去，如是重复了多次。这意味着什么？后来露西明白了，他们误以为马基雅维里是某位圣徒，便不断地跟他的圣陵接触，希望能获得美德（译注：这里指神学上的三大美德：信仰、希望、博爱）。可是惩罚接踵而来。年纪最小的那个男童在罗斯金先生非常赞赏的一块墓石上绊了一跤，双脚绕在一位平卧的主教雕像的脸上。露西虽然是一名基督教徒，但她赶紧冲向前去。她晚到了一步。那个幼童已重重地摔倒在主教向上翘起的足趾上了。
“这可恶的主教！”老艾默森先生的声音响了起来，当时他也冲向前去。“生前冷酷，死后无情。小弟弟，到外边阳光里去，对着太阳吻你的手，那里才是你该呆的地方。让人受不了的主教！”
那个幼童听了这些话，对那些把他扶起来、为他拭去尘土、抚摸着他的伤处、叫他不要迷信的可怕的人们狂叫起来。
“你看他！”艾默森先生对露西说。“出了桩糟糕的事儿：一个娃娃跌痛了，冻得发抖不说，还给吓坏了！可除了这些，你还能指望教堂给你什么？”
那男孩的两条腿像熔化了的蜡似的。老艾默森先生及露西每次把他扶起来，他一声大叫，又坍倒下去。幸而有一位本来应当在做祷告的意大利女士来救援了。她凭着母亲们所独有的某种神秘功能，使小男孩的背脊骨挺起来，并使他的双膝变得有力了。他站住了，随即离去，嘴巴里还在叽里咕噜，不知说些什么，显得很激动。
“您是一位聪明的女人，”艾默森先生说。“您的贡献比世界上所有的文物古迹都大。我和您信仰不一样，不过我真心信赖那些使别人快乐的人。宇宙间的一切安排没有……”
他顿住了，想找一个恰当的字眼。
“没什么①，(译注：①原文为Niente，意大利语。)”这意大利女士说，又开始祈祷。
“我怀疑她是否听得懂英语，”露西提出。
她感到心灵净化，不再藐视艾默森父子了。她决心要对他们谦和，落落大方而不是过分拘泥，而且如果可能的话，还要对那两间合意的房间说上几句好话，以抵消巴特利特小姐的那番客套。
“那位女士什么都听得懂，”艾默森先生应道。“不过你在这里干什么？是参观教堂吗？你参观完了吗？”
“没有，”露西嚷道，想起了自己的委屈。“我和拉维希小姐一起到这里来，她说好要讲解一切的；可刚到大门口——真糟糕！——她就干脆跑了，我等了好一会，只好自己进来了。”
“你为什么不能这样做呢？”艾默森先生说。
“对，你为什么不能自己进来呢？”那做儿子的说，这是他第一次对这位年轻小姐讲话。
“可拉维希小姐竟把旅游指南也带走了。”
“旅游指南？”艾默森先生说。“我很高兴使你感到惋惜的是那本书。失落旅游指南是很值得惋惜的。那可值得惋惜。”
露西感到迷惑。她又一次意识到这里面存在着某种新的设想，但是吃不准它将把她引向何处。
“要是你没有旅游指南，”儿子说，“你还是和我们一起走吧。”
难道这新的设想就将这样引导吗？她把尊严作为她的护身符。
“非常感谢，不过我可不敢这样想。我希望你们不会以为我过来是把自己和你们硬凑在一起。我确确实实是来搀扶那个孩子的，还有，要向你们道谢，那样好心好意地在昨天晚上把房间让给我们。我希望这没有给你们带来很多不便。”
“亲爱的，”老人温和地说，“我想你是在重复你听到的年纪大的人所讲的话吧。你装作很容易生气；其实并不真是这样。好了，别让人扫兴了，告诉我你想看教堂哪个部分。带你去看会是一种真正的乐趣。”
嘿，这简直是无礼到了极点，她本该发作才是。可是有时候要发脾气与另外的时间要耐住性子不发脾气同样困难。露西不能发脾气。艾默森先生是位老人，当然哕，姑娘家是可以迁就他的。可另一方面，他的儿子是位青年，她觉得一个姑娘家应该对他生气才是，或者不管怎么样，当着他的面表示生气。因此，她注视着他然后回答。
“我希望我并不容易生气。我想看的是乔托的壁画，如果能请你告诉我是哪一些的话。”
儿子点了点头。他领路向佩鲁齐小堂走去，脸上带着一种忧郁而满足的神色。他的态度有点像老师。她却感到自己像一个答对一道题目的小学生。
小堂里已挤满了聚精会神的人群，从中传出一位讲解员的声音，指导大家如何根据精神上的规范而不是根据质感方面的价值来对乔托顶礼膜拜。
“请记住，”他说，“关于这座圣克罗彻教堂的事迹；它是在文艺复兴污染出现以前，怀着对中世纪艺术风格的满腔热忱的信仰建成的。请仔细观察乔托在这些壁画里——现在不幸因修复反而被毁了——并没有被解剖学和透视学所设置的陷阱所干扰。还有什么能比这更雄伟、更悲怆、更美、更真的吗？知识和技巧，我们觉得，对一个真正能体验感情的人所能起的作用真是微乎其微啊！”
“不对！”艾默森先生叫喊起来，这样的嗓音在小堂里实在太大了。“这些都不必记住！说什么由信仰建成的！那不过是说工匠们没有得到恰当的报酬。至于那些壁面，我看一点都不真实。瞧那个穿蓝衣服的胖子！他的体重肯定和我差不多，但是他却像个气球那样升上天空。”
他讲的是“圣约翰登天”那幅壁画。小堂里，那位讲解员的声音结结巴巴了，这也无妨。听众不自在地挪了挪位置，露西也是这样。她确信自己不应该和这些人在一起；但是他们用魔力把她镇住了。他们是这样认真，又这样古怪，她简直想不起来应该怎么样才算举止得体。
“说呀，到底有这回事没有？是有还是没有？”
乔治回答：
“如果真有这回事，事实的经过就应该是这样的。我宁愿自己进入天国，而不愿被一群小天使推进去；而且如果我到了那里，我希望我的朋友们都探身往外边看，就像他们在这里做的那样。”
“你永远上不了天，”他父亲说。“你和我，亲爱的孩子，将安息在生养我们的大地上，而且可以肯定，我们的名字将会消失，就像我们的成就将永远存在一样。”
“有些人只看得见空的坟墓，却看不见圣徒登天，不管是哪一位圣徒。如果真有这回事，事情经过就应该是这样。”
“对不起，”一个冷冰冰的声音说。“两批人在一起，这小堂似乎太小了。我们将不再妨碍你们。”
讲解员是一位牧师，他的听众一定也是属他管辖的教友，因为他们手里不但拿着旅游指南，还捧着祈祷书。他们默默地列队走出小堂。其中有贝尔托利尼膳宿公寓的两位身材矮小的老小姐——特莉莎·艾伦小姐和凯瑟琳·艾伦小姐。
“不要走！”艾默森先生叫道。“这里地方有的是，我们大家都待得下。不要走！”
队伍一句话也没说就消失了。很快隔壁的小堂里响起了讲解员的声音，在描述圣弗朗西斯的生平。
“乔治，我确实以为那位牧师是布里克斯顿教区的副牧师。”
乔治走入隔壁的小堂，回来说，“也许正是他。我记不清了。”
“既然如此，我最好还是和他交谈一下，提醒他我是谁。他就是那位伊格先生。他为什么走了？是不是我们说话声音太大了？真使人心烦！我要去告诉他我们感到抱歉。你看好吗？这样也许他会回来的。”
“他不会回来的，”乔治说。
艾默森先生懊悔不迭，闷闷不乐，还是赶过去向卡斯伯特·伊格副牧师道歉。露西的注意力显然全部集中在一扇弦月窗上，但是听得见讲解再次被打断，听见老人的急切主动的声音和对方简短的、恼怒的回答。那做儿子的把不幸发生的每件小事都看做是一场悲剧，也在倾听。
“我父亲几乎在每个人身上都会产生这样的结果，”他告诉她。“他总是尽量表示他的好意。”
“我希望我们大家都这样，”她说，笑得有点紧张。
“这是因为我们认为这样做能完善我们的性格。不过他对人家好是因为他爱他们；可结果他们发现了，感到生气，要不然就感到害怕。”
“这些人真蠢！”露西说，虽然心里充满了同情，“我想贯彻良好的用心时如果能注意方式方法一”
“方式方法！”
他不屑地仰起了头。显然她答题答错了。她注视着这个不同于一般的人在小堂里走来走去。拿一个年轻人来说，他的脸显得粗糙-而且——在阴影蒙上他的脸时——显得严峻。在阴影笼罩下．这脸上却突然显出柔情。她想象在罗马看到他，在西斯廷教堂的天花板①(译注：①在罗马梵蒂冈的西斯廷教堂内，米开朗琪罗曾作天顶画，上面有二十个裸体的青年。露西把乔冶想象为其中之一。)上，抱着许多橡果。虽然他看起来身体健壮、肌肉发达，但是他给她一种灰色的感觉，一种也许只有夜幕才能解除的悲哀的感觉。这种感觉很快便消失了；她很难得有这种如此微妙的感觉。它是由于静默和一种莫明其妙的感情所产生的，等艾默森先生回来时，这种感觉就消失了，她能够重新和大家流畅地进行交谈，而她唯一熟悉的正是这种交谈方式。
“你受到了斥责吧？”他儿子平静地问。
“可我们扫了不知道多少人的兴。他们不肯回来了。”
“……生来富于同情心……善于发现别人的优点……人人都是兄弟的理想……”关于圣弗朗西斯的讲解断断续续地从隔墙的另一边传来。
“别让我们扫了你的兴，”他继续对露西说。“你参观过那些圣徒了吗？”
“参观过了，”露西说。“他们都很美。你知道哪一块墓碑是罗斯金在他的著作中热情赞扬过的？”
他不知道，不过建议他们可以猜猜。乔治不愿走动，这使露西感到相当宽慰，于是她和老人愉快地在圣克罗彻教堂内溜达起来。这地方虽然看上去像一座谷仓，却收藏着许多珍品。他们还必须避开乞丐，绕着柱子躲开导游，还有一位牵着一条狗的老太太，此外；不时有位神父谨慎而缓慢地穿过一群群游客去主持弥撒。然而艾默森先生对这一切并不太感兴趣。他望着那位讲解员，以为自己破坏了他的讲解取得成功，接着，他焦虑地望着他的儿子。
“他为什么老盯着那幅壁画？”他不安地说。“我看不出有什么名堂。”
“我喜欢乔托，”她回答道。“那些关于他的壁画的浑厚坚实的质感的论述精彩极了。虽然我更喜欢德拉·罗比亚的赤陶雕塑的婴儿那一类东西。”
“你应该这样。一个婴孩抵得上一打圣徒。我的宝贝儿可以抵得上整个天堂，可是就我所知他却生活在地狱里。”
露西再次感到这样谈话不行。
“在地狱里，”他重复说。“他不快活。”
“天啊！”露西说。
“他这样强壮，生气勃勃，怎么会不快活？还能给他什么呢？想想他是怎样长大的——丝毫没有受到以上帝的名义使人们相互仇恨的迷信与愚昧的毒害。受到了这样的教育，我原以为他长大起来必定是幸福的。”
她不是什么神学家，可是感到这个老头十分愚蠢，而且对宗教很有反感。她还想到她母亲可能不会喜欢她同这类人谈话，夏绿蒂就一定会坚决反对她这样做。
“我们该拿他怎么办呢？”他问。“他到意大利来是为了度假，可他的行动——却是这样；就像那个原来应该好好玩耍的孩子却在墓碑上摔痛了。呃？你刚才说什么？”
露西没有发表意见。他突然接口道：
“得了，别为此感到不知所措啦。我并不要你爱上我的孩子，不过我认为你可以设法理解他。你和他的岁数比我和他接近，如果你能放开自己，我相信你是通情达理的。也许你能帮助我。他认识的女人极少，而你有的是时间。我想，你要在这里停留几星期吧？放开你自己；你的思想容易被搞得混乱，如果我可以就昨晚的事作出判断的话。放开你自己吧。把你的那些搞不清楚的想法兜底翻出来．在阳光里摊开来，弄清楚它们的含义。通过理解乔治，你很可能学会理解自己。这对你们俩都有好处。”
对这一番离奇的话，露西想不出用什么话来回答。
“我只知道他有什么问题；但是不知道为什么会产生这样的问题。”
“那么是什么问题呢？”露西怯生生地问，意识到将听到什么惨痛的经历。
“老毛病；不适应。”
“什么不适应？”
“对世界上的事情不适应。真是这样。不适应。”
“啊，艾默森先生，你到底想说什么？”
他的声音与平常讲话声音一样，因此她没有觉察他在引用诗句，他说的是：“从远方、从黄昏与清晨，风儿来自四面八方，生命材料编织成我向这里吹来：我来到世上。① （译注：引自英国诗人霍思曼（1859-1936）的代表作《西罗普郡少年》第32首第1节。）乔治和我都知道是这么回事，但是为什么这使他感到苦恼呢？我们知道我们是从风里来，还要回到风里去；知道所有的生灵也许只是永恒的平静中的一个缠结、一团纷乱、一点瑕疵。那么为什么这要使我们不快活呢？我们还不如相亲相爱、努力工作、尽情欢乐吧！我可不相信这世界性的烦恼。”
霍尼彻奇小姐表示同意。
“那就使我这孩子和你我具有同样的想法吧。使他认识到在永恒的问号旁边，总是有个肯定——一个短暂的肯定，如果你愿意那么想，但总是肯定吧。”
她突然笑出声来；当然任何人听了都应当笑的。一个青年人抑郁寡欢，只因为世事难以适应，因为生命呈现一团纷乱，或者像一阵风，或者是个肯定，或者是某种东西！
“非常抱歉，”她大声说。“你会以为我缺乏感情，不过——不过——”接着她变得像一位庄重的太太了。“哦，你的儿子需要找事干。他没有特殊的爱好吗？瞎，我自己也有烦恼，不过我一弹钢琴，烦恼一般就给忘了；而集邮对我弟弟的好处可大啦！也许意大利使他感到厌烦了；你们应该到阿尔卑斯山区或湖泊地区去。”
老人的脸色显得很悲哀，他伸手轻轻地碰了碰她。这并没有使她惊慌；她以为自己的劝告对他起了作用，他不过就此向她表示感谢而已。说真的，他根本不再使她感到惊慌了；她把他看作一个好心肠的人，不过相当傻。她这时心情十分舒畅，其程度和一小时前她还没有失去旅游指南时心里充满美感一样。那位可爱的乔治这时正从墓石间向他们大步走来，看上去既可怜又可笑。他走近他们，脸蛋被阴影遮盖住了。他说：
“巴特利特小姐。”
“哦，天哪！”露西说．突然垮了下来，又一次从新的角度看到了整个人生。“在哪里？在哪里？”
“在中殿。”
“我明白了。那两位矮小的喜欢饶舌的艾伦小姐一定——”她没有说下去。
“可怜的姑娘！”艾默森先生迸发了一句。“可怜的姑娘！”
她不能就这样算了，因为她的自我感觉正是这样。
“可怜的姑娘？我不懂你说这句话的用意。我认为我自己是个非常幸运的女孩子，请放心。我非常快活，玩得非常开心。请不要浪费时间为我感到悲哀。即使不编造烦恼，世界上的烦恼已经够多啦，是不是？再见。我非常感谢你们两位的好意。是啊！我表姐真的来了。真是个愉快的早晨！圣克罗彻真是一座了不起的教堂。”
她又和她表姐在一起了。