Part 1 · Chapter 2In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

In Santa Croce with No Guidebook.

It was seriously nice to wake up in Florence, to open my eyes to a bright, simple room, with a floor of red tiles that looked clean-ish even if they weren't.

There was a painted ceiling with pink griffins and blue cherubs bouncing around in a forest of yellow violins and bassoons.

It was also nice to throw open the windows, fumbling with the weird latches, to lean out into sunshine with beautiful hills, trees, and marble churches across the way, and the Arno River, bubbling against the road’s edge.

Across the river, people were working with shovels and sieves on the sandy beach, and there was a boat on the river, working hard for some mysterious reason. An electric streetcar zoomed past the window.

There was only one tourist inside, but the platforms were packed with Italians who preferred to stand. Kids were trying to hang on the back, and the conductor, not being mean, just spat at them to make them let go.

Then soldiers showed up - good-looking but kinda short - wearing huge backpacks covered in matted fur and oversized coats that looked like they were meant for someone bigger.

Beside them walked officers, looking awkward and intense, and in front of them, little boys were doing somersaults to the music of a band.

The streetcar got tangled in their group and moved along slowly, like a caterpillar in a swarm of ants.

One of the little boys fell, and some white bulls wandered out of an archway. Seriously, if it hadn't been for the good advice of an old man selling button-hook openers, the road might never have cleared up.

So many valuable hours can just disappear like that, and a traveler who came to Italy to study Giotto’s art or the corruption of the Papacy might come back remembering nothing but the blue sky and the people who live under it.

That’s why it was good when Miss Bartlett knocked and came in, commenting on Lucy leaving the door unlocked and leaning out of the window before she was fully dressed, and urging her to hurry up, or they’d miss the best part of the day.

By the time Lucy was ready, her cousin had finished breakfast and was listening to the clever lady amidst the crumbs.

Then they started talking, about the usual stuff. Miss Bartlett was a little tired and thought they should spend the morning settling in; unless Lucy wanted to go out?

Lucy would really like to go out, since it was her first day in Florence, but, of course, she could go alone.

Miss Bartlett couldn't let her do that. Of course, she would go everywhere with Lucy. Oh, seriously, Lucy would stay with her cousin. Oh, no way! that would never work. Oh, yeah!

At that point, the clever lady jumped in.

"If it’s Mrs. Grundy bothering you, I promise you can ignore her. Being English, Miss Honeychurch will be perfectly safe. Italians understand.

A dear friend of mine, Contessa Baroncelli, has two daughters, and when she can’t send a maid to school with them, she lets them go in sailor hats instead."

"Everyone just thinks they’re English, you know, especially if their hair is pulled back really tight."

Miss Bartlett wasn't convinced about the safety of Contessa Baroncelli’s daughters. She was determined to take Lucy herself, and she thought her judgment wasn't that bad.

The clever lady then said she was planning to spend a long morning in Santa Croce, and if Lucy would come too, she’d be delighted.

"I’ll take you by a really cool, kinda sketchy back way, Miss Honeychurch, and if you bring me luck, we’ll have an adventure."

Lucy said that was really nice, and immediately opened the guidebook, to see where Santa Croce was.

"Tut, tut! Miss Lucy! I hope we can get you off that guidebook soon. It just scratches the surface of things. As for the real Italy - it doesn't even dream of it. The real Italy is only to be found by paying attention."

This was so exciting, and Lucy practically inhaled her breakfast, super pumped to explore with her new friend. Italy was finally happening! The Cockney Signora and all her drama had vanished like a bad dream.

Miss Lavish - that was the clever lady’s name - turned right along the sunny Lung’ Arno. It felt so good! But a wind whipping down the side streets was seriously cutting. Ponte alle Grazie - Dante mentioned it, so it’s gotta be interesting.

San Miniato - beautiful and interesting; the crucifix that supposedly kissed a murderer - Miss Honeychurch would definitely remember that story. Guys were fishing on the river. (Totally untrue, though, let’s be real, most information is.)

Then Miss Lavish zipped under the archway with the white bull statues, and stopped, and she was like:

"A smell! A true Florentine smell! Every city, let me tell you, has its own scent."

"Is it a good smell?" asked Lucy, who’s inherited a major dislike of dirt from her mom.

"You don’t come to Italy for ‘nice’," was the reply; "you come for life. Buon giorno! Buon giorno!"

bowing left and right. " Look at that adorable wine cart! How the driver’s staring at us, dear, simple soul!"

So Miss Lavish strolled through the streets of Florence, short, fidgety, and playful like a kitten, even though she didn’t have a kitten’s grace.

It was a treat for the girl to be with someone so smart and cheerful; and a blue military cloak, the kind an Italian officer wears, just made the whole thing feel even more festive.

"Buon giorno! Trust me, an old woman's advice, Miss Lucy: you’re never gonna regret being nice to people below you. That’s the real deal, democracy. Even though I'm a total Radical myself. There, shocked, right?"

"Not even a little!" exclaimed Lucy. " We’re Radicals too, hardcore. My dad always voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he got all weird about Ireland."

"I see, I see. And now you’ve switched sides."

"Oh, please - ! If my dad was still around, I’m sure he’d vote Radical again now that Ireland’s all good.

And anyway, the glass over our front door got broken last election, and Freddy’s convinced it was the Tories; but Mom says it was just a tramp."

"Seriously?! A manufacturing district, I guess?"

"Nope - in the Surrey hills. About five miles from Dorking, looking over the Weald."

Miss Lavish seemed interested, and slowed her pace.

"What a great spot; I know it so well. It’s full of the best people. Do you know Sir Harry Otway - a Radical if ever there was one?" "Very well indeed."

"And old Mrs. Butterworth, the philanthropist?"

"Why, she rents a field from us! That’s so funny!"

Miss Lavish looked at the sliver of sky, and murmured: "Oh, you have property in Surrey?"

"Hardly any," said Lucy, nervous about sounding like a snob. " Just thirty acres - just the garden, all downhill, and a few fields."

Miss Lavish wasn’t disgusted, and said it was just the size of her aunt’s Suffolk estate. Italy faded away.

They tried to remember the last name of Lady Louisa someone, who had rented a place near Summer Street the other year, but she hadn’t liked it, which was odd.

And just as Miss Lavish had the name, she stopped and exclaimed:

"Bless us! Bless us and save us! We’ve lost the way."

For sure, they’d been wandering for a while - Santa Croce, with its tower, had been clearly visible from the landing window. But Miss Lavish had been going on and on about knowing Florence like the back of her hand, so Lucy hadn’t worried.

"Lost! Lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our political debates we took a wrong turn. Those horrible Conservatives would be laughing so hard at us! What are we supposed to do? Two girls alone in a random town. Now this is an adventure."

Lucy, who really wanted to see Santa Croce, suggested that maybe they should just ask for directions.

"Seriously? That’s just a coward’s word! And no, you’re not looking at your guidebook. Give it to me; I'm not letting you carry it. Let's just chill and see where we end up."

So they wandered through a bunch of those grey-brown streets - not exactly spacious or scenic - which you find a lot in the eastern part of the city.

Lucy quickly lost interest in Lady Louisa’s complaints and started feeling bummed out herself. For one amazing moment, Italy popped up.

She stood in the Square of the Annunziata and saw those incredible babies in real life, the kind no cheap print can ever capture.

There they were, their shiny limbs bursting from their clothes, their strong white arms reaching up towards the sky.

Lucy thought she’s never seen anything more beautiful, but Miss Lavish, with a horrified shriek, yanked her forward, saying they were totally off track by at least a mile.

The time for the continental breakfast - or, like, when it officially stops being relevant - was approaching, so the ladies bought some hot chestnut paste from a little shop because it looked so authentic.

It tasted kinda like the paper it was wrapped in, mixed with hair oil, and just... the great unknown. But it gave them enough energy to drift into another Piazza, big and dusty, where a seriously ugly black-and-white building rose up.

Miss Lavish started talking to it dramatically.

It was Santa Croce. The adventure was officially over.

"Hold up; let those two go, or I’m gonna have to say something. I seriously hate small talk. Ugh, they’re even going into the church. Oh my god, the tourist abroad!"

"We sat across from them at dinner last night. They offered us their rooms. They were so sweet."

"Look at their figures!" Miss Lavish laughed. " They’re walking through my Italy like a couple of cows. It’s mean, but I’m tempted to give an exam in Dover and send every tourist who fails it packing." "What would you even ask?"

Miss Lavish playfully put her hand on Lucy’s arm, like, suggesting that she, at least, would ace it.

Feeling super important, they reached the steps of the big church, about to go inside, when Miss Lavish stopped, squeaked, threw her arms up, and cried:

"There goes my local-colour moment! I gotta say something to him!"

And in a flash, she was off across the Piazza, her military cloak flapping in the wind; she didn't slow down until she caught up with an old man with white whiskers and playfully pinched him on the arm.

Lucy waited for almost ten minutes. Then she started to feel drained. The beggars were stressing her out, dust was blowing in her eyes, and she reminded herself that a young girl shouldn't just hang around in public places.

She slowly made her way down into the Piazza, hoping to find Miss Lavish, who was seriously extra. But at that moment, Miss Lavish and her whole vibe disappeared down a side street, waving their arms dramatically.

Lucy’s eyes welled up, partly because Miss Lavish had ditched her, and partly because she’s taken her guidebook. How was she gonna find her way home? How was she even gonna navigate Santa Croce?

Her first morning was totally ruined, and she might never even be back in Florence.

Just a little while ago, she’s been feeling on top of the world, talking like a sophisticated person, and almost convincing herself that she was super original.

Now she walked into the church feeling bummed and embarrassed, not even remembering if the Franciscans or the Dominicans built it.

Of course, it had to be an amazing building. But it looked so much like a barn! And it was freezing! Sure, it had frescoes by Giotto, and she could appreciate their texture, but who was gonna tell her which ones they were?

She wandered around, feeling unimpressed, unwilling to get excited about monuments of unknown authorship or age. There wasn't even anyone to tell her which of all the stone slabs covering the floor was actually beautiful, the one that Mr.

Ruskin had praised so much.

Then Italy’s charm just took over, and instead of learning anything, she started to feel good.

She figured out the Italian signs - the ones that said no dogs allowed in the church - and the one that asked people, for their health and out of respect for the sacred place, not to spit.

She watched the tourists; their noses were as red as their guidebooks, it was so cold in Santa Croce.

She saw the crazy stuff that happened to three Catholic kids - two boys and a girl - who started their visit by splashing each other with holy water, and then headed for the Machiavelli memorial, dripping but blessed.

They approached it really slowly, from far away, touching the stone with their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, even with their heads, then backing away. What was that all about? They kept doing it over and over.

Then Lucy realized they thought Machiavelli was a saint, hoping to get some virtue.

Punishment followed fast. The smallest boy tripped over one of the stone slabs that Mr. Ruskin admired so much, and got his feet tangled in the features of a lying-down bishop. Even though she was Protestant, Lucy rushed forward.

She was too late. He fell hard on the bishop’s upturned toes.

"Hateful bishop!" exclaimed old Mr. Emerson, who had also rushed forward. " Mean when he was alive, mean even in death. Go outside into the sunshine, little boy, and wave to the sun, that's where you belong. Intolerable bishop!"

The child screamed at those words, and at those weird people who picked him up, dusted him off, rubbed his bruises, and told him not to be superstitious.

"Look at him!" said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. " A mess: a hurt, cold, and scared baby! But what else can you expect from a church?"

The child’s legs had turned to melting wax. Every time old Mr. Emerson and Lucy tried to stand him up, he collapsed with a wail. Luckily, an Italian lady, who should have been praying, came to the rescue.

With some kind of magic that only moms have, she straightened the little boy’s back and gave strength to his knees. He stood. Still shaking with anxiety, he walked away.

"You’re really smart," said Mr. Emerson. " You’ve done more than all the relics in the world. I’m not your type, but I do believe in people who make others happy. There’s no grand plan - "

He paused, searching for the right words.

"Niente," said the Italian lady, and went back to her prayers.

"I don’t think she understands English," suggested Lucy.

In her humbled state, she didn’t even look down on the Emersons anymore.

She was determined to be nice to them, cool instead of delicate, and, if possible, to forget Miss Bartlett’s polite manners by making some friendly comment about the nice rooms.

"That woman understands everything," Mr. Emerson replied. " But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you finished with the church?"

"No," cried Lucy, remembering what had upset her. " I came here with Miss Lavish, who was going to explain everything; and right by the door - it’s so bad! - she just bolted, and after waiting a while, I had to come in by myself.

"Why not?" said Mr. Emerson.

"Yeah, why couldn’t you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time.

"But Miss Lavish even took my guidebook."

"Guidebook?" said Mr. Emerson. " I’m glad it’s you who noticed. It’s worth noticing when you lose a guidebook. That’s worth noticing."

Lucy was confused. She felt like something new was coming to her, and wasn’t sure where it would lead.

"If you don’t have a guidebook," said the son, "you should join us." Was this where it would lead? She clung to her dignity.

"Thank you so much, but I couldn’t do that. I hope you don’t think I came to tag along. I really came to help with the kid, and to thank you for letting us use your rooms last night. I hope you weren’t put out too much."

"My dear," said the old man gently, "I think you’re just repeating what you’ve heard older people say. You’re pretending to be sensitive; but you’re not really.

Stop being so annoying, and tell me instead what part of the church you want to see. It would be a real pleasure to show it to you."

Now, that was seriously rude, and she should have been furious. But sometimes it’s just as hard to get angry as it is to stay calm. Lucy couldn’t get upset. Mr. Emerson was an older man, and surely a girl could humor him.

On the other hand, his son was a young man, and she felt like a girl should be offended by him, or at least feel offended in front of him. It was at him that she stared before replying.

"I’m not sensitive, I hope. I want to see the Giottos, if you’d kindly tell me which ones they are."

The son nodded. With a look of serious satisfaction, he led the way to the Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of a teacher about him. She felt like a student in school who had answered a question correctly.

The chapel was already full of people who were really into it, and out of them rose the voice of a lecturer, telling them how to worship Giotto, not by being polite, but by the standards of the spirit.

"Remember," he was saying, "the facts about this church of Santa Croce; how it was built with faith and passion in the middle ages, before the Renaissance had even started."

"Notice how Giotto in these frescoes - now, unfortunately, damaged by restoration - isn’t worried about getting the anatomy and perspective right. Could anything be more majestic, more pathetic, beautiful, true?

How little, we feel, matters knowledge and technical skill against a man who truly feels!"

"No!" exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in a voice that was way too loud for church. " Remember nothing of the sort! Built by faith indeed! That just means the workers weren’t paid properly. And as for the frescoes, I don’t see any truth in them.

Look at that fat man in blue!"

"He must weigh as much as I do, and he’s shooting into the sky like a hot air balloon."

He was talking about the fresco of the "Ascension of St. John." Inside, the lecturer’s voice kind of trailed off, and honestly, it made sense. The audience shifted uncomfortably, and so did Lucy.

She felt like she shouldn’t be around these guys, but they had this weird vibe, and she couldn't remember how to act normal.

"Okay, so did this actually happen, or did it not? Yes or no?" George replied:

"It happened like this, if it even happened at all. I’d rather just go to heaven myself than get pushed up there by angels; and if I did get there, I'd want my friends to peek out, like they’re doing here."

"You’re never going up," said his father. " You and I, dear boy, will rest peacefully in the earth that birthed us, and our names will disappear as surely as our work lives on."

"Some people just see an empty grave, not the saint - whoever he is - going up. It did happen like that, if it happened at all."

"Excuse me," said a frosty voice. " The chapel is a bit small for two groups. We won’t bother you any longer."

The lecturer was a priest, and his audience was basically his congregation, because they were holding prayer books and guidebooks. They filed out of the chapel in silence.

Among them were the two little old ladies from the Pension Bertolini - Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan.

"Stop!" cried Mr. Emerson. " There’s plenty of room for everyone. Stop!"

The group disappeared without a word.

Soon, the lecturer’s voice could be heard in the next chapel, talking about the life of St. Francis.

"George, I think that priest is the Brixton curate."

George went into the next chapel and came back saying, "Maybe? I don’t really remember."

"Well, I better talk to him and remind him who I am. It’s that Mr. Eager. Why did he leave? Did we talk too loud? Ugh, so annoying. I’m gonna go apologize. Should I? Maybe then he’ll come back."

"He’s not coming back," said George.

But Mr. Emerson, feeling guilty and upset, hurried off to apologize to the Rev. Cuthbert Eager.

Lucy, apparently lost in a painting, could hear the lecture again get interrupted, the old man’s anxious, aggressive voice, and his opponent’s curt, hurt replies.

The son, who took every little disagreement like it was a tragedy, was listening too.

"My dad has that effect on almost everyone," he told her. " He tries to be kind."

"I hope we all try," she said, smiling nervously.

"Because we think it improves our image. But he's kind to people because he loves them; and they notice, and they get offended or scared."

"How silly of them!" said Lucy, even though deep down she understood; "I think a kind action done thoughtfully - " "Thoughtful?"

He looked up his nose in disdain. Apparently, she’s given the wrong answer. She watched this strange guy pace around the chapel. For a young man, his face was rough, and - until the shadows hit it - tough. In the shadows, it softened.

She remembered seeing him once in Rome, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, carrying a load of acorns. Strong and muscular, he still gave her a feeling of sadness, of tragedy that might only be solved in the darkness.

The feeling faded quickly; it was unlike her to feel anything so subtle.

Born from silence and an unknown emotion, it disappeared when Mr. Emerson returned, and she could dive back into the world of fast-paced conversations, which was the only thing she knew.

"Did they brush you off?" asked his son calmly.

"But we’re ruining the experience for so many people. They’re not coming back."

"...full of natural kindness...ability to spot the good in others...a vision of everyone being connected..." Pieces of the lecture on St. Francis floated through the wall.

"Don’t let us ruin yours," he continued to Lucy. " Have you looked at those saints?"

"Yeah," said Lucy. " They’re gorgeous. Do you know which tombstone is praised in Ruskin?"

He had no clue, and suggested they try to guess it. George, thankfully, refused to budge, and she and the old man wandered around Santa Croce, which, though it’s basically a huge barn, holds a ton of beautiful stuff inside.

There were also beggars to avoid and tour guides to dodge around the pillars, plus an old lady with her dog, and priests quietly making their way to Mass through the crowds of tourists. But Mr. Emerson was only half paying attention.

He watched the lecturer, whose success he felt he’d messed up, and then he nervously watched his son.

"Why’s he staring at that fresco?" he said, sounding worried. " I didn’t see anything special about it."

"I like Giotto," she replied. " It’s amazing what they say about his tactile qualities. Though I’m more into things like the Della Robbia babies, honestly."

"You should be. A baby is worth more than a dozen saints. And my baby’s worth the whole of Paradise, and as far as I can see, he’s living in Hell."

Lucy felt like that wasn’t quite right.

"In Hell," he repeated. " He’s unhappy." "Oh, no!" said Lucy.

"How can he be unhappy when he’s strong and alive? What more could you give him? And think about how he’s been raised - free from all the superstition and ignorance that make people hate each other in the name of God.

With an education like that, I thought he’s be happy by now."

She wasn’t exactly a theologian, but she thought this was a seriously clueless and pretty irreligious old man. She also figured her mom wouldn't be thrilled about her talking to someone like him, and Charlotte would definitely disapprove.

"What are we supposed to do with him?" he asked. " He comes to Italy for his vacation and acts like...like a little kid who should be playing and hurt himself on a tombstone. Eh? What did you say?"

Lucy hadn't said anything. Suddenly, he said:

"Now, don’t be ridiculous about this. I don’t expect you to fall in love with my boy, but I do think you could try to understand him. You’re closer to his age, and if you just let go, I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure it out.

You could help me."

He hasn’t really known that many women, and you have time. You’re staying here for weeks, right? Just let go. Stop overthinking everything if you catch my drift.

Pull those thoughts you don’t understand out of your head and put them in the sunlight, figure them out.

"By understanding George, you might learn to understand yourself. It's good for both of you."

Lucy had no response to this wild speech.

"I just know what’s wrong with him; I don’t know why it’s wrong."

"What is it?" asked Lucy nervously, expecting some seriously dark story.

"The old problem; things just don’t add up." "What things?"

"The things of the universe. It’s true. They don’t."

"Oh, Mr. Emerson, what do you even mean?"

In his normal voice, so casually she almost didn’t realize 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 bother him so much? We know we come from the winds, and that we’ll go back to them; that all life is maybe just a knot, a tangle, a blemish on the perfect smoothness of everything.

But why does that make us unhappy?"

"Shouldn't we just love each other, work hard, and be happy?" Miss Honeychurch agreed.

"Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that next to the endless ‘Why’ there's a ‘Yes’ - a temporary ‘Yes’ if you like, but a ‘Yes’ all the same."

Suddenly, he laughed; honestly, shouldn't one laugh? A young man being melancholy because the universe doesn't fit, because life is a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!

"I’m so sorry," she said, her voice cracking. " You’ll think I’m totally heartless, but - but - " Then she put on a mature vibe. " Oh, but your son wants a job. Does he have any hobbies?

I mean, I’m stressed too, but playing piano always helps me forget things."

"And my brother was obsessed with collecting stamps - it really helped him out. Maybe Italy is boring him? You should try the Alps or the Lakes, for real."

The old man’s face fell, and he gently touched her hand. She wasn’t freaked out; she thought her advice had impressed him and he was thanking her.

Honestly, she wasn’t scared of him anymore; she thought of him as sweet, but a little clueless.

Her feelings were as intense as they’d been an hour ago when she was admiring the architecture, before she lost her guidebook. Dear George, now heading towards them across the graveyard, seemed both sad and ridiculous.

He approached, his face in shadow. He said: "Miss Bartlett."

"Oh my gosh!" said Lucy, suddenly sinking and seeing everything in a whole new light. " Where? Where?" "In the nave."

"Okay. Those nosy little Miss Alans probably - " She stopped herself.

"Poor thing!" exclaimed Mr. Emerson. " Poor thing!"

She couldn’t let that go; that’s exactly how she felt.

"Poor thing? I’m not sure I get that. I think I’m actually a pretty lucky girl, seriously. I’m having a great time. Please don’t waste time feeling sorry for me. There’s already enough sadness in the world, right? Bye.

Thanks so much for being so kind. Oh, look! My cousin’s here."

"It's a gorgeous morning! Santa Croce is an amazing church."

She walked over to her cousin.