Part 2 · Chapter 9Lucy As a Work of Art

A few days after the engagement was announced, Mrs. Honeychurch threw a little garden party nearby, naturally wanting to show everyone that her daughter was marrying a decent guy.

Cecil was more than decent; he looked really put-together, and it was nice to see him walking in step with Lucy, his long, fair face lighting up when she spoke.

People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is kind of a faux pas, but she loved it, and introduced Cecil pretty randomly to some old-school, proper ladies.

During tea, something awkward happened: coffee got spilled all over Lucy’s silk dress, and though she played it cool, her mom was not having it and whisked her inside to get it cleaned by a sympathetic maid.

They were gone for a while, leaving Cecil stuck with the dowagers.

When they returned, he seemed off.

"Do you go to a lot of stuff like this?" he asked as they drove home.

"Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had actually enjoyed herself.

"Is this typical of country life?" "I guess so. Mom, is it?"

"Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, trying to remember the details of one of the dresses.

Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil leaned towards Lucy and said:

"To me, it seemed totally cringe, a disaster, like a bad omen."

"I’m so sorry you were stuck."

"Not that, but the congratulations. It’s so weird how an engagement is treated like public property - a free-for-all where anyone can shoot their cheesy sentiments. All those old ladies smirking!"

"You just have to go through it, I guess. They won’t notice us as much next time."

"But my point is their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement - horrid word anyway - is a private thing, and should be treated that way."

Still, those smirking old ladies, however wrong individually, were acting according to their generation.

The spirit of the generations was smiling through them, celebrating the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised life continuing on earth.

To Cecil and Lucy, it promised something totally different - personal love. Hence Cecil’s irritation and Lucy’s belief that his irritation was justified.

"How annoying!" she said. " Couldn’t you have bailed and gone to play tennis?"

"I don’t play tennis - at least, not in public. The neighborhood is missing out on the romance of me being athletic. The romance I do have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?"

"E un diavolo incarnato! You know the saying?"

She didn’t. Nor did it seem to fit a young man who’s spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mom. But Cecil, since getting engaged, had started acting like a worldly bad boy, which he was totally not.

"Well," he said, "I can’t help it if they disapprove of me. There are certain barriers between me and them, and I have to accept them."

"We all have our limitations, I guess," said wise Lucy.

"Sometimes they’re forced on us, though," said Cecil, seeing from her remark that she didn’t quite understand his situation. "How?"

"It makes a difference, doesn’t it, whether we fully box ourselves in, or whether we’re boxed out by the barriers of others?"

She thought for a moment and agreed that it did make a difference.

"Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. " I don’t see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they’re in the same place."

"We were talking about motives," said Cecil, annoyed by the interruption.

"My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. " This is me. That’s Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here."

"We weren’t talking about real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear - poetry."

She leaned back, totally chill. Cecil wondered why Lucy had found that so funny.

"I’ll tell you who doesn’t have ‘issues,’ as you call them," she said, "and that’s Mr. Beebe."

"A parson without boundaries would be a parson with no protection."

Lucy was a little slow to catch what people were saying, but quick to understand what they meant. She totally missed Cecil’s clever remark, but picked up on the vibe behind it.

"Don’t you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked, thinking it over.

"I never said that!" he exclaimed. " I think he’s way above average. I just denied - " And he launched into a whole thing about boundaries, and he was seriously killing it.

Now, a clergyman I really can’t stand, she said, trying to be supportive, a clergyman who does have boundaries, and the worst kind, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain in Florence. He was genuinely insincere - not just awkward.

He was a snob, so conceited, and he’d say such mean things.

What kind of things? There was an old man at the Bertolini who he said had murdered his wife. Maybe he had. No! Why ‘no’?

"He was such a nice old man, I’m sure."

Cecil laughed at her girlie impulsiveness.

"Well, I tried to get to the bottom of it. Mr. Eager never came out and said anything directly. He liked to keep things vague - said the old man had ‘basically’ murdered his wife - had murdered her in the sight of God."

"Shush, dear!" Mrs. Honeychurch said absently.

"But isn’t it awful that someone we’re supposed to look up to is going around spreading gossip? I think it was mostly because of him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was tacky, but he definitely wasn't."

"Poor old man! What was his name?" "Harris," said Lucy quickly.

"Let’s hope there wasn’t a Mrs. Harris," said her mother. Cecil nodded knowingly.

"Isn’t Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked.

"I don’t know. I hate him. I’m heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him. Nothing can hide a small-minded personality. I hate him."

"Goodness gracious, kid!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. " You’re gonna give me a heart attack! What’s all the fuss about? I forbid you and Cecil from hating any more clergymen."

He smiled. There was something kinda weird about Lucy’s dramatic outburst about Mr. Eager. It was like seeing the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine.

He wanted to hint to her that this wasn’t her calling; that a woman’s power and charm come from mystery, not from yelling.

But maybe yelling shows vitality: it messes up this beautiful creature, but shows she's alive. After a moment, he looked at her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He decided not to shut down the source of her youth.

Nature - a simple topic, he thought - surrounded them. He praised the pine woods, the thick patches of bracken, the crimson leaves dotting the holly bushes, the useful beauty of the road.

The outdoors wasn’t very familiar to him, and he sometimes got facts wrong.

Mrs. Honeychurch’s mouth twitched when he talked about the evergreen color of the larch.

"I consider myself a lucky person," he concluded. " When I’m in London, I feel I could never live anywhere else. When I’m in the country, I feel the same about the country."

After all, I do believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most amazing things in life, and that the people who live among them must be the best. It’s true that nine times out of ten, they don’t seem to notice anything.

"The country gentleman and the country laborer are each, in their own way, the most boring companions. Yet they may have a silent understanding of how Nature works that’s denied to us city folks. Do you feel that, Mrs. Honeychurch?"

Mrs. Honeychurch blinked and smiled. She hadn’t been paying attention. Cecil, who was squished in the front seat of the victoria, felt annoyed, and decided not to say anything interesting again.

Lucy hadn't shown up either. Her forehead was all scrunched up, and she still looked seriously annoyed - probably from overthinking things, he figured. It was sad to see her missing out on how beautiful an August forest could be.

"‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,’" he quoted, gently touching her knee.

She blushed again and asked, "What height?"

"‘Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the hills?’ Let’s take Mrs. Honeychurch’s advice and chill out about hating priests. What is this place?"

"Summer Street, obviously," Lucy replied, snapping herself back to reality.

The woods opened up into a gently sloping, triangular meadow. Cute cottages lined two sides, and a new, expensive-but-simple stone church occupied the third, with a charming, shingled spire. Mr. Beebe’s house was close to the church.

It wasn’t much taller than the cottages.

Some huge mansions were around, but they were hidden by the trees.

The whole scene felt more like a Swiss Alp than a fancy, relaxed place, and the only downside was these two ugly little houses - the ones that had been competing with Cecil’s engagement, bought by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon Lucy had been with Cecil.

"Cissie" was the name of one, and "Albert" of the other.

These names weren't just painted on the garden gates in fancy Gothic lettering; they also appeared on the porches, following the curve of the entrance arch in big, block letters. " Albert" was occupied.

His garden was bursting with geraniums and lobelias, and decorated with polished shells.

His little windows were draped with Nottingham lace. " Cissie" was for rent. Three signs from a Dorking real estate agent leaned against her fence, announcing the not-so-surprising fact.

Her paths were already overgrown, and her tiny lawn was yellow with dandelions.

"This place is a mess!" the ladies said, sounding completely detached. " Summer Street will never be the same."

As the carriage passed, "Cissie’s" door opened, and a gentleman came out.

"Stop!" Mrs. Honeychurch shouted, tapping the coachman with her parasol. " There’s Sir Harry! Now we’ll find out what’s going on. Sir Harry, tear those things down right away!"

Sir Harry Otway - who didn't need an introduction - came to the carriage and said, "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I really can’t evict Miss Flack."

"Am I ever wrong? She should have left before the contract was signed. Does she still live rent-free, like she did with her nephew?"

"But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. " An old lady, so very tacky, and practically bedridden."

"Kick her out," Cecil said bravely.

Sir Harry sighed and looked at the houses with a mournful expression. He'd had plenty of warning about Mr. Flack’s plans and could have bought the plot before construction even started, but he’s been apathetic and slow to act.

He’s known Summer Street for so long that he couldn’t imagine it getting ruined. It wasn't until Mrs. Flack laid the foundation stone and this red and cream brick monstrosity started to go up that he started to worry.

He went to see Mr. Flack, the local builder - a really reasonable and respectful guy - who agreed that tiles would have looked more artistic for the roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper.

He did disagree about the Corinthian columns that were clinging to the frames of the bow windows like leeches, saying that, for his part, he preferred to lighten up the facade with a little decoration.

Sir Harry suggested that, if possible, a column should be both structural and decorative.

Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and all the capitals different - one with dragons in the foliage, another leaning toward the Ionian style, another featuring Mrs. Flack’s initials - every one different.

He’d been reading Ruskin, you know.

He built his villas exactly how he wanted, and he didn’t even let Sir Harry buy one until he’d put an immovable aunt in one of them.

This whole thing was a total waste of time and money, and it bummed the knight out as he leaned against Mrs. Honeychurch’s carriage. He felt like he’d failed his community, and everyone was laughing at him.

He’s spent a ton of cash, and Summer Street was still a mess.

Now, all he could do was find a good tenant for "Cissie" - someone really desirable.

"The rent is ridiculously low," he told them, "and maybe I’m an easygoing landlord. But it’s such a weird size. It’s too big for the working class and too small for anyone like us."

Cecil was debating whether to hate the villas or hate Sir Harry for hating them. But he figured it was better to make fun of Sir Harry.

"You should find a tenant ASAP," he said with a smirk. " It’s basically a paradise for a bank clerk."

"Exactly! Sir Harry exclaimed excitedly. " That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, Mr. Vyse. It’s going to attract the wrong crowd. The train service has improved - a total disaster, in my opinion.

And what’s five miles from a station these days with all these bikes?"

"That’s gonna be one seriously fit clerk," said Lucy.

Cecil, who had a full dose of medieval mischief, replied that the lower middle classes were getting physically stronger at a pretty alarming rate. Lucy noticed he was making fun of their harmless neighbor, so she jumped in to stop him.

"Sir Harry!" she exclaimed. " I have an idea. What about spinsters?"

"My dear Lucy, that would be fantastic. Do you know any?" "Yeah, I met them abroad."

"Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively.

"Absolutely, and they’re currently homeless. I heard from them last week - Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I’m not kidding. They’re the perfect fit. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. Can I tell them to write to you?"

"Please do!" he cried. " We’re already solving the problem. How great is that? Extra amenities - tell them they can have extra amenities, because I’m not paying any agent fees. Oh, the agents! The awful people they’re sending me!"

One woman, when I wrote - a polite letter, you know - asking her to explain her social standing, replied that she’d pay the rent in advance. As if that matters!

And several references I checked were really disappointing - people who were swindlers or not respectable. And oh, the deception!

"I’ve seen a lot of the seedy side lately. The deception of seemingly promising people. My dear Lucy, the deception!" She nodded.

"My advice," Mrs. Honeychurch chimed in, "is to have nothing to do with Lucy and her down-on-their-luck gentlewomen at all. I know the type.

Keep me away from people who’ve seen better days and bring their dusty heirlooms that make the house smell old."

"It’s a sad thing, but I’d rather rent to someone who’s on the way up than to someone who’s fallen down."

"I think I get it," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very sad thing."

"The Misses Alan aren’t like that!" cried Lucy.

"Yeah, they are," said Cecil. " I haven’t met them, but I’d say they’re a seriously unsuitable addition to the neighborhood."

"Don’t listen to him, Sir Harry - he’s annoying."

"It’s me who’s annoying," he replied. " I shouldn’t be bothering young people with my problems. But I’m really stressed, and Lady Otway will just say that I can’t be too careful, which is true, but not helpful at all."

"Then can I write to my Misses Alan?" "Please!"

But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch

"Seriously, watch out for canaries. Sir Harry, be careful of canaries - they spit out the seeds and then mice show up. Seriously, steer clear of women altogether. Only let to a guy, though."

"Right - " he murmured, impressed, even though he saw the point she was making.

"Guys don’t gossip over tea. If they get drunk, they’re done - they just crash and sleep it off. If they’re rude, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn’t spread like that. Give me a guy - of course, as long as he’s decent."

Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil were really into those obvious compliments about their gender. Even excluding the sketchy ones didn’t leave them with much to brag about. He suggested that Mrs.

Honeychurch, if she had time, should hop out of the carriage and check out "Cissie" for herself.

She was stoked. Nature intended her to be broke and live in a place like that. She was always drawn to how things were set up, especially when it was small-scale.

Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mom.

"Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?"

"Totally!" was her enthusiastic reply.

Sir Harry seemed almost too happy to get rid of them. He gave them a knowing look, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then hurried to unlock the house.

"Total vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, practically before they were out of earshot. "Oh, Cecil!"

"I can’t help it. It would be wrong not to hate that guy."

"He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s actually nice."

"No, Lucy, he’s the embodiment of everything that's wrong with country life. In London, he’s just another face in the crowd. He’s belong to a brainless club, and his wife would throw brainless dinner parties."

"But down here, he acts like he’s all that, with his gentility and his fake taste, and everyone - even your mom - is fooled."

"Everything you’re saying is true," said Lucy, though she felt bummed out. " I wonder - whether it matters so much."

"It matters a ton. Sir Harry is the whole vibe of that garden party. Ugh, I’m so annoyed! I really hope he gets some seriously vulgar tenant for that villa - some woman so over-the-top that he’ll finally notice it. Gentlefolks! Seriously!"

"With his bald head and receding chin! But let’s forget about him."

Lucy was totally down to do that. If Cecil hated Sir Harry Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered to her would be safe? Like, what about Freddy?

Freddy wasn’t smart, subtle, or good-looking, and what stopped Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? She didn’t go any further than Freddy, but he was stressing her out enough.

She could only tell herself that Cecil had known Freddy for a while, and they’re always gotten along well, except maybe the last few days, which was probably just a fluke.

"Which way should we go?" she asked him.

Nature - the simplest thing ever - was all around them. Summer Street was deep in the woods, and she’s stopped where a path split off from the main road. "Are there two ways?"

"Maybe the road is more sensible, since we’re dressed up nice."

"I’d rather go through the woods," said Cecil, with that quiet irritation she’s noticed in him all afternoon. " Why is it, Lucy, that you always say the road?

Do you know that you’re never been with me in the fields or the woods since we got engaged?"

"Really? The woods, then," said Lucy, surprised by how weird he was, but pretty sure he’d explain later; it wasn’t his style to leave her wondering.

She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did explain before they’d gone a dozen yards.

"I had this idea - probably wrong - that you feel more comfortable with me in a room."

"A room?" she echoed, totally confused.

"Yeah. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never out in the real countryside like this."

"Oh, Cecil, what are you even talking about? I’m not like that at all. You’re acting like I'm some kind of poet or something."

"I don’t see why not. I picture you with a view - a certain vibe. Why can’t I picture you in a room?" She paused, then laughed.

"You know what? You’re right! I totally am. When I think of you, it’s always like we’re in a room. That’s so weird!"

To her surprise, he seemed annoyed.

"Like a drawing-room? With no view?"

"Yeah, with no view, I guess. So?"

"I’d rather," he said, sounding disappointed, "you pictured me out in the fresh air."

She repeated, "Oh, Cecil, what do you mean?"

Since he didn't explain, she brushed it off as too complicated for a girl and led him deeper into the woods, stopping now and then at a particularly pretty or familiar spot where the trees grew.

She'd known the woods between Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone; she’d played hide-and-seek with Freddy in them when he was a little, purple-faced baby; and even though she’d been to Italy, the woods hadn't lost their charm.

Soon, they reached a small clearing among the pines - another tiny green hill, all by itself, holding a shallow pool.

She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!" "Why do you call it that?"

"I don’t even remember. Probably from some book. It’s just a puddle now, but see that stream running through it? Well, after heavy rains, a lot of water comes down and can’t drain away right away, so the pool gets really big and beautiful."

"Freddy used to splash around here all the time. He really loves it." "And you?"

He meant, "Do you like it?" But she answered dreamily, "I swam here, too, until someone caught me. Then there was a big deal."

Another time, he might have been shocked - he had some pretty conservative ideas tucked away inside. But now, with his sudden obsession with the fresh air, he was charmed by her honesty. He looked at her as she stood by the pool’s edge.

She was dressed up nicely, as she put it, and she reminded him of some brilliant flower with no leaves of its own, just blooming out of a world of green. "Who caught you?"

"Charlotte," she murmured. " She was staying with us. Charlotte - Charlotte." "Poor thing!"

She smiled sadly. A certain plan, which he’d previously avoided, suddenly seemed possible. "Lucy!"

"Yeah, I guess we should probably get going," she replied.

"Lucy, I want to ask you for something I’ve never asked before."

The serious tone in his voice made her step towards him, friendly and open. "What, Cecil?"

"Until now - not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry me - I’m never..."

He got nervous and kept looking around to make sure they weren’t being watched. His courage vanished. "Yeah?"

"Up until now, I’ve never kissed you."

She blushed, as if he’s said something totally inappropriate.

"No - you have," she stammered. "Then, can I now?"

"Of course, Cecil. You could have before. I can’t exactly run away from you, you know."

In that moment, he felt totally ridiculous. Her response was lame. She gave her veil such a professional lift. As he approached her, he realized his glasses slipped off and got crushed between them.

That was the vibe of the hug. Honestly, he knew it totally flopped. Passion should feel unstoppable, right? It shouldn't worry about being polite or considerate, or any of that extra stuff that comes with being fancy.

And definitely not ask for permission when you have every right to do something.

Why couldn't he just do what anyone else would - like a construction worker, or even a kid working behind a store counter? He replayed it in his head.

Lucy was standing there, looking gorgeous by the water, and he just rushed up and grabbed her; she scolded him, then let him, and respected him forever after for being a dude. Because he thought women dig guys who are confident.

They left the pool in silence after that awkward moment. He was waiting for her to say something that would give him a glimpse into what she was really thinking. Finally, she spoke, and it was super serious.

"Emerson was the name, not Harris." "What name?" "The old man’s." "What old man?"

"That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was being a total jerk to."

He had no idea this simple exchange was the most real conversation they’d ever had.