A Room With a View by E. M. Forster (top fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

and she was aware of autumn. Summer was ending, and the evening brought her odours of decay, the more pathetic because they were reminiscent of spring. That something or other mattered intellectually? A leaf, violently agitated, danced past her, while other leaves lay motionless. That the earth was hastening to re-enter darkness, and the shadows of those trees over Windy Corner?

“Hullo, Lucy! There’s still light enough for another set, if you two’ll hurry.”

“Mr. Emerson has had to go.”

“What a nuisance! That spoils the four. I say, Cecil, do play, do, there’s a good chap. It’s Floyd’s last day. Do play tennis with us, just this once.”

Cecil’s voice came: “My dear Freddy, I am no athlete. As you well remarked this very morning, ‘There are some chaps who are no good for anything but books’; I plead guilty to being such a chap, and will not inflict myself on you.”

The scales fell from Lucy’s eyes. How had she stood Cecil for a moment? He was absolutely intolerable, and the same evening she broke off her engagement.

XVII Lying to Cecil

He was bewildered. He had nothing to say. He was not even angry, but stood, with a glass of whiskey between his hands, trying to think what had led her to such a conclusion.

She had chosen the moment before bed, when, in accordance with their bourgeois habit, she always dispensed drinks to the men. Freddy and Mr. Floyd were sure to retire with their glasses, while Cecil invariably lingered, sipping at his while she locked up the sideboard.

“I am very sorry about it,” she said; “I have carefully thought things over. We are too different. I must ask you to release me, and try to forget that there ever was such a foolish girl.”

It was a suitable speech, but she was more angry than sorry, and her voice showed it.

“Different⁠—how⁠—how⁠—”

“I haven’t had a really good education, for one thing,” she continued, still on her knees by the sideboard. “My Italian trip came too late, and I am forgetting all that I learnt there. I shall never be able to talk to your friends, or behave as a wife of yours should.”

“I don’t understand you. You aren’t like yourself. You’re tired, Lucy.”

“Tired!” she retorted, kindling at once. “That is exactly like you. You always think women don’t mean what they say.”

“Well, you sound tired, as if something has worried you.”

“What if I do? It doesn’t prevent me from realizing the truth. I can’t marry you, and you will thank me for saying so some day.”

“You had that bad headache yesterday⁠—All right”⁠—for she had exclaimed indignantly: “I see it’s much more than headaches. But give me a moment’s time.” He closed his eyes. “You must excuse me if I say stupid things, but my brain has gone to pieces. Part of it lives three minutes back, when I was sure that you loved me, and the other part⁠—I find it difficult⁠—I am likely to say the wrong thing.”

It struck her that he was not behaving so badly, and her irritation increased. She again desired a struggle, not a discussion. To bring on the crisis, she said:

“There are days when one sees clearly, and this is one of them. Things must come to a breaking-point some time, and it happens to be today. If you want to know, quite a little thing decided me to speak to you⁠—when you wouldn’t play tennis with Freddy.”

“I never do play tennis,” said Cecil, painfully bewildered; “I never could play. I don’t understand a word you say.”

“You can play well enough to make up a four. I thought it abominably selfish of you.”

“No, I can’t⁠—well, never mind the tennis. Why couldn’t you⁠—couldn’t you have warned me if you felt anything wrong? You talked of our wedding at lunch⁠—at least, you let me talk.”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” said Lucy quite crossly. “I might have known there would have been these dreadful explanations. Of course, it isn’t the tennis⁠—that was only the last straw to all I have been feeling for weeks. Surely it was better not to speak until I felt certain.” She developed this position. “Often before I have wondered if I was fitted for your wife⁠—for instance, in London; and are you fitted to be my husband? I don’t think so. You don’t like Freddy, nor my mother. There was always a lot against our engagement, Cecil, but all our relations seemed pleased, and we met so often, and it was no good mentioning it until⁠—well, until all things came to a point. They have today. I see clearly. I must speak. That’s all.”

“I cannot think you were right,” said Cecil gently. “I cannot tell why, but though all that you say sounds true, I feel that you are not treating me fairly. It’s all too horrible.”

“What’s the good of a scene?”

“No good. But surely I have a right to hear a little more.”

He put down his glass and opened the window. From where she knelt, jangling her keys, she could see a slit of darkness, and, peering into it, as if it would tell him that “little more,” his long, thoughtful face.

“Don’t open the window; and you’d better draw the curtain, too; Freddy or anyone might be outside.” He obeyed. “I really think we had better go to bed, if you don’t mind. I shall only say things that will make me unhappy afterwards. As you say it is all too horrible, and it is no good talking.”

But to Cecil, now that he was about to lose her, she seemed each moment more desirable. He looked at her, instead of through her, for the first time since they were engaged. From a Leonardo she had become a living woman, with mysteries and forces of her own, with qualities that even eluded art. His brain recovered from the shock, and, in a burst of genuine devotion, he cried: “But I love you, and I did think you loved me!”

“I did not,” she said. “I thought I