It was not his fault, for he had been determined1 that no one should know. June, in the fulness of her heart, had told Mrs. Small, giving her leave only to tell Aunt Ann — she thought it would cheer her, the poor old sweet! for Aunt Ann had kept her room now for many days.
Mrs. Small told Aunt Ann at once, who, smiling as she lay back on her pillows, said in her distinct, trembling old voice:
“It’s very nice for dear June; but I hope they will be careful — it’s rather dangerous!”
When she was left alone again, a frown, like a cloud presaging2 a rainy morrow, crossed her face.
While she was lying there so many days the process of recharging her will went on all the time; it spread to her face, too, and tightening3 movements were always in action at the corners of her lips.
The maid Smither, who had been in her service since girlhood, and was spoken of as “Smither — a good girl — but so slow!”— the maid Smither performed every morning with extreme punctiliousness5 the crowning ceremony of that ancient toilet. Taking from the recesses6 of their pure white band-box those flat, grey curls, the insignia of personal dignity, she placed them securely in her mistress’s hands, and turned her back.
And every day Aunts Juley and Hester were required to come and report on Timothy; what news there was of Nicholas; whether dear June had succeeded in getting Jolyon to shorten the engagement, now that Mr. Bosinney was building Soames a house; whether young Roger’s wife was really — expecting; how the operation on Archie had succeeded; and what Swithin had done about that empty house in Wigmore Street, where the tenant7 had lost all his money and treated him so badly; above all, about Soames; was Irene still — still asking for a separate room? And every morning Smither was told: “I shall be coming down this afternoon, Smither, about two o’clock. I shall want your arm, after all these days in bed!”
After telling Aunt Ann, Mrs. Small had spoken of the house in the strictest confidence to Mrs. Nicholas, who in her turn had asked Winifred Dartie for confirmation8, supposing, of course, that, being Soames’s sister, she would know all about it. Through her it had in due course come round to the ears of James. He had been a good deal agitated9.
“Nobody,” he said, “told him anything.” And, rather than go direct to Soames himself, of whose taciturnity he was afraid, he took his umbrella and went round to Timothy’s.
He found Mrs. Septimus and Hester (who had been told — she was so safe, she found it tiring to talk) ready, and indeed eager, to discuss the news. It was very good of dear Soames, they thought, to employ Mr. Bosinney, but rather risky10. What had George named him? ‘The Buccaneer’ How droll11! But George was always droll! However, it would be all in the family they supposed they must really look upon Mr. Bosinney as belonging to the family, though it seemed strange.
James here broke in:
“Nobody knows anything about him. I don’t see what Soames wants with a young man like that. I shouldn’t be surprised if Irene had put her oar12 in. I shall speak to. . . . ”
“Soames,” interposed Aunt Juley, “told Mr. Bosinney that he didn’t wish it mentioned. He wouldn’t like it to be talked about, I’m sure, and if Timothy knew he would be very vexed13, I. . . . ”
James put his hand behind his ear:
“What?” he said. “I’m getting very deaf. I suppose I don’t hear people. Emily’s got a bad toe. We shan’t be able to start for Wales till the end of the month. There’ s always something!” And, having got what he wanted, he took his hat and went away.
It was a fine afternoon, and he walked across the Park towards Soames’s, where he intended to dine, for Emily’s toe kept her in bed, and Rachel and Cicely were on a visit to the country. He took the slanting14 path from the Bayswater side of the Row to the Knightsbridge Gate, across a pasture of short, burnt grass, dotted with blackened sheep, strewn with seated couples and strange waifs; lying prone15 on their faces, like corpses16 on a field over which the wave of battle has rolled.
He walked rapidly, his head bent17, looking neither to right nor, left. The appearance of this park, the centre of his own battle-field, where he had all his life been fighting, excited no thought or speculation18 in his mind. These corpses flung down, there, from out the press and turmoil19 of the struggle, these pairs of lovers sitting cheek by jowl for an hour of idle Elysium snatched from the monotony of their treadmill20, awakened21 no fancies in his mind; he had outlived that kind of imagination; his nose, like the nose of a sheep, was fastened to the pastures on which he browsed22.
One of his tenants23 had lately shown a disposition24 to be behind-hand in his rent, and it had become a grave question whether he had not better turn him out at once, and so run the risk of not re-letting before Christmas. Swithin had just been let in very badly, but it had served him right — he had held on too long.
He pondered this as he walked steadily25, holding his umbrella carefully by the wood, just below the crook26 of the handle, so as to keep the ferule off the ground, and not fray27 the silk in the middle. And, with his thin, high shoulders stooped, his long legs moving with swift mechanical precision, this passage through the Park, where the sun shone with a clear flame on so much idleness — on so many human evidences of the remorseless battle of Property, raging beyond its ring — was like the flight of some land bird across the sea.
He felt a — touch on the arm as he came out at Albert Gate.
It was Soames, who, crossing from the shady side of Piccadilly, where he had been walking home from the office, had suddenly appeared alongside.
“Your mother’s in bed,” said James; “I was, just coming to you, but I suppose I shall be in the way.”
The outward relations between James and his son were marked by a lack of sentiment peculiarly Forsytean, but for all that the two were by no means unattached. Perhaps they regarded one another as an investment; certainly they were solicitous29 of each other’s welfare, glad of each other’s company. They had never exchanged two words upon the more intimate problems of life, or revealed in each other’s presence the existence of any deep feeling.
Something beyond the power of word-analysis bound them together, something hidden deep in the fibre of nations and families — for blood, they say, is thicker than water — and neither of them was a cold-blooded man. Indeed, in James love of his children was now the prime motive30 of his existence. To have creatures who were parts of himself, to whom he might transmit the money he saved, was at the root of his saving; and, at seventy-five, what was left that could give him pleasure, but — saving? The kernel31 of life was in this saving for his children.
Than James Forsyte, notwithstanding all his ‘Jonah-isms,’ there was no saner32 man (if the leading symptom of sanity33, as we are told, is self-preservation, though without doubt Timothy went too far) in all this London, of which he owned so much, and loved with such a dumb love, as the centre of his opportunities. He had the marvellous instinctive34 sanity of the middle class. In him — more than in Jolyon, with his masterful will and his moments of tenderness and philosophy — more than in Swithin, the martyr35 to crankiness — Nicholas, the sufferer from ability — and Roger, the victim of enterprise — beat the true pulse of compromise; of all the brothers he was least remarkable36 in mind and person, and for that reason more likely to live for ever.
To James, more than to any of the others, was “the family” significant and dear. There had always been something primitive37 and cosy38 in his attitude towards life; he loved the family hearth39, he loved gossip, and he loved grumbling40. All his decisions were formed of a cream which he skimmed off the family mind; and, through that family, off the minds of thousands of other families of similar fibre. Year after year, week after week, he went to Timothy’s, and in his brother’s front drawing-room — his legs twisted, his long white whiskers framing his clean-shaven mouth — would sit watching the family pot simmer, the cream rising to the top; and he would go away sheltered, refreshed, comforted, with an indefinable sense of comfort.
Beneath the adamant41 of his self-preserving instinct there was much real softness in James; a visit to Timothy’s was like an hour spent in the lap of a mother; and the deep craving42 he himself had for the protection of the family wing reacted in turn on his feelings towards his own children; it was a nightmare to him to think of them exposed to the treatment of the world, in money, health, or reputation. When his old friend John Street’s son volunteered for special service, he shook his head querulously, and wondered what John Street was about to allow it; and when young Street was assagaied, he took it so much to heart that he made a point of calling everywhere with the special object of saying: He knew how it would be — he’d no patience with them!
When his son-in-law Dartie had that financial crisis, due to speculation in Oil Shares, James made himself ill worrying over it; the knell44 of all prosperity seemed to have sounded. It took him three months and a visit to Baden-Baden to get better; there was something terrible in the idea that but for his, James’s, money, Dartie’s name might have appeared in the Bankruptcy45 List.
Composed of a physiological46 mixture so sound that if he had an earache47 he thought he was dying, he regarded the occasional ailments48 of his wife and children as in the nature of personal grievances49, special interventions50 of Providence51 for the purpose of destroying his peace of mind; but he did not believe at all in the ailments of people outside his own immediate52 family, affirming them in every case to be due to neglected liver.
His universal comment was: “What can they expect? I have it myself, if I’m not careful!”
When he went to Soames’s that evening he felt that life was hard on him: There was Emily with a bad toe, and Rachel gadding53 about in the country; he got no sympathy from anybody; and Ann, she was ill — he did not believe she would last through the summer; he had called there three times now without her being able to see him! And this idea of Soames’s, building a house, that would have to be looked into. As to the trouble with Irene, he didn’t know what was to come of that — anything might come of it!
He entered 62, Montpellier Square with the fullest intentions of being miserable54. It was already half-past seven, and Irene, dressed for dinner, was seated in the drawing-room. She was wearing her gold-coloured frock — for, having been displayed at a dinner-party, a soiree, and a dance, it was now to be worn at home — and she had adorned55 the bosom56 with a cascade57 of lace, on which James’s eyes riveted58 themselves at once.
“Where do you get your things?” he said in an aggravated59 voice. “I never see Rachel and Cicely looking half so well. That rose-point, now — that’s not real!”
Irene came close, to prove to him that he was in error.
And, in spite of himself, James felt the influence of her deference60, of the faint seductive perfume exhaling61 from her. No self-respecting Forsyte surrendered at a blow; so he merely said: He didn’t know — he expected she was spending a pretty penny on dress.
The gong sounded, and, putting her white arm within his, Irene took him into the dining-room. She seated him in Soames’s usual place, round the corner on her left. The light fell softly there, so that he would not be worried by the gradual dying of the day; and she began to talk to him about himself.
Presently, over James came a change, like the mellowing62 that steals upon a fruit in the, sun; a sense of being caressed64, and praised, and petted, and all without the bestowal65 of a single caress63 or word of praise. He felt that what he was eating was agreeing with him; he could not get that feeling at home; he did not know when he had enjoyed a glass of champagne66 so much, and, on inquiring the brand and price, was surprised to find that it was one of which he had a large stock himself, but could never drink; he instantly formed the resolution to let his wine merchant know that he had been swindled.
Looking up from his food, he remarked:
“You’ve a lot of nice things about the place. Now, what did you give for that sugar-sifter? Shouldn’t wonder if it was worth money!”
He was particularly pleased with the appearance of a picture, on the wall opposite, which he himself had given them:
“I’d no idea it was so good!” he said.
They rose to go into the drawing-room, and James followed Irene closely.
“That’s what I call a capital little dinner,” he murmured, breathing pleasantly down on her shoulder; “nothing heavy — and not too Frenchified. But I can’t get it at home. I pay my cook sixty pounds a year, but she can’t give me a dinner like that!”
He had as yet made no allusion67 to the building of the house, nor did he when Soames, pleading the excuse of business, betook himself to the room at the top, where he kept his pictures.
James was left alone with his daughter-in-law. The glow of the wine, and of an excellent liqueur, was still within him. He felt quite warm towards her. She was really a taking little thing; she listened to you, and seemed to understand what you were saying; and, while talking, he kept examining her figure, from her bronze-coloured shoes to the waved gold of her hair. She was leaning back in an Empire chair, her shoulders poised68 against the top — her body, flexibly straight and unsupported from the hips69, swaying when she moved, as though giving to the arms of a lover. Her lips were smiling, her eyes half-closed.
It may have been a recognition of danger in the very charm of her attitude, or a twang of digestion70, that caused a sudden dumbness to fall on James. He did not remember ever having been quite alone with Irene before. And, as he looked at her, an odd feeling crept over him, as though he had come across something strange and foreign.
Now what was she thinking about — sitting back like that?
Thus when he spoke4 it was in a sharper voice, as if he had been awakened from a pleasant dream.
“What d’you do with yourself all day?” he said. “You never come round to Park Lane!”
She seemed to be making very lame28 excuses, and James did not look at her. He did not want to believe that she was really avoiding them — it would mean too much.
“I expect the fact is, you haven’t time,” he said; “You’re always about with June. I expect you’re useful to her with her young man, chaperoning, and one thing and another. They tell me she’s never at home now; your Uncle Jolyon he doesn’t like it, I fancy, being left so much alone as he is. They tell me she’s always hanging about for this young Bosinney; I suppose he comes here every day. Now, what do you think of him? D’you think he knows his own mind? He seems to me a poor thing. I should say the grey mare43 was the better horse!”
The colour deepened in Irene’s face; and James watched her suspiciously.
“Perhaps you don’t quite understand Mr. Bosinney,” she said.
“Don’t understand him!” James hummed out: “Why not? — you can see he’s one of these artistic71 chaps. They say he’s clever — they all think they’re clever. You know more about him than I do,” he added; and again his suspicious glance rested on her.
“He is designing a house for Soames,” she said softly, evidently trying to smooth things over.
“That brings me to what I was going to say,” continued James; “I don’t know what Soames wants with a young man like that; why doesn’t he go to a first-rate man?”
“Perhaps Mr. Bosinney is first-rate!”
James rose, and took a turn with bent head.
“That’s it’,” he said, “you young people, you all stick together; you all think you know best!”
Halting his tall, lank72 figure before her, he raised a finger, and levelled it at her bosom, as though bringing an indictment73 against her beauty:
“All I can say is, these artistic people, or whatever they call themselves, they’re as unreliable as they can be; and my advice to you is, don’t you have too much to do with him!”
Irene smiled; and in the curve of her lips was a strange provocation74. She seemed to have lost her deference. Her breast rose and fell as though with secret anger; she drew her hands inwards from their rest on the arms of her chair until the tips of her fingers met, and her dark eyes looked unfathomably at James.
The latter gloomily scrutinized75 the floor.
“I tell you my opinion,” he said, “it’s a pity you haven’t got a child to think about, and occupy you!”
A brooding look came instantly on Irene’s face, and even James became conscious of the rigidity76 that took possession of her whole figure beneath the softness of its silk and lace clothing.
He was frightened by the effect he had produced, and like most men with but little courage, he sought at once to justify77 himself by bullying78.
“You don’t seem to care about going about. Why don’t you drive down to Hurlingham with us? And go to the theatre now and then. At your time of life you ought to take an interest in things. You’re a young woman!”
The brooding look darkened on her face; he grew nervous.
“Well, I know nothing about it,” he said; “nobody tells me anything. Soames ought to be able to take care of himself. If he can’t take care of himself he mustn’t look to me — that’s all.”
Biting the corner of his forefinger79 he stole a cold, sharp look at his daughter-in-law.
He encountered her eyes fixed80 on his own, so dark and deep, that he stopped, and broke into a gentle perspiration81.
“Well, I must be going,” he said after a short pause, and a minute later rose, with a slight appearance of surprise, as though he had expected to be asked to stop. Giving his hand to Irene, he allowed himself to be conducted to the door, and let out into the street. He would not have a cab, he would walk, Irene was to say good-night to Soames for him, and if she wanted a little gaiety, well, he would drive her down to Richmond any day.
He walked home, and going upstairs, woke Emily out of the first sleep she had had for four and twenty hours, to tell her that it was his impression things were in a bad way at Soames’s; on this theme he descanted for half an hour, until at last, saying that he would not sleep a wink82, he turned on his side and instantly began to snore.
In Montpellier Square Soames, who had come from the picture room, stood invisible at the top of the stairs, watching Irene sort the letters brought by the last post. She turned back into the drawing-room; but in a minute came out, and stood as if listening. Then she came stealing up the stairs, with a kitten in her arms. He could see her face bent over the little beast, which was purring against her neck. Why couldn’t she look at him like that?
Suddenly she saw him, and her face changed.
“Any letters for me?” he said.
“Three.”
He stood aside, and without another word she passed on into the bedroom.
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1
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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presaging
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| v.预示，预兆( presage的现在分词 ) | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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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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punctiliousness
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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13
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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browsed
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| v.吃草( browse的过去式和过去分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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earache
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| n.耳朵痛 | |
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ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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50
interventions
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| n.介入，干涉，干预( intervention的名词复数 ) | |
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51
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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52
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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gadding
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| n.叮搔症adj.蔓生的v.闲逛( gad的现在分词 )；游荡；找乐子；用铁棒刺 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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exhaling
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的现在分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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mellowing
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| 软化，醇化 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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