After Swithin had related at Timothy’s the full story of his memorable1 drive, the same, with the least suspicion of curiosity, the merest touch of malice2, and a real desire to do good, was passed on to June.
“And what a dreadful thing to say, my dear!” ended Aunt Juley; “that about not going home. What did she mean?”
It was a strange recital3 for the girl. She heard it flushing painfully, and, suddenly, with a curt4 handshake, took her departure.
“Almost rude!” Mrs. Small said to Aunt Hester, when June was gone.
The proper construction was put on her reception of the news. She was upset. Something was therefore very wrong. Odd! She and Irene had been such friends!
It all tallied5 too well with whispers and hints that had been going about for some time past. Recollections of Euphemia’s account of the visit to the theatre — Mr. Bosinney always at Soames’s? Oh, indeed! Yes, of course, he would be about the house! Nothing open. Only upon the greatest, the most important provocation6 was it necessary to say anything open on Forsyte ‘Change. This machine was too nicely adjusted; a hint, the merest trifling7 expression of regret or doubt, sufficed to set the family soul so sympathetic — vibrating. No one desired that harm should come of these vibrations8 — far from it; they were set in motion with the best intentions, with the feeling, that each member of the family had a stake in the family soul.
And much kindness lay at the bottom of the gossip; it would frequently result in visits of condolence being made, in accordance with the customs of Society, thereby9 conferring a real benefit upon the sufferers, and affording consolation10 to the sound, who felt pleasantly that someone at all events was suffering from that from which they themselves were not suffering. In fact, it was simply a desire to keep things well-aired, the desire which animates11 the Public Press, that brought James, for instance, into communication with Mrs. Septimus, Mrs. Septimus, with the little Nicholases, the little Nicholases with who-knows-whom, and so on. That great class to which they had risen, and now belonged, demanded a certain candour, a still more certain reticence12. This combination guaranteed their membership.
Many of the younger Forsytes felt, very naturally, and would openly declare, that they did not want their affairs pried13 into; but so powerful was the invisible, magnetic current of family gossip, that for the life of them they could not help knowing all about everything. It was felt to be hopeless.
One of them (young Roger) had made an heroic attempt to free the rising generation, by speaking of Timothy as an ‘old cat.’ The effort had justly recoiled14 upon himself; the words, coming round in the most delicate way to Aunt Juley’s ears, were repeated by her in a shocked voice to Mrs. Roger, whence they returned again to young Roger.
And, after all, it was only the wrong-doers who suffered; as, for instance, George, when he lost all that money playing billiards15; or young Roger himself, when he was so dreadfully near to marrying the girl to whom, it was whispered, he was already married by the laws of Nature; or again Irene, who was thought, rather than said, to be in danger.
All this was not only pleasant but salutary. And it made so many hours go lightly at Timothy’s in the Bayswater Road; so many hours that must otherwise have been sterile16 and heavy to those three who lived there; and Timothy’s was but one of hundreds of such homes in this City of London — the homes of neutral persons of the secure classes, who are out of the battle themselves, and must find their reason for existing, in the battles of others.
But for the sweetness of family gossip, it must indeed have been lonely there. Rumours17 and tales, reports, surmises19 — were they not the children of the house, as dear and precious as the prattling20 babes the brother and sisters had missed in their own journey? To talk about them was as near as they could get to the possession of all those children and grandchildren, after whom their soft hearts yearned21. For though it is doubtful whether Timothy’s heart yearned, it is indubitable that at the arrival of each fresh Forsyte child he was quite upset.
Useless for young Roger to say, “Old cat!” for Euphemia to hold up her hands and cry: “Oh! those three!” and break into her silent laugh with the squeak22 at the end. Useless, and not too kind.
The situation which at this stage might seem, and especially to Forsyte eyes, strange — not to say ‘impossible’— was, in view of certain facts, not so strange after all. Some things had been lost sight of. And first, in the security bred of many harmless marriages, it had been forgotten that Love is no hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent23 and colour are always, wild! And further — the facts and figures of their own lives being against the perception of this truth — it was not generally recognised by Forsytes that, where, this wild plant springs, men and women are but moths24 around the pale, flame-like blossom.
It was long since young Jolyon’s escapade — there was danger of a tradition again arising that people in their position never cross the hedge to pluck that flower; that one could reckon on having love, like measles25, once in due season, and getting over it comfortably for all time — as with measles, on a soothing26 mixture of butter and honey — in the arms of wedlock27.
Of all those whom this strange rumour18 about Bosinney and Mrs. Soames reached, James was the most affected28. He had long forgotten how he had hovered29, lanky30 and pale, in side whiskers of chestnut31 hue32, round Emily, in the days of his own courtship. He had long forgotten the small house in the purlieus of Mayfair, where he had spent the early days of his married life, or rather, he had long forgotten the early days, not the small house — a Forsyte never forgot a house — he had afterwards sold it at a clear profit of four hundred pounds.
He had long forgotten those days, with their hopes and fears and doubts about the prudence33 of the match (for Emily, though pretty, had nothing, and he himself at that time was making a bare thousand a year), and that strange, irresistible34 attraction which had drawn35 him on, till he felt he must die if he could not marry the girl with the fair hair, looped so neatly36 back, the fair arms emerging from a skin-tight bodice, the fair form decorously shielded by a cage of really stupendous circumference37.
James had passed through the fire, but he had passed also through the river of years which washes out the fire; he had experienced the saddest experience of all — forgetfulness of what it was like to be in love.
Forgotten! Forgotten so long, that he had forgotten even that he had forgotten.
And now this rumour had come upon him, this rumour about his son’s wife; very vague, a shadow dodging38 among the palpable, straightforward39 appearances of things, unreal, unintelligible40 as a ghost, but carrying with it, like a ghost, inexplicable41 terror.
He tried to bring it home to his mind, but it was no more use than trying to apply to himself one of those tragedies he read of daily in his evening paper. He simply could not. There could be nothing in it. It was all their nonsense. She didn’t get on with Soames as well as she might, but she was a good little thing — a good little thing!
Like the not inconsiderable majority of men, James relished42 a nice little bit of scandal, and would say, in a matter-of-fact tone, licking his lips, “Yes, yes — she and young Dyson; they tell me they’re living at Monte Carlo!”
But the significance of an affair of this sort — of its past, its present, or its future — had never struck him. What it meant, what torture and raptures43 had gone to its construction, what slow, overmastering fate had lurked44 within the facts, very naked, sometimes sordid45, but generally spicy46, presented to his gaze. He was not in the habit of blaming, praising, drawing deductions47, or generalizing at all about such things; he simply listened rather greedily, and repeated what he was told, finding considerable benefit from the practice, as from the consumption of a sherry and bitters before a meal.
Now, however, that such a thing — or rather the rumour, the breath of it — had come near him personally, he felt as in a fog, which filled his mouth full of a bad, thick flavour, and made it difficult to draw breath.
A scandal! A possible scandal!
To repeat this word to himself thus was the only way in which he could focus or make it thinkable. He had forgotten the sensations necessary for understanding the progress, fate, or meaning of any such business; he simply could no longer grasp the possibilities of people running any risk for the sake of passion.
Amongst all those persons of his acquaintance, who went into the City day after day and did their business there, whatever it was, and in their leisure moments bought shares, and houses, and ate dinners, and played games, as he was told, it would have seemed to him ridiculous to suppose that there were any who would run risks for the sake of anything so recondite48, so figurative, as passion.
Passion! He seemed, indeed, to have heard of it, and rules such as ‘A young man and a young woman ought never to be trusted together’ were fixed49 in his mind as the parallels of latitude50 are fixed on a map (for all Forsytes, when it comes to ‘bed-rock’ matters of fact, have quite a fine taste in realism); but as to anything else — well, he could only appreciate it at all through the catch-word ‘scandal.’
Ah! but there was no truth in it — could not be. He was not afraid; she was really a good little thing. But there it was when you got a thing like that into your mind. And James was of a nervous temperament51 — one of those men whom things will not leave alone, who suffer tortures from anticipation52 and indecision. For fear of letting something slip that he might otherwise secure, he was physically53 unable to make up his mind until absolutely certain that, by not making it up, he would suffer loss.
In life, however, there were many occasions when the business of making up his mind did not even rest with himself, and this was one of them.
What could he do? Talk it over with Soames? That would only make matters worse. And, after all, there was nothing in it, he felt sure.
It was all that house. He had mistrusted the idea from the first. What did Soames want to go into the country for? And, if he must go spending a lot of money building himself a house, why not have a first-rate man, instead of this young Bosinney, whom nobody knew anything about? He had told them how it would be. And he had heard that the house was costing Soames a pretty penny beyond what he had reckoned on spending.
This fact, more than any other, brought home to James the real danger of the situation. It was always like this with these ‘artistic’ chaps; a sensible man should have nothing to say to them. He had warned Irene, too. And see what had come of it!
And it suddenly sprang into James’s mind that he ought to go and see for himself. In the midst of that fog of uneasiness in which his mind was enveloped54 the notion that he could go and look at the house afforded him inexplicable satisfaction. It may have been simply the decision to do something — more possibly the fact that he was going to look at a house — that gave him relief. He felt that in staring at an edifice55 of bricks and mortar56, of wood and stone, built by the suspected man himself, he would be looking into the heart of that rumour about Irene.
Without saying a word, therefore, to anyone, he took a hansom to the station and proceeded by train to Robin57 Hill; thence — there being no ‘flies,’ in accordance with the custom of the neighbourhood — he found himself obliged to walk.
He started slowly up the hill, his angular knees and high shoulders bent58 complainingly, his eyes fixed on his feet, yet, neat for all that, in his high hat and his frock-coat, on which was the speckless59 gloss60 imparted by perfect superintendence. Emily saw to that; that is, she did not, of course, see to it — people of good position not seeing to each other’s buttons, and Emily was of good position — but she saw that the butler saw to it.
He had to ask his way three times; on each occasion he repeated the directions given him, got the man to repeat them, then repeated them a second time, for he was naturally of a talkative disposition61, and one could not be too careful in a new neighbourhood.
He kept assuring them that it was a new house he was looking for; it was only, however, when he was shown the roof through the trees that he could feel really satisfied that he had not been directed entirely62 wrong.
A heavy sky seemed to cover the world with the grey whiteness of a whitewashed63 ceiling. There was no freshness or fragrance64 in the air. On such a day even British workmen scarcely cared to do more then they were obliged, and moved about their business without the drone of talk which whiles away the pangs65 of labour.
Through spaces of the unfinished house, shirt-sleeved figures worked slowly, and sounds arose — spasmodic knockings, the scraping of metal, the sawing of wood, with the rumble66 of wheelbarrows along boards; now and again the foreman’s dog, tethered by a string to an oaken beam, whimpered feebly, with a sound like the singing of a kettle.
The fresh-fitted window-panes, daubed each with a white patch in the centre, stared out at James like the eyes of a blind dog.
And the building chorus went on, strident and mirthless under the grey-white sky. But the thrushes, hunting amongst the fresh-turned earth for worms, were silent quite.
James picked his way among the heaps of gravel67 — the drive was being laid — till he came opposite the porch. Here he stopped and raised his eyes. There was but little to see from this point of view, and that little he took in at once; but he stayed in this position many minutes, and who shall know of what he thought.
His china-blue eyes under white eyebrows68 that jutted69 out in little horns, never stirred; the long upper lip of his wide mouth, between the fine white whiskers, twitched70 once or twice; it was easy to see from that anxious rapt expression, whence Soames derived71 the handicapped look which sometimes came upon his face. James might have been saying to himself: ‘I don’t know — life’s a tough job.’
In this position Bosinney surprised him.
James brought his eyes down from whatever bird’s-nest they had been looking for in the sky to Bosinney’s face, on which was a kind of humorous scorn.
“How do you do, Mr. Forsyte? Come down to see for yourself?”
It was exactly what James, as we know, had come for, and he was made correspondingly uneasy. He held out his hand, however, saying:
“How are you?” without looking at Bosinney.
The latter made way for him with an ironical72 smile.
James scented73 something suspicious in this courtesy. “I should like to walk round the outside first,” he said, “and see what you’ve been doing!”
A flagged terrace of rounded stones with a list of two or three inches to port had been laid round the south-east and south-west sides of the house, and ran with a bevelled edge into mould, which was in preparation for being turfed; along this terrace James led the way.
“Now what did this cost?” he asked, when he saw the terrace extending round the corner.
“What should you think?” inquired Bosinney.
“How should I know?” replied James somewhat nonplussed74; “two or three hundred, I dare say!”
“The exact sum!”
James gave him a sharp look, but the architect appeared unconscious, and he put the answer down to mishearing.
On arriving at the garden entrance, he stopped to look at the view.
“That ought to come down,” he said, pointing to the oak-tree.
“You think so? You think that with the tree there you don’t get enough view for your money.”
Again James eyed him suspiciously — this young man had a peculiar75 way of putting things: “Well!” he said, with a perplexed76, nervous, emphasis, “I don’t see what you want with a tree.”
“It shall come down to-morrow,” said Bosinney.
James was alarmed. “Oh,” he said, “don’t go saying I said it was to come down! I know nothing about it!”
“No?”
James went on in a fluster77: “Why, what should I know about it? It’s nothing to do with me! You do it on your own responsibility.”
“You’ll allow me to mention your name?”
James grew more and more alarmed: “I don’t know what you want mentioning my name for,” he muttered; “you’d better leave the tree alone. It’s not your tree!”
He took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. They entered the house. Like Swithin, James was impressed by the inner court-yard.
“You must have spent a douce of a lot of money here,” he said, after staring at the columns and gallery for some time. “Now, what did it cost to put up those columns?”
“I can’t tell you off-hand,” thoughtfully answered Bosinney, “but I know it was a deuce of a lot!”
“I should think so,” said James. “I should. . . . ” He caught the architect’s eye, and broke off. And now, whenever he came to anything of which he desired to know the cost, he stifled78 that curiosity.
Bosinney appeared determined79 that he should see everything, and had not James been of too ‘noticing’ a nature, he would certainly have found himself going round the house a second time. He seemed so anxious to be asked questions, too, that James felt he must be on his guard. He began to suffer from his exertions80, for, though wiry enough for a man of his long build, he was seventy-five years old.
He grew discouraged; he seemed no nearer to anything, had not obtained from his inspection81 any of the knowledge he had vaguely82 hoped for. He had merely increased his dislike and mistrust of this young man, who had tired him out with his politeness, and in whose manner he now certainly detected mockery.
The fellow was sharper than he had thought, and better-looking than he had hoped. He had a — a ‘don’t care’ appearance that James, to whom risk was the most intolerable thing in life, did not appreciate; a peculiar smile, too, coming when least expected; and very queer eyes. He reminded James, as he said afterwards, of a hungry cat. This was as near as he could get, in conversation with Emily, to a description of the peculiar exasperation83, velvetiness, and mockery, of which Bosinney’s manner had been composed.
At last, having seen all that was to be seen, he came out again at the door where he had gone in; and now, feeling that he was wasting time and strength and money, all for nothing, he took the courage of a Forsyte in both hands, and, looking sharply at Bosinney, said:
“I dare say you see a good deal of my daughter-in-law; now, what does she think of the house? But she hasn’t seen it, I suppose?”
This he said, knowing all about Irene’s visit not, of course, that there was anything in the visit, except that extraordinary remark she had made about ‘not caring to get home’— and the story of how June had taken the news!
He had determined, by this way of putting the question, to give Bosinney a chance, as he said to himself.
The latter was long in answering, but kept his eyes with uncomfortable steadiness on James.
“She has seen the house, but I can’t tell you what she thinks of it.”
Nervous and baffled, James was constitutionally prevented from letting the matter drop.
“Oh!” he said, “she has seen it? Soames brought her down, I suppose?”
Bosinney smilingly replied: “Oh, no!”
“What, did she come down alone?”
“Oh, no!”
“Then — who brought her?”
“I really don’t know whether I ought to tell you who brought her.”
To James, who knew that it was Swithin, this answer appeared incomprehensible.
“Why!” he stammered84, “you know that. . . . ” but he stopped, suddenly perceiving his danger.
“Well,” he said, “if you don’t want to tell me I suppose you won’t! Nobody tells me anything.”
Somewhat to his surprise Bosinney asked him a question.
“By the by,” he said, “could you tell me if there are likely to be any more of you coming down? I should like to be on the spot!”
“Any more?” said James bewildered, “who should there be more? I don’t know of any more. Good-bye?”
Looking at the ground he held out his hand, crossed the palm of it with Bosinney’s, and taking his umbrella just above the silk, walked away along the terrace.
Before he turned the corner he glanced back, and saw Bosinney following him slowly —‘slinking along the wall’ as he put it to himself, ‘like a great cat.’ He paid no attention when the young fellow raised his hat.
Outside the drive, and out of sight, he slackened his pace still more. Very slowly, more bent than when he came, lean, hungry, and disheartened, he made his way back to the station.
The Buccaneer, watching him go so sadly home, felt sorry perhaps for his behaviour to the old man.
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收听单词发音
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1
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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5
tallied
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| v.计算，清点( tally的过去式和过去分词 )；加标签（或标记）于；（使）符合；（使）吻合 | |
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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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7
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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8
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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animates
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| v.使有生气( animate的第三人称单数 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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15
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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prattling
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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lanky
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| adj.瘦长的 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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42
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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43
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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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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latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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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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speckless
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| adj.无斑点的，无瑕疵的 | |
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gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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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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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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jutted
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| v.（使）突出( jut的过去式和过去分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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fluster
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| adj.慌乱，狼狈，混乱，激动 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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