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.
Chapter 3 music violence.
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 patronising,
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 empty ream without effort.
While 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.
She was no dazzling executant.
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 performed so tragically on a summer's evening with a window open.
Passion 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.
But 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 they should triumph.
A very wet afternoon in the Bertolini permitted her to do the things she really liked,
And after lunch she opened a little draped piano.
A few people lingered round and praised her playing,
But finding she made no reply,
Dispersed to their rooms to write up their diaries or go to sleep.
Lucy 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.
Mr B,
Sitting unnoticed in the window,
Pondered this illogical element in Miss Honeychurch and recalled the occasion at Tunbridge Wells when he discovered it.
It was at one of those entertainments where the upper classes entertained the lower.
The seats were filled with a respectful audience and the ladies and gentlemen of the parish,
Under 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.
Mr.
B was in suspense all through the introduction,
For not until the pace quickens does one know what the performer intends.
With the roaring of the opening theme,
He knew things were going extraordinarily.
In the chords that herald the conclusion,
He heard the hammer strokes of victory.
This was Opus 111.
He was glad she only played the first movement.
For he could have paid no attention to the winding intricacies of the measures of 916.
Then the audience clapped,
No less respectful.
It was Mr B who started the stamping.
It was all that one could do.
Who is she?
He asked the vicar afterwards.
Cousin of one of my parishioners,
I do not consider her choice for peace very happy.
Beethoven so usually simple and direct in his appeal,
It's sheer perversity to choose a thing like that.
Introduce me.
Said Mr.
B.
She will be delighted,
She and Miss Bartlett are full of the praises of your sermon.
My sermon.
Cried Mr B.
Whenever does she listen to that?
When he was introduced,
He understood why,
For Miss Honeychurch,
Disjoined from her music store,
Was only a young lady with a quantity of dark hair and a very pale,
Undeveloped face.
She loved going to concerts.
She loved stopping with her cousin.
She loved iced coffee and meringues.
He did not doubt she loved his sermon too,
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.
He said.
Lucy at once re-entered daily life.
What a funny thing!
Someone said just the same to Mother.
She said she trusts I should never live a duet.
Doesn't Mrs Honeychurch like music?
She doesn't mind it,
But she doesn't like one to get excited over anything.
She thinks I'm silly about it.
She thinks.
I can't make out what she thinks.
Once,
You know,
I said I liked my own playing better than anyone's,
And she'd never got over it.
Of course I didn't mean that I played well,
I only meant.
.
.
Of course,
" said Mr B.
Wondering why she bothered to explain.
Said Lucy as if attempting some generality,
But she could not complete it and looked out absently upon Italy in the wet.
The whole life of the South was disorganised,
And the most graceful nation in Europe had turned into formless lumps of clones.
The street and the river were dirty yellow.
The bridge was dirty grey and the hills were dirty purple.
Somewhere in their folds were concealed Miss Lavish and Miss Bartlett.
Who had chosen this afternoon to visit the Torrelle de Gallo.
What about music?
" said Mr Beeb.
Poor Charlotte will be so.
Was Lucy's reply.
The expedition was typical of Miss Bartlett,
Who would return cold,
Tired,
Hungry and angelic with a ruined skirt,
A pulpy baidiker 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 she was an old thing and no fit companion for a hearty girl.
Miss Lavish has led your customers astray.
Said Mr.
B.
She hopes to find the true Italy in the wet,
I believe.
This lavish is so original.
Mermaid Lucy.
This was a stock remark,
The 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.
It is true,
Continued Lucy in awestruck tones.
Miss Lavish is writing a book?
They do say so.
What is it about?
It will be a novel.
Replied Mr B.
Dealing with modern Italy.
Let me refer you for an account to Miss Katherine Allen,
Who uses words herself more admirably than anyone I know.
I wish Miss Lavish would tell me herself.
We started great friends,
" said Lucy,
But I don't think she ought to have run away with Abedeker that morning in Santa Croce.
Charlotte was most annoyed at finding me practically alone and I couldn't help but being a little annoyed with me slavish.
The two ladies at all events have made it up.
Said Mr B.
He 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 Lavishie 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 Chaperone,
Which he had assigned to her at Tunbridge Wells?
All his life he had loved to study maiden ladies.
They were his speciality,
And his profession had provided him with ample opportunities for the work.
Girls like Lucy were charming to look at.
But Mr.
B was,
From rather profound reasons,
Somewhat chilly in his attitude towards the other sex,
And preferred to be interested rather than enthralled.
Lucy for the third time said 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 southwest 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 Catherine Allen who entered at the same moment by the door.
Dear Miss Honeychurch,
You will catch a chill.
And Mr Beep here besides.
I would suppose this is Italy.
There is my sister actually nursing the hot water can.
No comforts or proper provisions.
I could hear your beautiful playing,
Miss Honeychurch.
Though I was in my room with the door shut,
" she said,
Sidling towards them and sitting down.
Door 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.
B was not able to tell the ladies of his adventure at Medina,
Where the chambermaid burst in upon him in his bath.
He contented himself therefore with saying.
.
.
I quite agree with you,
Miss Allen.
The Italians are a most unpleasant people.
They pry everywhere,
They see everything,
And they know what we want before we know it ourselves.
We are at their mercy.
They read our thoughts,
They foretell our desires.
From the cab driver down to.
.
.
To Giotto they turn us inside out and I resent it.
Miss Allen did not follow this but gathered that she was being mocked in an agreeable way.
Her sister was a little disappointed in Mr.
B.
Having expected better things from a clergyman whose head was bald and who wore a pair of russet whiskers.
Who could have supposed that tolerance,
Sympathy and a sense of humour would inhabit that militant form?
In the midst of her satisfaction,
She continued to sidle and at last the course was disclosed.
From the chair beneath her she extracted a gunmetal cigarette case on which were powdered in turquoise.
The initials EL.
That belongs to Lavish.
Said the clergyman,
A good fellow,
Lavish,
But I wish he'd start a pipe.
"'Oh,
Mr.
Beeb,
' said Miss Allan,
Divided between awe and mirth.
Indeed,
Though it's dreadful for her to smoke,
It's not quite as dreadful as you suppose.
' She talked to it practically in despair after her life's work was carried away in a landslip.
Surely that makes it more excusable.
What was that?
Arse Lucy.
Mr.
Beeb sat back complacently and Miss Allen began as follows.
It was a novel,
And I'm afraid from what I can gather,
Not a very nice one.
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 cavalry at the cappuccino hotel at Amalfi.
When 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 onto the beach and the saddest thing of all is she cannot remember what she's written.
The whole thing was very ill after it.
So got tempted to cigarettes.
It is a great secret,
But I'm glad to say she's writing another novel.
She told Theresa and Miss Pole the other day she'd got all the local colours.
This novel is to be about modern Italy.
The other one was historical.
But that she could not stop till she had an idea.
All the same she is a little too I hardly like to say unwomanly.
But she behaved most strangely when the Emersons arrived.
Mr.
Beebs smiled as Miss Allen 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've noticed Miss Paul.
The lady who has so much yellow hair takes lemonade.
That old Mr Emerson who puts slings very strangely.
Miss Allen's drawer dropped.
She was silent.
Mr Beeb,
Whose social resources were endless,
Went out to order some tea.
And she continued to Lucy in a hasty whisper.
Stomach.
Mr Emerson warned Miss Pole of her stomach acidity,
He called it.
He may have meant to be kind.
I must say I forgot myself and laughed.
It was so sudden.
But as Therese truly said,
It was no laughing matter.
The point is,
Miss Lavish was positively attracted by his mentioning S.
She said she liked playing speaking and meeting different grades of thoughts.
She thought they were commercial travellers,
And all through dinner she tried to prove that England,
Our great and beloved country,
Rests on nothing but commerce.
Theresa was very much annoyed and left the table before the cheese,
Saying,
They're Miss Lavish,
She's one who can confute you better than I.
And pointing to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson.
Then Miss Lavish said,
Tap-tapped the early Victorians.
Just imagine.
Then I felt bound to speak.
I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not want to go.
I must say she was dumbfounded and made no reply,
But luckily Mr Emerson overheard and called in his deep voice,
Quite so,
Quite so.
I honour the woman for her.
I wish to visit.
The woman,
He said.
But actually.
.
.
He came up and said,
Miss Allen,
I'm going to the smoking room to talk to these nice men.
Come too.
Needless to say,
I refused such an unsuitable invitation,
And she had the impertinence to tell me it would broaden my ideas,
And said she had four brothers,
All university men,
Except one who was in the army and always made a point of talking to commercial travellers.
Mr.
Beeb or Mr.
Emerson,
Is he nice or not nice?
Asked Lucy when Mr.
Beeb returned.
I do so want to know.
Mr Beebe laughed and suggested she should settle the question for herself.
But it's so difficult.
Sometimes he's so silly and then I don't mind him.
Miss Allen,
What do you think?
Is he nice?
The little old lady shook her head and sighed disapprovingly.
I consider your bound to class them as nice,
Miss Allen,
" said Mr.
Beebe,
After that business of the violets.
Violets?
Oh dear,
Who told you about the violets?
Two things get around.
Pension is a bad place for gossips.
I cannot forget how they behaved at Mr Eager's lecture at Santa Croce.
Poor Miss Honeychurch,
It really was too bad.
No,
I have quite changed.
I do not like the Emersons.
They are not nice.
Mr Beeb smiled nonchalantly.
He had made a gentle effort to introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society and his effort had failed.
He was almost the only person who remained friendly to them.
This lavish who represented intellect was avowedly hostile.
And now the Miss Allens,
Who stood for good breeding,
Were following her.
Miss Bartlett,
Smarting under an obligation,
Would scarcely be civil.
But 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,
He said,
Was impertinent.
He did not wish their cause to be championed by a young girl.
He would rather it should fail.
After all,
He knew nothing about them.
And pension joys,
Pension sorrows,
Are flimsy things.
Whereas Lucy would be his parishioner.
With one eye upon the weather,
Lucy Finish said she thought the Emersons were nice,
Not that she saw anything of them now,
Even their seats at dinner had been moved.
But aren't they always relaying you to go out with them,
Dear?
Asked Miss Allen inquisitively.
Only once,
" said Lucy.
Charlotte didn't like it and said something quite politely,
Of course.
Most fright of her,
They don't understand our ways,
They must find their level.
Mr B rather felt 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.
Approach 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 facade of San Mindiato shone brightly in the declining sun.
Too late to go out,
Said Miss Allen in a voice of relief.
All the galleries are shut.
I think I should go out,
" said Lucy.
I want to go round the town in the circular tram on the platform by the driver.
Her two companions looked grave.
Mr Beebe,
Who felt responsible for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett,
Ventured I wish we could.
Luckily I have letters.
If you do want to go out alone,
Won't you be better on your feet?
Italians do you know?
Sit in me salon.
Perhaps I shall meet someone who reads me through and through.
But they still looked disapproval and Lucy so far conceded to Mr.
Beebe as to say she would go only for a little walk and keep to the street frequented by tourists.
She oughtn't really to go at all,
" said Mr B as they watched her from the window.
And she knows it.
I put it down to too much Beethoven.
