June had hardly been at home at all that week; she had given him nothing of her company for a long time past, not, in fact, since she had become engaged to Bosinney. He never asked her for her company. It was not his habit to ask people for things! She had just that one idea now — Bosinney and his affairs — and she left him stranded1 in his great house, with a parcel of servants, and not a soul to speak to from morning to night. His Club was closed for cleaning; his Boards in recess2; there was nothing, therefore, to take him into the City. June had wanted him to go away; she would not go herself, because Bosinney was in London.
But where was he to go by himself? He could not go abroad alone; the sea upset his liver; he hated hotels. Roger went to a hydropathic — he was not going to begin that at his time of life, those new-fangled places we’re all humbug3!
With such formulas he clothed to himself the desolation of his spirit; the lines down his face deepening, his eyes day by day looking forth4 with the melancholy5 which sat so strangely on a face wont6 to be strong and serene7.
And so that afternoon he took this journey through St. John’s Wood, in the golden-light that sprinkled the rounded green bushes of the acacia’s before the little houses, in the summer sunshine that seemed holding a revel8 over the little gardens; and he looked about him with interest; for this was a district which no Forsyte entered without open disapproval9 and secret curiosity.
His cab stopped in front of a small house of that peculiar10 buff colour which implies a long immunity11 from paint. It had an outer gate, and a rustic12 approach.
He stepped out, his bearing extremely composed; his massive head, with its drooping13 moustache and wings of white hair, very upright, under an excessively large top hat; his glance firm, a little angry. He had been driven into this!
“Mrs. Jolyon Forsyte at home?”
“Oh, yes sir! — what name shall I say, if you please, sir?”
Old Jolyon could not help twinkling at the little maid as he gave his name. She seemed to him such a funny little toad15!
And he followed her through the dark hall, into a small double, drawing-room, where the furniture was covered in chintz, and the little maid placed him in a chair.
“They’re all in the garden, sir; if you’ll kindly16 take a seat, I’ll tell them.”
Old Jolyon sat down in the chintz-covered chair, and looked around him. The whole place seemed to him, as he would have expressed it, pokey; there was a certain — he could not tell exactly what — air of shabbiness, or rather of making two ends meet, about everything. As far as he could see, not a single piece of furniture was worth a five-pound note. The walls, distempered rather a long time ago, were decorated with water-colour sketches17; across the ceiling meandered18 a long crack.
These little houses were all old, second-rate concerns; he should hope the rent was under a hundred a year; it hurt him more than he could have said, to think of a Forsyte — his own son living in such a place.
The little maid came back. Would he please to go down into the garden?
Old Jolyon marched out through the French windows. In descending19 the steps he noticed that they wanted painting.
Young Jolyon, his wife, his two children, and his dog Balthasar, were all out there under a pear-tree.
This walk towards them was the most courageous20 act of old Jolyon’s life; but no muscle of his face moved, no nervous gesture betrayed him. He kept his deep-set eyes steadily21 on the enemy.
In those two minutes he demonstrated to perfection all that unconscious soundness, balance, and vitality22 of fibre that made, of him and so many others of his class the core of the nation. In the unostentatious conduct of their own affairs, to the neglect of everything else, they typified the essential individualism, born in the Briton from the natural isolation23 of his country’s life.
The dog Balthasar sniffed24 round the edges of his trousers; this friendly and cynical25 mongrel — offspring of a liaison26 between a Russian poodle and a fox-terrier — had a nose for the unusual.
The strange greetings over, old Jolyon seated himself in a wicker chair, and his two grandchildren, one on each side of his knees, looked at him silently, never having seen so old a man.
They were unlike, as though recognising the difference set between them by the circumstances of their births. Jolly, the child of sin, pudgy-faced, with his tow-coloured hair brushed off his forehead, and a dimple in his chin, had an air of stubborn amiability27, and the eyes of a Forsyte; little Holly28, the child of wedlock29, was a dark-skinned, solemn soul, with her mother’s, grey and wistful eyes.
The dog Balthasar, having walked round the three small flower-beds, to show his extreme contempt for things at large, had also taken a seat in front of old Jolyon, and, oscillating a tail curled by Nature tightly over his back, was staring up with eyes that did not blink.
Even in the garden, that sense of things being pokey haunted old Jolyon; the wicker chair creaked under his weight; the garden-beds looked ‘daverdy’; on the far side, under the smut-stained wall, cats had made a path.
While he and his grandchildren thus regarded each other with the peculiar scrutiny30, curious yet trustful, that passes between the very young and the very old, young Jolyon watched his wife.
The colour had deepened in her thin, oval face, with its straight brows, and large, grey eyes. Her hair, brushed in fine, high curves back from her forehead, was going grey, like his own, and this greyness made the sudden vivid colour in her cheeks painfully pathetic.
The look on her face, such as he had never seen there before, such as she had always hidden from him, was full of secret resentments31, and longings32, and fears. Her eyes, under their twitching33 brows, stared painfully. And she was silent.
Jolly alone sustained the conversation; he had many possessions, and was anxious that his unknown friend with extremely large moustaches, and hands all covered with blue veins34, who sat with legs crossed like his own father (a habit he was himself trying to acquire), should know it; but being a Forsyte, though not yet quite eight years old, he made no mention of the thing at the moment dearest to his heart — a camp of soldiers in a shop-window, which his father had promised to buy. No doubt it seemed to him too precious; a tempting35 of Providence36 to mention it yet.
And the sunlight played through the leaves on that little party of the three generations grouped tranquilly37 under the pear-tree, which had long borne no fruit.
Old Jolyon’s furrowed38 face was reddening patchily, as old men’s faces redden in the sun. He took one of Jolly’s hands in his own; the boy climbed on to his knee; and little Holly, mesmerized39 by this sight, crept up to them; the sound of the dog Balthasar’s scratching arose rhythmically40.
Suddenly young Mrs. Jolyon got up and hurried indoors. A minute later her husband muttered an excuse, and followed. Old Jolyon was left alone with his grandchildren.
And Nature with her quaint41 irony42 began working in him one of her strange revolutions, following her cyclic laws into the depths of his heart. And that tenderness for little children, that passion for the beginnings of life which had once made him forsake43 his son and follow June, now worked in him to forsake June and follow these littler things. Youth, like a flame, burned ever in his breast, and to youth he turned, to the round little limbs, so reckless, that wanted care, to the small round faces so unreasonably44 solemn or bright, to the treble tongues, and the shrill45, chuckling46 laughter, to the insistent47 tugging48 hands, and the feel of small bodies against his legs, to all that was young and young, and once more young. And his eyes grew soft, his voice, and thin-veined hands soft, and soft his heart within him. And to those small creatures he became at once a place of pleasure, a place where they were secure, and could talk and laugh and play; till, like sunshine, there radiated from old Jolyon’s wicker chair the perfect gaiety of three hearts.
But with young Jolyon following to his wife’s room it was different.
He found her seated on a chair before her dressing-glass, with her hands before her face.
Her shoulders were shaking with sobs49. This passion of hers for suffering was mysterious to him. He had been through a hundred of these moods; how he had survived them he never knew, for he could never believe they were moods, and that the last hour of his partnership50 had not struck.
In the night she would be sure to throw her arms round his neck and say: “Oh! Jo, how I make you suffer!” as she had done a hundred times before.
He reached out his hand, and, unseen, slipped his razor-case into his pocket. ‘I cannot stay here,’ he thought, ‘I must go down!’ Without a word he left the room, and went back to the lawn.
Old Jolyon had little Holly on his knee; she had taken possession of his watch; Jolly, very red in the face, was trying to show that he could stand on his head. The dog Balthasar, as close as he might be to the tea-table, had fixed51 his eyes on the cake.
Young Jolyon felt a malicious52 desire to cut their enjoyment53 short.
What business had his father to come and upset his wife like this? It was a shock, after all these years! He ought to have known; he ought to have given them warning; but when did a Forsyte ever imagine that his conduct could upset anybody! And in his thoughts he did old Jolyon wrong.
He spoke54 sharply to the children, and told them to go in to their tea. Greatly surprised, for they had never heard their father speak sharply before, they went off, hand in hand, little Holly looking back over her shoulder.
Young Jolyon poured out the tea.
“My wife’s not the thing today,” he said, but he knew well enough that his father had penetrated55 the cause of that sudden withdrawal56, and almost hated the old man for sitting there so calmly.
“You’ve got a nice little house here,” said old Jolyon with a shrewd look; “I suppose you’ve taken a lease of it!”
Young Jolyon nodded.
“I don’t like the neighbourhood,” said old Jolyon; “a ramshackle lot.”
Young Jolyon replied: “Yes, we’re a ramshackle lot.”’
The silence was now only broken by the sound of the dog Balthasar’s scratching.
Old Jolyon said simply: “I suppose I oughtn’t to have come here, Jo; but I get so lonely!”
At these words young Jolyon got up and put his hand on his father’s shoulder.
In the next house someone was playing over and over again: ‘La Donna mobile’ on an untuned piano; and the little garden had fallen into shade, the sun now only reached the wall at the end, whereon basked57 a crouching58 cat, her yellow eyes turned sleepily down on the dog Balthasar. There was a drowsy59 hum of very distant traffic; the creepered trellis round the garden shut out everything but sky, and house, and pear-tree, with its top branches still gilded60 by the sun.
For some time they sat there, talking but little. Then old Jolyon rose to go, and not a word was said about his coming again.
He walked away very sadly. What a poor miserable61 place; and he thought of the great, empty house in Stanhope Gate, fit residence for a Forsyte, with its huge billiard-room and drawing-room that no one entered from one week’s end to another.
That woman, whose face he had rather liked, was too thin-skinned by half; she gave Jo a bad time he knew! And those sweet children! Ah! what a piece of awful folly62!
He walked towards the Edgware Road, between rows of little houses, all suggesting to him (erroneously no doubt, but the prejudices of a Forsyte are sacred) shady histories of some sort or kind.
Society, forsooth, the chattering63 hags and jackanapes — had set themselves up to pass judgment64 on his flesh and blood! A parcel of old women! He stumped65 his umbrella on the ground, as though to drive it into the heart of that unfortunate body, which had dared to ostracize66 his son and his son’s son, in whom he could have lived again!
He stumped his umbrella fiercely; yet he himself had followed Society’s behaviour for fifteen years — had only today been false to it!
He thought of June, and her dead mother, and the whole story, with all his old bitterness. A wretched business!
He was a long time reaching Stanhope Gate, for, with native perversity67, being extremely tired, he walked the whole way.
After washing his hands in the lavatory68 downstairs, he went to the dining-room to wait for dinner, the only room he used when June was out — it was less lonely so. The evening paper had not yet come; he had finished the Times, there was therefore nothing to do.
The room faced the backwater of traffic, and was very silent. He disliked dogs, but a dog even would have been company. His gaze, travelling round the walls, rested on a picture entitled: ‘Group of Dutch fishing boats at sunset’; the chef d’oeuvre of his collection. It gave him no pleasure. He closed his eyes. He was lonely! He oughtn’t to complain, he knew, but he couldn’t help it: He was a poor thing — had always been a poor thing — no pluck! Such was his thought.
The butler came to lay the table for dinner, and seeing his master apparently69 asleep, exercised extreme caution in his movements. This bearded man also wore a moustache, which had given rise to grave doubts in the minds of many members — of the family — especially those who, like Soames, had been to public schools, and were accustomed to niceness in such matters. Could he really be considered a butler? Playful spirits alluded70 to him as: ‘Uncle Jolyon’s Nonconformist’; George, the acknowledged wag, had named him: ‘Sankey.’
He moved to and fro between the great polished sideboard and the great polished table inimitably sleek71 and soft.
Old Jolyon watched him, feigning72 sleep. The fellow was a sneak73 — he had always thought so — who cared about nothing but rattling74 through his work, and getting out to his betting or his woman or goodness knew what! A slug! Fat too! And didn’t care a pin about his master!
But then against his will, came one of those moments of philosophy which made old Jolyon different from other Forsytes:
After all why should the man care? He wasn’t paid to care, and why expect it? In this world people couldn’t look for affection unless they paid for it. It might be different in the next — he didn’t know — couldn’t tell! And again he shut his eyes.
Relentless75 and stealthy, the butler pursued his labours, taking things from the various compartments76 of the sideboard. His back seemed always turned to old Jolyon; thus, he robbed his operations of the unseemliness of being carried on in his master’s presence; now and then he furtively77 breathed on the silver, and wiped it with a piece of chamois leather. He appeared to pore over the quantities of wine in the decanters, which he carried carefully and rather high, letting his heard droop14 over them protectingly. When he had finished, he stood for over a minute watching his master, and in his greenish eyes there was a look of contempt:
After all, this master of his was an old buffer78, who hadn’t much left in him!
Soft as a tom-cat, he crossed the room to press the bell. His orders were ‘dinner at seven.’ What if his master were asleep; he would soon have him out of that; there was the night to sleep in! He had himself to think of, for he was due at his Club at half-past eight!
In answer to the ring, appeared a page boy with a silver soup tureen. The butler took it from his hands and placed it on the table, then, standing79 by the open door, as though about to usher80 company into the room, he said in a solemn voice:
“Dinner is on the table, sir!”
Slowly old Jolyon got up out of his chair, and sat down at the table to eat his dinner.
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1
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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3
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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4
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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9
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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13
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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15
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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16
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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17
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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18
meandered
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| （指溪流、河流等）蜿蜒而流( meander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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20
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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23
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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24
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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25
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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28
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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resentments
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| （因受虐待而）愤恨，不满，怨恨( resentment的名词复数 ) | |
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32
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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33
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mesmerized
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| v.使入迷( mesmerize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rhythmically
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| adv.有节奏地 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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42
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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43
forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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45
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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46
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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47
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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48
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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49
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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50
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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51
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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52
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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53
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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54
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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55
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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56
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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57
basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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58
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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59
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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60
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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61
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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62
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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63
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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64
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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65
stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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66
ostracize
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| v.放逐，排斥 | |
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67
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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68
lavatory
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| n.盥洗室，厕所 | |
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69
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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70
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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72
feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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73
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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74
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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75
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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76
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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77
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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78
buffer
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| n.起缓冲作用的人(或物)，缓冲器；vt.缓冲 | |
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79
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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80
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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