1 A Room With A View - Guided Literature

Lucy Honeychurch shares a brief romance with George Emerson in Florence. Yet as she tries to move on with her life and look for marriage elsewhere, can she truly forget the events of that summer?

This Guided Literature has an invisible watermark. Individual use only. All rights reserved. Copyright Neworld Books.

Transcript

Welcome to sleep stories with Steph your go-to podcast. That offers you a calm and relaxing transition. Into a great night's sleep. It is time to relax and fully let go. There is nothing you need to be doing now. And know where you need to go. Close your eyes. And feel yourself sink into the support beneath you. And let all the worries of the day go. Drift away. This is your time. And your space. Take a deep breath in through your nose. And let it out with a long sigh. That's it! There is nothing you need to be doing now. And know where you need to go. Happy listening. Part 1 Chapter 1 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 that was the only other decoration of the wall. Charlotte, Don't you feel too we might be in London? I can hardly believe all kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it's one being so tired. This meat is surely being used for soap, " said Miss Bartlett, Laying down her fork. I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in her letter would have looked over the Arno. Listen, You 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 you shouldn't have a view. Lucy felt that she had been selfish. Charlotte you mustn't spoil me of course you must look after the arno too i meant that the first vacant room in the front You must have it, " said Miss Barklet, Part of whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother. Piece of generosity to which he made many a contribution. What an illusion. No, No, You must have it! I insist on it, Lucy. Your mother would never forgive me. She would never forgive me. The ladies' voices grew animated. And if the sad truth be old, A little peevish. They were tired, And under the guise of unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchange 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. I have a view. Miss Barkley was stopped! Generally at a pension, People looked them over for a day or two before speaking and often did not find out they would do till they had gone. She knew the intruder was real bread even before she glanced at him. He was an old man of heavy build with a fair shaven face and large eyes. But there was something childish in those eyes. And it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was, Miss Barkley did not stop to consider. Her glance passed onto 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 and said A view! Oh, A view! How delightful a view is! This is my song. Said the old man. His name's George. He has a view too. Ah, Said Miss Bartlett, Repressing Lucy who was about to speak. What I mean, He continued. Is that you can have our rooms and we'll have yours. We'll change. The better class of tourists were shocked at this and sympathised with the newcomers. Miss Barclayton replied, Opened her mouth as little as possible and said, Thank you very much indeed, And that is out of the question. Said the old man. With both fists on the table. Because it's quite out of the question. Thank you. You see, We don't like to take. . . Began Lucy. But her cousin again repressed her. But why? He persisted. Men don't. And he thumped with his fist like a naughty child and turned to his son saying, George, Persuade them. 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 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. . . Something quite different, Whose existence she had not realised before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently. Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They will clear out in half an hour. Miss Barclet, Though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, Was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub anyone so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure, She looked around as much to say, Are you all like this? And the two little old ladies who were sitting further up the table with shawls hanging over the back of the chairs looked back clearly indicating We are not. We are genteel. Eat your dinner, Dear. She said to Lucy. She began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured. Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite. Eat your dinner, Dear. This pension is a failure. Tomorrow we will make a change. Hardly had she announced this failed 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, Cheerfully apologising for his lateness. Lucy, Who had not yet acquired decency, At once rose to her feet exclaiming, It's Mr. Beeb! How perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, We must stop now, However bad the rooms are. Miss Bartlett said with more restraint. How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect you've 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. I'm 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 permitted it. Just fancy how small the world is. Summer Street 2 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, You have just accepted the living. Yes, I heard from Mother so last week, " said Lucy. She didn't know I knew you at Tunbridge Wells, But I wrote back at once and I said, Quite right, Said the clergyman. I move into the rectory at Summer Street next June. I'm lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood. Said Lucy, The name of our house is Windy Corner. Mr B bowed. There is mother and me, Generally, And my brother, Though it's not often we get him to. . . The church is rather far off, I mean. Lucy, Dearest. Mr B beat his dinner! I am eating it, Thank you, And enjoying it. Mr B 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 she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer. And Mr B was first in the field. Don't neglect the country round, His advice concluded. Round by setting yarn or something of that sort. No! Cried a voice from the top of the table. Mr. Beebe, You are wrong. The first fine afternoon, Your ladies must go to practice. That lady looks so clever. Whispered Miss Barton to her cousin. We are in luck. And indeed a perfect torrent of information burst upon them. People told them what to see, When to see it, How to stop the electric trams, How to get rid of the beggars, How much to give for a vellum blotter, How much the place would grow upon it. The pension Bertolini had decided most enthusiastically that they would do. Whichever way they looked, Kind Lady smiled and shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of the lady crying to the moon. Prato! They must go to Prato! The young man named George glanced at the clever lady, Then returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do. Lucy in the midst of her success found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that anyone should be left in the cold. And when she rose to go, She turned back. And gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow. The father did not see it. The sun acknowledged it. Not by another bow. But by raising his eyebrows and smiling. He seemed to be smiling across something. Lucy hastened after her cousin who'd already disappeared through the curtains, Curtains which smoked 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 Henry her little boy, And Victoria her daughter. It made a curious little scene, The attempt of the Cockney to convey. The grace and geniality of the South. And even more curious was the drawing room which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding house. Was this really Italy?