The inner decoration favoured the First Empire and William Morris. For its size, the house was commodious4; there were countless5 nooks resembling birds’ nests, and little things made of silver were deposited like eggs.
In this general perfection two kinds of fastidiousness were at war. There lived here a mistress who would have dwelt daintily on a desert island; a master whose daintiness was, as it were, an investment, cultivated by the owner for his advancement6, in accordance with the laws of competition. This competitive daintiness had caused Soames in his Marlborough days to be the first boy into white waistcoats in summer, and corduroy waistcoats in winter, had prevented him from ever appearing in public with his tie climbing up his collar, and induced him to dust his patent leather boots before a great multitude assembled on Speech Day to hear him recite Moliere.
Skin-like immaculateness had grown over Soames, as over many Londoners; impossible to conceive of him with a hair out of place, a tie deviating7 one-eighth of an inch from the perpendicular8, a collar unglossed! He would not have gone without a bath for worlds — it was the fashion to take baths; and how bitter was his scorn of people who omitted them!
But Irene could be imagined, like some nymph, bathing in wayside streams, for the joy of the freshness and of seeing her own fair body.
In this conflict throughout the house the woman had gone to the wall. As in the struggle between Saxon and Celt still going on within the nation, the more impressionable and receptive temperament9 had had forced on it a conventional superstructure.
Thus the house had acquired a close resemblance to hundreds of other houses with the same high aspirations10, having become: ‘That very charming little house of the Soames Forsytes, quite individual, my dear — really elegant.’
For Soames Forsyte — read James Peabody, Thomas Atkins, or Emmanuel Spagnoletti, the name in fact of any upper-middle class Englishman in London with any pretensions11 to taste; and though the decoration be different, the phrase is just.
On the evening of August 8, a week after the expedition to Robin12 Hill, in the dining-room of this house —‘quite individual, my dear — really elegant’— Soames and Irene were seated at dinner. A hot dinner on Sundays was a little distinguishing elegance13 common to this house and many others. Early in married life Soames had laid down the rule: ‘The servants must give us hot dinner on Sundays — they’ve nothing to do but play the concertina.’
The custom had produced no revolution. For — to Soames a rather deplorable sign — servants were devoted14 to Irene, who, in defiance15 of all safe tradition, appeared to recognise their right to a share in the weaknesses of human nature.
The happy pair were seated, not opposite each other, but rectangularly, at the handsome rosewood table; they dined without a cloth — a distinguishing elegance — and so far had not spoken a word.
Soames liked to talk during dinner about business, or what he had been buying, and so long as he talked Irene’s silence did not distress17 him. This evening he had found it impossible to talk. The decision to build had been weighing on his mind all the week, and he had made up his mind to tell her.
His nervousness about this disclosure irritated him profoundly; she had no business to make him feel like that — a wife and a husband being one person. She had not looked at him once since they sat down; and he wondered what on earth she had been thinking about all the time. It was hard, when a man worked as he did, making money for her — yes, and with an ache in his heart — that she should sit there, looking — looking as if she saw the walls of the room closing in. It was enough to make a man get up and leave the table.
The light from the rose-shaded lamp fell on her neck and arms — Soames liked her to dine in a low dress, it gave him an inexpressible feeling of superiority to the majority of his acquaintance, whose wives were contented19 with their best high frocks or with tea-gowns, when they dined at home. Under that rosy20 light her amber-coloured hair and fair skin made strange contrast with her dark brown eyes.
Could a man own anything prettier than this dining-table with its deep tints21, the starry22, soft-petalled roses, the ruby-coloured glass, and quaint18 silver furnishing; could a man own anything prettier than the woman who sat at it? Gratitude23 was no virtue24 among Forsytes, who, competitive, and full of common-sense, had no occasion for it; and Soames only experienced a sense of exasperation25 amounting to pain, that he did not own her as it was his right to own her, that he could not, as by stretching out his hand to that rose, pluck her and sniff26 the very secrets of her heart.
Out of his other property, out of all the things he had collected, his silver, his pictures, his houses, his investments, he got a secret and intimate feeling; out of her he got none.
In this house of his there was writing on every wall. His business-like temperament protested against a mysterious warning that she was not made for him. He had married this woman, conquered her, made her his own, and it seemed to him contrary to the most fundamental of all laws, the law of possession, that he could do no more than own her body — if indeed he could do that, which he was beginning to doubt. If any one had asked him if he wanted to own her soul, the question would have seemed to him both ridiculous and sentimental27. But he did so want, and the writing said he never would.
She was ever silent, passive, gracefully28 averse29; as though terrified lest by word, motion, or sign she might lead him to believe that she was fond of him; and he asked himself: Must I always go on like this?
Like most novel readers of his generation (and Soames was a great novel reader), literature coloured his view of life; and he had imbibed30 the belief that it was only a question of time.
In the end the husband always gained the affection of his wife. Even in those cases — a class of book he was not very fond of — which ended in tragedy, the wife always died with poignant31 regrets on her lips, or if it were the husband who died — unpleasant thought — threw herself on his body in an agony of remorse32.
He often took Irene to the theatre, instinctively33 choosing the modern Society Plays with the modern Society conjugal34 problem, so fortunately different from any conjugal problem in real life. He found that they too always ended in the same way, even when there was a lover in the case. While he was watching the play Soames often sympathized with the lover; but before he reached home again, driving with Irene in a hansom, he saw that this would not do, and he was glad the play had ended as it had. There was one class of husband that had just then come into fashion, the strong, rather rough, but extremely sound man, who was peculiarly successful at the end of the play; with this person Soames was really not in sympathy, and had it not been for his own position, would have expressed his disgust with the fellow. But he was so conscious of how vital to himself was the necessity for being a successful, even a ‘strong,’ husband, that he never spoke16 of a distaste born perhaps by the perverse35 processes of Nature out of a secret fund of brutality36 in himself.
But Irene’s silence this evening was exceptional. He had never before seen such an expression on her face. And since it is always the unusual which alarms, Soames was alarmed. He ate his savoury, and hurried the maid as she swept off the crumbs37 with the silver sweeper. When she had left the room, he filled his glass with wine and said:
“Anybody been here this afternoon?”
“June.”
“What did she want?” It was an axiom with the Forsytes that people did not go anywhere unless they wanted something. “Came to talk about her lover, I suppose?”
Irene made no reply.
“It looks to me,” continued Soames, “as if she were sweeter on him than he is on her. She’s always following him about.”
Irene’s eyes made him feel uncomfortable.
“You’ve no business to say such a thing!” she exclaimed.
“Why not? Anybody can see it.”
“They cannot. And if they could, it’s disgraceful to say so.”
Soames’s composure gave way.
“You’re a pretty wife!” he said. But secretly he wondered at the heat of her reply; it was unlike her. “You’re cracked about June! I can tell you one thing: now that she has the Buccaneer in tow, she doesn’t care twopence about you, and, you’ll find it out. But you won’t see so much of her in future; we’re going to live in the country.”
He had been glad to get his news out under cover of this burst of irritation38. He had expected a cry of dismay; the silence with which his pronouncement was received alarmed him.
“You don’t seem interested,” he was obliged to add.
“I knew it already.”
He looked at her sharply.
“Who told you?”
“June.”
“How did she know?”
Irene did not answer. Baffled and uncomfortable, he said:
“It’s a fine thing for Bosinney, it’ll be the making of him. I suppose she’s told you all about it?”
“Yes.”
There was another pause, and then Soames said:
“I suppose you don’t want to, go?”
Irene made no reply.
“Well, I can’t tell what you want. You never seem contented here.”
“Have my wishes anything to do with it?”
She took the vase of roses and left the room. Soames remained seated. Was it for this that he had signed that contract? Was it for this that he was going to spend some ten thousand pounds? Bosinney’s phrase came back to him: “Women are the devil!”
But presently he grew calmer. It might have, been worse. She might have flared39 up. He had expected something more than this. It was lucky, after all, that June had broken the ice for him. She must have wormed it out of Bosinney; he might have known she would.
He lighted his cigarette. After all, Irene had not made a scene! She would come round — that was the best of her; she was cold, but not sulky. And, puffing40 the cigarette smoke at a lady-bird on the shining table, he plunged41 into a reverie about the house. It was no good worrying; he would go and make it up presently. She would be sitting out there in the dark, under the Japanese sunshade, knitting. A beautiful, warm night. . . .
In truth, June had come in that afternoon with shining eyes, and the words: “Soames is a brick! It’s splendid for Phil — the very thing for him!”
Irene’s face remaining dark and puzzled, she went on:
“Your new house at Robin Hill, of course. What? Don’t you know?”
Irene did not know.
“Oh! then, I suppose I oughtn’t to have told you!” Looking impatiently at her friend, she cried: “You look as if you didn’t care. Don’t you see, it’s what I’ve’ been praying for — the very chance he’s been wanting all this time. Now you’ll see what he can do;” and thereupon she poured out the whole story.
Since her own engagement she had not seemed much interested in her friend’s position; the hours she spent with Irene were given to confidences of her own; and at times, for all her affectionate pity, it was impossible to keep out of her smile a trace of compassionate42 contempt for the woman who had made such a mistake in her life — such a vast, ridiculous mistake.
“He’s to have all the decorations as well — a free hand. It’s perfect —” June broke into laughter, her little figure quivered gleefully; she raised her hand, and struck a blow at a muslin curtain. “Do you, know I even asked Uncle James. . . . ” But, with a sudden dislike to mentioning that incident, she stopped; and presently, finding her friend so unresponsive, went away. She looked back from the pavement, and Irene was still standing43 in the doorway44. In response to her farewell wave, Irene put her hand to her brow, and, turning slowly, shut the door. . . .
Soames went to the drawing-room presently, and peered at her through the window.
Out in the shadow of the Japanese sunshade she was sitting very still, the lace on her white shoulders stirring with the soft rise and fall of her bosom45.
But about this silent creature sitting there so motionless, in the dark, there seemed a warmth, a hidden fervour of feeling, as if the whole of her being had been stirred, and some change were taking place in its very depths.
He stole back to the dining-room unnoticed.
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1
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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2
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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3
outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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4
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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5
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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6
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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7
deviating
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| v.偏离，越轨( deviate的现在分词 ) | |
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8
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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9
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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10
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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11
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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12
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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13
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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14
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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15
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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16
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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17
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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18
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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19
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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20
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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21
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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22
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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23
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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24
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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25
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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26
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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27
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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28
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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29
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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30
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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31
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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32
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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33
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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34
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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35
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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36
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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37
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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38
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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39
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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40
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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41
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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42
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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43
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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44
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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45
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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