Alternate Versions. Rate This. Lucy and George get acquainted, but Lucy returns to England. George and Lucy meet again, but now she's engaged. Director: James Ivory. Writers: E. Forster novel , Ruth Prawer Jhabvala screenplay. Added to Watchlist. From metacritic. Movies Films Emily Has Shown Me. Please give an overall site rating:. Privacy Statement. Antti and Jussi are released from jail. Meeting the Emersons could change Lucy's life forever but, once back in England, how will her experiences in Tuscany affect her marriage plans?
Nominated for eight Academy Awards , including Best Picture, and winner of three, this is one the most charming and delightful romantic comedies ever filmed. From The Current. Multiple concurrent streams and HD content may require higher bandwidth.
Streaming content may count against your data usage. Location data required to access content on mobile devices for any Live TV subscription. As a type, Miss Lavish was based on Emily Spender, a writer Forster and his mother met in their travels, swinging about in a military cape and affecting thin cigars in the pensione smoking room.
Forster, in , although it was the first he seriously worked at, beginning it during a trip to Italy in the winter of - 02 when he was twenty-two. But who was to tell her which they were? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling to be enthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date.
There was no one even to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved the nave and transepts, was the one that was really beautiful, the one that had been most praised by Mr. Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on her, and, instead of acquiring information, she began to be happy.
She puzzled out the Italian notices—the notices that forbade people to introduce dogs into the church—the notice that prayed people, in the interest of health and out of respect to the sacred edifice in which they found themselves, not to spit. She watched the tourists; their noses were as red as their Baedekers, so cold was Santa Croce. She beheld the horrible fate that overtook three Papists—two he-babies and a she-baby—who began their career by sousing each other with the Holy Water, and then proceeded to the Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed.
Advancing towards it very slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone with their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and then retreated. What could this mean?
They did it again and again. Then Lucy realized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for some saint, hoping to acquire virtue. Punishment followed quickly. The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of the sepulchral slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin, and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop. Protestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. Emerson, who had darted forward also. Go out into the sunshine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is where you ought to be.
Intolerable bishop! The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadful people who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him not to be superstitious. Emerson to Lucy. But what else can you expect from a church? Each time that old Mr.
Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the rescue. He stood. Still gibbering with agitation, he walked away. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church? Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her.
She took refuge in her dignity. I hope you do not suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with the child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. I hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience. You are pretending to be touchy; but you are not really. Stop being so tiresome, and tell me instead what part of the church you want to see.
To take you to it will be a real pleasure. Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she ought to have been furious. Lucy could not get cross. Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl might humour him. On the other hand, his son was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to be offended with him, or at all events be offended before him. It was at him that she gazed before replying. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which they are.
The son nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the way to the Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of the teacher about him. She felt like a child in school who had answered a question rightly.
The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation, and out of them rose the voice of a lecturer, directing them how to worship Giotto, not by tactful valuations, but by the standards of the spirit.
Observe how Giotto in these frescoes—now, unhappily, ruined by restoration—is untroubled by the snares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, more pathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical cleverness against a man who truly feels! Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church.
Built by faith indeed! And as for the frescoes, I see no truth in them. Look at that fat man in blue! He must weigh as much as I do, and he is shooting into the sky like an air balloon.
The audience shifted uneasily, and so did Lucy. She was sure that she ought not to be with these men; but they had cast a spell over her. They were so serious and so strange that she could not remember how to behave.
I would rather go up to heaven by myself than be pushed by cherubs; and if I got there I should like my friends to lean out of it, just as they do here. It did happen like that, if it happened at all. We will incommode you no longer. The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his flock, for they held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St.
Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? How vexatious. I shall go and say we are sorry. Then perhaps he will come back. But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize to the Rev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hear the lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive voice of the old man, the curt, injured replies of his opponent. The son, who took every little contretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening also. But he is kind to people because he loves them; and they find him out, and are offended, or frightened.
He threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wrong answer. She watched the singular creature pace up and down the chapel. For a young man his face was rugged, and—until the shadows fell upon it—hard. Enshadowed, it sprang into tenderness. She saw him once again at Rome, on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, carrying a burden of acorns.
Healthy and muscular, he yet gave her the feeling of greyness, of tragedy that might only find solution in the night. The feeling soon passed; it was unlike her to have entertained anything so subtle.
Born of silence and of unknown emotion, it passed when Mr. Emerson returned, and she could re-enter the world of rapid talk, which was alone familiar to her. Francis came floating round the partition wall. Do you know which is the tombstone that is praised in Ruskin?
He did not know, and suggested that they should try to guess it. George, rather to her relief, refused to move, and she and the old man wandered not unpleasantly about Santa Croce, which, though it is like a barn, has harvested many beautiful things inside its walls. There were also beggars to avoid and guides to dodge round the pillars, and an old lady with her dog, and here and there a priest modestly edging to his Mass through the groups of tourists.
Emerson was only half interested. He watched the lecturer, whose success he believed he had impaired, and then he anxiously watched his son. Though I like things like the Della Robbia babies better. A baby is worth a dozen saints. What more is one to give him? And think how he has been brought up—free from all the superstition and ignorance that lead men to hate one another in the name of God. Rentals are not eligible.