Part 2 · Chapter 10Cecil As a Humourist

Cecil as a Humourist. The social scene Cecil was hoping to pull Lucy into wasn’t exactly amazing, but it was better than her family’s background suggested it could be.

Her dad, a successful local lawyer, had built Windy Corner as an investment when the area was developing, and then fell in love with his own creation and ended up living there himself. Soon after they got married, things started to shift.

Other houses popped up on the steep southern slope, and even more among the pine trees behind and up on the chalk hills.

Most of these houses were bigger than Windy Corner, and filled by people who came from London, mistaking the local Honeychurches for the last remnants of an old-money aristocracy.

He was a little intimidated, but his wife took it all in stride, without any real pride or embarrassment. " I have no idea what people are doing," she’d say, "but it’s really great for the kids.

She made the rounds, and everyone was thrilled to see her.

By the time people realized she wasn’t exactly one of them, they already liked her, and it didn’t seem to matter. When Mr.

Honeychurch died, he was happy - which most honest lawyers feel - to leave his family settled in the best society they could find.

The best society they could find. Definitely, a lot of the newcomers were kind of boring, and Lucy realized that more now that she was back from Italy.

Before, she’d just accepted their values - their comfortable wealth, their calm religion, their dislike of trash, orange peels, and broken bottles.

She became a full-on rebel, horrified by the idea of suburbia. Life, as far as she bothered to think about it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people with the same interests and the same enemies.

You got married, had kids, and died within that circle.

Outside were poverty and bad taste constantly trying to break in, just like London fog trying to push through the gaps in the northern hills. But in Italy, where anyone can feel equal in the sun, that idea vanished.

Her senses expanded; she felt she could like anyone, and that social barriers were practically nonexistent. You just jumped over them, like jumping into a peasant’s olive grove in the Apennines - and they were happy to see you.

She came back with fresh eyes.

Cecil had a similar experience, but Italy just annoyed Cecil instead of making him more accepting.

He saw that the local society was narrow-minded, but instead of thinking, "Does that really matter?" he rebelled and tried to replace it with what he considered a more open society.

He didn’t realize that Lucy had built up a sense of fondness for her surroundings through countless small acts of kindness, and that even though her eyes saw its flaws, her heart wouldn't entirely dismiss it.

He also didn’t realize something even more important - that if she was too good for this society, she was too good for any society, and had reached a point where personal connection with him was all that mattered.

She was a rebel, but not the kind he understood - a rebel who didn’t want a bigger living room, but equality beside the man she loved. Because Italy was offering her the most precious gift of all - her own soul.

Playing "bumble-puppy" with Minnie Beebe, the rector’s thirteen-year-old niece - an old and totally respectable game, which involves hitting tennis balls high into the air so they fall over the net and bounce all over the place; some hit Mrs.

Honeychurch; others get lost.

The sentence is a bit confusing, but it really shows Lucy’s state of mind, because she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the same time.

"Oh, it’s been such a pain - first one thing, then another - no one knowing what they wanted, and everyone being so annoying."

But they’re really coming now, said Mr. Beebe. I wrote to Miss Teresa a few days ago - she was wondering how often the butcher came, and my reply of once a month must have impressed her. They’re coming. I heard from them this morning.

"I’m gonna hate those Miss Alans!" Mrs. Honeychurch cried. " Just because they’re old and kinda silly, people expect you to say ‘How sweet!’ I hate their ‘if’s and ‘but’s and ‘and’s. And poor Lucy - serves her right - she’s worn out."

Mr. Beebe watched Lucy running and yelling across the tennis court. Cecil was missing - you don't play around when he’s around.

"Well, if they’re coming - No, Minnie, not Saturn." Saturn was a tennis ball whose skin was partly ripped.

When in motion, his ball was circled by a ring. " If they’re coming, Sir Harry will let them move in before the twenty-ninth, and he’s gonna cross out the part about whitewashing the ceilings - it made them nervous - and put in the fair wear and tear one.

That doesn’t count. I told you not Saturn."

"Saturn’s fine for a casual game," Freddy yelled, joining them. " Minnie, don’t listen to her." "Saturn doesn’t bounce." "Saturn bounces enough." "No, he doesn’t."

"Okay, he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil."

"Shush, dear," said Mrs. Honeychurch.

"But look at Lucy - complaining about Saturn, and she’s got the Beautiful White Devil in her hand, ready to hit it. That’s right, Minnie, go for her - get her over the shins with the racquet - get her over the shins!"

Lucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand. Mr. Beebe picked it up and said: "The name of this ball is Vittoria Corombona, please. But his correction went unnoticed.

Freddy had a knack for making little girls super mad, and in a minute, he’d turned Minnie into a screaming mess.

Up in the house, Cecil heard them, and even though he had some really interesting news, he didn't come down - he didn’t want to get hurt. He wasn’t a coward and could handle pain, but he hated when people were physically fighting.

It was the right thing to do! Sure enough, it ended in a cry.

"I wish the Miss Alans could see this," said Mr. Beebe, just as Lucy, who was helping the hurt Minnie, got lifted off her feet by her brother.

"Who are the Miss Alans?" Freddy panted.

"They’re renting Cissie Villa."

"That wasn’t the name - " Here his foot slipped, and they all tumbled onto the grass. A pause.

"What name?" asked Lucy, with her brother’s head in her lap.

"Alan wasn’t the name of the people Sir Harry let rent it."

"Don’t be ridiculous, Freddy! You know nothing about it."

"Ridiculous yourself! I just saw him. He said: ‘Ahem! Honeychurch,’" - Freddy did a terrible impression - "‘ahem! ahem! I’ve finally got really dee-sire-rebel tenants. I said, ‘ooray, old boy!’ and slapped him on the back. "Exactly.

The Miss Alans?"

"Not quite. More like Anderson."

"Oh, good grief, there’s gonna be another mess!" Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed. " Do you notice, Lucy, I’m always right? I said not to mess with Cissie Villa. I’m always right. It’s kinda weird being right so much."

"It’s just another mess 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." "What name?"

"Emerson. I’ll bet you anything you like."

"What a flake Sir Harry is," said Lucy quietly. " I wish I hadn’t worried about it at all."

Then she lay on her back and looked up at the clear sky. Mr. Beebe, whose opinion of her was growing every day, whispered to his niece that was the right way to act if something went wrong.

Meanwhile, the name of the new tenants had distracted Mrs. Honeychurch from thinking about how right she always was.

"Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?"

"I have no idea who they are," Freddy retorted, rolling his eyes.

He was a democrat at heart, like his sister and most young people - naturally drawn to the idea of equality, and the fact that there were different kinds of Emersons just bugged him.

"I hope they’re decent people," his mom said. " Lucy - you’re sitting up again - I see you giving me the side-eye, thinking my mom’s a snob. But there’s a good sort and a bad sort, and pretending there isn’t is just fake."

"Emerson’s a pretty common name," Lucy pointed out.

She was looking off to the side. Perched on her own little lookout point, she could see the pine-covered hills dropping away, one after another, into the Weald. The further down the garden you went, the better the view.

"I was just going to say, Freddy, that I hope they’re not related to Emerson the philosopher - he was a total nightmare. Pray, does that satisfy you?"

"Yeah, sure," he mumbled. " And you’ll be happy too, because they’re friends of Cecil’s; so - major eye-roll - you and the other country families can feel totally safe around them." "Cecil?" Lucy exclaimed.

"Don’t be rude, dear," his mom said calmly. " Lucy, stop screeching. It’s a new bad habit you’re picking up." "But Cecil - "

"Friends of Cecil’s," he repeated, "‘and so totally chill. Ahem! Honeychurch, I just sent them a telegram.’" She got up from the grass.

It was rough on Lucy. Mr. Beebe felt really bad for her. She’d taken the snub about the Miss Alans, which she thought came from Sir Harry Otway, like a champ. But now to hear that it partly came from her boyfriend? Ouch.

Mr. Vyse was a tease - worse than a tease, really: he got a kick out of messing with people. Seeing this, the clergyman looked at Miss Honeychurch with extra kindness.

When she exclaimed, "But Cecil’s Emersons - they can’t possibly be the same ones - there’s that - " he didn't think her reaction was weird, but saw it as a chance to change the subject while she calmed down.

He steered the conversation like this:

"The Emersons who were in Florence, you mean? Nah, I don’t think it’s them. It’s a long shot from them to friends of Mr. Vyse’s. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, those Emersons were wild! The queerest people! We loved them, right?

He looked at Lucy. " There was a whole drama over some violets."

They picked every single violet and filled all the vases in the room of those very Miss Alans who didn't come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased.

It used to be one of Miss Catharine’s favorite stories. ‘ My dear sister loves flowers,’ it began.

"They found the whole room a sea of blue - vases and jugs - and the story ends with ‘So ungentlemanly and yet so beautiful.’ It’s all just...a lot."

"Major fail on your part," Freddy remarked, not noticing that his sister’s face was totally red.

She couldn't recover. Mr. Beebe saw it, and kept changing the subject.

"These particular Emersons were a dad and a son - the son was decent, if not exactly a golden boy; not a dummy, I guess, but still pretty immature - pessimistic, and all that.

Our favorite was the dad - such a sentimental sweetie, and people said he’d even murdered his wife."

In normal circumstances, Mr. Beebe would never have repeated gossip like that, but he was trying to help Lucy through her little drama. He blurted out whatever came to mind.

"Murdered his wife? Mrs. Honeychurch said. " Lucy, don’t ditch us - keep playing along. Seriously, the Pension Bertolini must have been the weirdest place. That’s the second murderer I’ve heard of being there.

Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop?"

"By the way, we really should ask Charlotte over sometime."

Mr. Beebe couldn't think of a second person involved. He suggested his hostess might be mistaken. When she pushed back, she got defensive. She was totally sure there's been another tourist with the same story.

The name was on the tip of her tongue. What was it? Oh, what was the name?

She wrung her hands, trying to remember. Something from Thackeray. She smacked her forehead.

Lucy asked her brother if Cecil was around.

"Oh, don’t go!" he yelled, and tried to grab her ankles.

"I have to go," she said seriously. " Don’t be silly. You always go way too far when you’ve got nothing better to do."

As she left, her mom’s shout of "Harris!" cut through the peaceful air, reminding her that she's told a lie and never fixed it.

It was a dumb lie, though, and it rattled her, making her connect these Emersons, Cecil’s friends, with a couple of random tourists.

Usually, the truth just came to her naturally. Now, she realized she needed to be more careful, and be - totally honest? Well, at least she shouldn’t lie. She rushed up the garden, still embarrassed.

A word from Cecil would make her feel better, she was sure. "Cecil!"

"Hey!" he called, leaning out of the smoking-room window.

He seemed super cheerful. " I was hoping you’d come. I heard you were doing some gardening, but it’s way more fun up here. Even I, believe it or not, have achieved a major victory for comedy."

"George Meredith’s right - the cause of comedy and the cause of truth are basically the same thing, and even I, I’ve found tenants for that distressed Cissie Villa. Don't be mad! Don’t be mad!

You’ll forgive me when you hear the whole story."

He looked really good when his face was bright, and he immediately calmed her ridiculous worries.

"I’ve heard," she said. " Freddy told us. Naughty Cecil! I guess I have to forgive you. Just think of all the effort I put in for nothing! Seriously, the Miss Alans are a little annoying, and I’d rather hang out with your friends.

But you shouldn’t tease someone like that."

"Friends of mine?" he laughed. " But, Lucy, the best part is still coming! Come here." But she stayed where she was. " Do you know where I met these awesome tenants? In the National Gallery, when I went to see my mom last week."

"That’s a weird place to meet people!"

she said nervously. " I don’t really get it."

"In the Umbrian Room. Total strangers. They were looking at Luca Signorelli - totally clueless, of course. But we started talking, and they refreshed me, no joke. They’s been to Italy."

"But, Cecil - " he started to say, laughing.

"During the conversation they said they wanted a country cottage - the dad to live there, the son to come up for the weekends. I thought, ‘What a chance to mess with Sir Harry!’"

"and I grabbed their address and a London reference, checked they weren’t total jerks - it was hilarious - and wrote to him, pretending - "

"Cecil! No, that’s not fair. I’ve probably met them before - " He wore her down.

"Totally fair. Anything’s fair to punish a snob. That old man will do the neighborhood a huge favor. Sir Harry is so cringe with his ‘past-their-prime women. I was going to teach him a lesson sooner or later.

No, Lucy, the classes need to mix, and before long you’ll agree with me."

"There should be intermarriage - all sorts of things. I believe in democracy - "

"No, you don’t," she snapped. " You don’t even know what that word means."

He stared at her, feeling again that she hadnn't grasped the Leonardesque vibe. " No, you don’t!"

Her face was all wrong - like a grumpy, bossy woman.

"It’s not fair, Cecil. I blame you - I blame you a lot. You shouldn’t have undone my work about the Miss Alans and made me look ridiculous. You call it messing with Sir Harry, but do you realize it’s all at my expense?

I think it’s really disloyal of you. She left him.

"Temper!" he thought, raising his eyebrows.

It was way worse than just being moody - it was snobby. Lucy was totally fine when she thought his cool friends were basically replacing the Miss Alans. He figured these new people could be good for learning stuff.

He’d deal with the dad and try to get the son to open up, who was super quiet.

For the sake of good storytelling and being real, he's gonna bring them to Windy Corner.