Part 1 · Chapter 4Fourth Chapter

Mr. Beebe was totally right. Lucy never knew what she wanted so clearly as after music. She hadn’t really appreciated the clergyman’s humor, or Miss Alan’s playful teasing.

Conversation was just dragging on; she wanted something huge, and she felt like it would hit her, like, out of nowhere, on the platform of an electric tram. But she probably couldn’t do that. It wasn't very ladylike. Why?

Why were most big things off-limits for women?

Charlotte had once explained it to her. It wasn’t that women were somehow less than men; it was that they were different. Their job was to inspire others to achieve things, rather than to achieve them themselves.

Indirectly, with grace and a good reputation, a woman could do a lot.

But if she jumped straight into the action, she’s be judged, looked down on, and totally ignored. There were even poems about it.

There’s something timeless about that medieval lady. The dragons and knights are gone, but she’s still around. She ruled in tons of early Victorian castles, and she was the star of a lot of early Victorian songs.

It’s nice to protect her when you're taking a break from work, to give her credit when she cooks a good dinner. But honestly! this type of woman is getting outdated. Even she’s starting to feel strange desires.

She's also obsessed with strong winds, huge landscapes, and the endless ocean.

She’s noticed how full the world is of wealth, beauty, and conflict - a shiny surface built around a fiery core, spinning towards the sky.

Guys, claiming she inspires them, are having a blast on the surface, connecting with other guys, feeling alive, not because they’re macho, but because they're just... alive.

Before the show ends, she wants to ditch the title of "The Eternal Woman" and go there as her temporary self.

Lucy isn’t about that medieval lady, who was more of an ideal she was supposed to look up to when she was feeling deep. And she doesn't have a rebellious streak.

Sometimes a rule would really bug her, and she’d break it, and maybe regret it later. This afternoon, she was especially restless.

She really wanted to do something her well-wishers would disapprove of. Since she couldn't hop on the electric tram, she went to Alinari’s shop.

There, she bought a photo of Botticelli’s "Birth of Venus." Venus kind of ruined the picture, but otherwise it was so charming, and Miss Bartlett had convinced her to skip it. (In art, "a pity" meant nude.)

Giorgione’s "Tempesta," the "Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes, and the Apoxyomenos were added to it. She felt a bit calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico’s "Coronation," Giotto’s "Ascension of St.

John," some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas.

Her taste was pretty broad, and she gave automatic approval to every well-known artist.

But even though she spent almost seven lire, the gates of freedom still felt locked.

She was aware of her discontent; it was new to feel that way. " The world," she thought, "is definitely full of beautiful things, if only I could find them."

It wasn’t a surprise that Mrs. Honeychurch didn’t like music, saying it always left her daughter moody, impractical, and easily upset.

"Nothing ever happens to me," she thought as she walked into the Piazza Signoria and casually checked out the sights, which she was pretty used to by now.

The square was in shadow; the sun had come too late to brighten it up. Neptune looked hazy in the fading light, half god, half ghost, and his fountain splashed dreamily towards the guys and satyrs hanging out along the edge.

The Loggia looked like the entrance to a cave, with tons of shadowy, but eternal, figures looking out at the people coming and going. It was that unreal hour - the time when weird stuff feels totally real.

An older person in a place like that might feel like they’re experiencing enough and be content. Lucy wanted more.

She stared wistfully at the tower of the palace, which rose out of the darkness like a pillar of rough gold.

It didn't look like a tower anymore, not really supported by the ground, but like some incredible treasure pulsing in the quiet sky.

Its brightness hypnotized her, still dancing in her vision when she looked down and started heading home.

Then, something actually happened.

Two Italians by the Loggia had been arguing about a debt. " Five lire," they shouted, "five lire! They pushed and shoved, and one of them got tapped lightly on the chest.

He frowned; he leaned towards Lucy with a look of interest, like he had an important message for her.

He opened his mouth to say something, and a stream of red shot out and trickled down his unshaven chin.

That was it. A crowd surged out of the dusk. It blocked her view of the crazy guy, and swept him away towards the fountain. Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few steps away, looking at her across the spot where the man had been.

How weird! Across something.

Even as she caught sight of him, he started to fade; the palace itself seemed to dim, swaying above her, gently falling on her, silently, and the sky fell with it.

She thought, "Oh, what did I do?"

"Oh, what did I do?" she murmured, and opened her eyes.

George Emerson was still looking at her, but not across anything. She’d complained about being bored, and suddenly, a guy got stabbed, and another was holding her.

They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must have carried her. He got up when she spoke, and started brushing off his knees. She repeated, "Oh, what did I do?" "You fainted." "I - I’m really sorry." "How are you now?"

"Perfectly well - totally well." And she started to nod and smile.

"Then let’s go home. There’s no point in hanging around."

He held out his hand to help her up. She pretended not to notice it. The cries from the fountain - they hadn't stopped - sounded empty. The whole world seemed pale and lost its original meaning.

"You’re so kind! I could have hurt myself falling. But I’m okay now. I can go alone, thanks." His hand was still extended.

"Oh, my photos!" she exclaimed suddenly. "What photos?"

"I bought some photos at Alinari’s. I must have dropped them out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. " Would you add to your kindness and fetch them?"

He added to his kindness. As soon as he turned his back, Lucy jumped up and dashed down the arcade towards the Arno. "Miss Honeychurch!"

She stopped, putting her hand on her heart.

"You sit still; you aren’t fit to go home alone."

"Yes, I am, thank you so much."

"No, you aren’t. You’d go straight if you were." "But I’d rather - "

"Then I’m not getting your photos." "I’d rather be alone."

He said firmly: "The man is dead - the man is probably dead; sit down until you’re rested." She looked confused, and obeyed him. " And don’t move until I come back."

In the distance she saw figures in dark hoods, the kind you see in nightmares. The palace tower had lost the last bit of sunlight and seemed to sink into the ground. How was she going to talk to Mr.

Emerson when he got back from that creepy square?

Again, the thought hit her: "Oh my god, what have I done?" - the feeling that she, just like the dying man, had crossed some serious line.

He returned, and she talked about the murder. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that hard to talk about. She talked about the Italian guy; she even started rambling about what had made her faint just minutes before.

Being strong, she quickly got over the shock of seeing blood.

She got up without his help, and even though she felt like she had butterflies in her stomach, she walked confidently towards the Arno River. There, a taxi driver waved them down, but they turned him away.

"And the killer tried to kiss him, you’re saying - that’s so weird, isn’t it, Italians! - and then turned himself in to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying that Italians know everything, but I think they’re kind of immature.

When my cousin and I were at the Pitti Palace yesterday - What was that?"

He had thrown something into the river. "What did you throw in?"

"Stuff I didn’t want," he said, sounding annoyed. "Mr. Emerson!" "Yeah?" "Where are the photos?" He was silent.

"I think it was my photos that you threw away."

"I didn’t know what to do with them," he cried, and his voice sounded like a worried kid’s.

Her heart warmed towards him for the first time. " They were covered in blood. There! I’m glad I’ve told you; and the whole time we were talking, I was stressing about what to do with them." He pointed downstream. " They’re gone."

"The river swirled under the bridge, "I was so bummed about them, and honestly, it just seemed better to let them go - like, let them go out to the ocean - I don’t know, I guess I was just freaked out.

Then the boy started to look like a man. "

"Because something huge has happened; I need to face it without getting totally lost. It’s not just that a guy died."

Something told Lucy she needed to stop him.

"It’s happened," he repeated, "and I’m going to find out what it is." "Mr. Emerson - "

He turned towards her, frowning, like she’s interrupted him mid-thought.

"I want to ask you something before we go inside."

They were close to their rental. She stopped and leaned her elbows on the edge of the embankment. He did the same.

Sometimes, just sharing a position feels like a connection; it’s one of those things that makes you think you'll be friends forever. She moved her elbows before speaking:

"I’d acted like a total idiot."

He was lost in his own thoughts.

"I’m so embarrassed with myself right now; I have no idea what came over me."

"I almost fainted myself," he said, but she felt like her attitude pushed him away.

"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies." "Oh, it’s fine."

"And - this is the real deal - you know how people gossip - especially women, I’m afraid - you get what I mean?" "I’m not really following."

"I mean, would you please not mention it to anyone, my ridiculous behavior?"

"Your behavior? Oh yeah, sure, no problem."

"Thank you so much. And would you - "

She realized she couldn't push it any further. The river was rushing below, practically black in the growing darkness. He's tossed her photos in, and then he dropped the explanation.

It hit her that expecting any kind of decency from a guy like him was a total waste.

He wouldn't trash her with gossip - he was reliable, smart, even nice. He might even think pretty highly of her.

But he just didn't have that chivalrous thing; his thoughts, just like his actions, weren’t gonna change because of some kind of respect.

It was pointless to say, "And would you - " and hope he’d finish the thought himself, looking away from her like a knight in that gorgeous painting.

She’s been in his arms, and he remembered it, just like he remembered the blood on those photos she bought at Alinari’s.

It wasn't exactly that someone had died; something had shifted with the living. They’d reached a point where character mattered, where childhood branched off into all sorts of different paths in youth.

"Seriously, thanks," she repeated. " These things just happen, don’t they? And then you just go back to normal." "Not really."

She felt anxious and needed to ask him more.

His answer was kinda weird: "I’m probably gonna want to keep living."

"But why, Mr. Emerson? What are you even saying?"

"I’m gonna want to live, I said."

Resting her elbows on the edge, she looked out at the River Arno, its roar somehow suggesting a new song to her ears.