It was not a subject which the Forsytes could talk about even among themselves — to use the word Soames had invented to characterize to himself the situation, it was ‘subterranean1.’
Yet, within a week of Mrs. MacAnder’s encounter in Richmond Park, to all of them — save Timothy, from whom it was carefully kept — to James on his domestic beat from the Poultry2 to Park Lane, to George the wild one, on his daily adventure from the bow window at the Haversnake to the billiard room at the ‘Red Pottle,’ was it known that ‘those two’ had gone to extremes.
George (it was he who invented many of those striking expressions still current in fashionable circles) voiced the sentiment more accurately3 than any one when he said to his brother Eustace that ‘the Buccaneer’ was ‘going it’; he expected Soames was about ‘fed up.’
It was felt that he must be, and yet, what could be done? He ought perhaps to take steps; but to take steps would be deplorable.
Without an open scandal which they could not see their way to recommending, it was difficult to see what steps could be taken. In this impasse4, the only thing was to say nothing to Soames, and nothing to each other; in fact, to pass it over.
By displaying towards Irene a dignified5 coldness, some impression might be made upon her; but she was seldom now to be seen, and there seemed a slight difficulty in seeking her out on purpose to show her coldness. Sometimes in the privacy of his bedroom James would reveal to Emily the real suffering that his son’s misfortune caused him.
“I can’t tell,” he would say; “it worries me out of my life. There’ll be a scandal, and that’ll do him no good. I shan’t say anything to him. There might be nothing in it. What do you think? She’s very artistic6, they tell me. What? Oh, you’re a ‘regular Juley! Well, I don’t know; I expect the worst. This is what comes of having no children. I knew how it would be from the first. They never told me they didn’t mean to have any children — nobody tells me anything!”
On his knees by the side of the bed, his eyes open and fixed7 with worry, he would breathe into the counterpane. Clad in his nightshirt, his neck poked8 forward, his back rounded, he resembled some long white bird.
“Our Father-,” he repeated, turning over and over again the thought of this possible scandal.
Like old Jolyon, he, too, at the bottom of his heart set the blame of the tragedy down to family interference. What business had that lot — he began to think of the Stanhope Gate branch, including young Jolyon and his daughter, as ‘that lot’— to introduce a person like this Bosinney into the family? (He had heard George’s soubriquet, ‘The Buccaneer,’ but he could make nothing of that — the young man was an architect.)
He began to feel that his brother Jolyon, to whom he had always looked up and on whose opinion he had relied, was not quite what he had expected.
Not having his eldest9 brother’s force of character, he was more sad than angry. His great comfort was to go to Winifred’s, and take the little Darties in his carriage over to Kensington Gardens, and there, by the Round Pond, he could often be seen walking with his eyes fixed anxiously on little Publius Dartie’s sailing-boat, which he had himself freighted with a penny, as though convinced that it would never again come to shore; while little Publius — who, James delighted to say, was not a bit like his father skipping along under his lee, would try to get him to bet another that it never would, having found that it always did. And James would make the bet; he always paid — sometimes as many as three or four pennies in the afternoon, for the game seemed never to pall10 on little Publius — and always in paying he said: “Now, that’s for your money-box. Why, you’re getting quite a rich man!” The thought of his little grandson’s growing wealth was a real pleasure to him. But little Publius knew a sweet-shop, and a trick worth two of that.
And they would walk home across the Park, James’ figure, with high shoulders and absorbed and worried face, exercising its tall, lean protectorship, pathetically unregarded, over the robust11 child-figures of Imogen and little Publius.
But those Gardens and that Park were not sacred to James. Forsytes and tramps, children and lovers, rested and wandered day after day, night after night, seeking one and all some freedom from labour, from the reek12 and turmoil13 of the streets.
The leaves browned slowly, lingering with the sun and summer-like warmth of the nights.
On Saturday, October 5, the sky that had been blue all day deepened after sunset to the bloom of purple grapes. There was no moon, and a clear dark, like some velvety14 garment, was wrapped around the trees, whose thinned branches, resembling plumes15, stirred not in the still, warm air. All London had poured into the Park, draining the cup of summer to its dregs.
Couple after couple, from every gate, they streamed along the paths and over the burnt grass, and one after another, silently out of the lighted spaces, stole into the shelter of the feathery trees, where, blotted16 against some trunk, or under the shadow of shrubs17, they were lost to all but themselves in the heart of the soft darkness.
To fresh-comers along the paths, these forerunners18 formed but part of that passionate19 dusk, whence only a strange murmur20, like the confused beating of hearts, came forth21. But when that murmur reached each couple in the lamp-light their voices wavered, and ceased; their arms enlaced, their eyes began seeking, searching, probing the blackness. Suddenly, as though drawn22 by invisible hands, they, too, stepped over the railing, and, silent as shadows, were gone from the light.
The stillness, enclosed in the far, inexorable roar of the town, was alive with the myriad23 passions, hopes, and loves of multitudes of struggling human atoms; for in spite of the disapproval24 of that great body of Forsytes, the Municipal Council — to whom Love had long been considered, next to the Sewage Question, the gravest danger to the community — a process was going on that night in the Park, and in a hundred other parks, without which the thousand factories, churches, shops, taxes, and drains, of which they were custodians25, were as arteries26 without blood, a man without a heart.
The instincts of self-forgetfulness, of passion, and of love, hiding under the trees, away from the trustees of their remorseless enemy, the ‘sense of property,’ were holding a stealthy revel27, and Soames, returning from Bayswater for he had been alone to dine at Timothy’s walking home along the water, with his mind upon that coming lawsuit28, had the blood driven from his heart by a low laugh and the sound of kisses. He thought of writing to the Times the next morning, to draw the attention of the Editor to the condition of our parks. He did not, however, for he had a horror of seeing his name in print.
But starved as he was, the whispered sounds in the stillness, the half-seen forms in the dark, acted on him like some morbid29 stimulant30. He left the path along the water and stole under the trees, along the deep shadow of little plantations31, where the boughs32 of chestnut33 trees hung their great leaves low, and there was blacker refuge, shaping his course in circles which had for their object a stealthy inspection34 of chairs side by side, against tree-trunks, of enlaced lovers, who stirred at his approach.
Now he stood still on the rise overlooking the Serpentine35, where, in full lamp-light, black against the silver water, sat a couple who never moved, the woman’s face buried on the man’s neck — a single form, like a carved emblem36 of passion, silent and unashamed.
And, stung by the sight, Soames hurried on deeper into the shadow of the trees.
In this search, who knows what he thought and what he sought? Bread for hunger — light in darkness? Who knows what he expected to find — impersonal37 knowledge of the human heart — the end of his private subterranean tragedy — for, again, who knew, but that each dark couple, unnamed, unnameable, might not be he and she?
But it could not be such knowledge as this that he was seeking — the wife of Soames Forsyte sitting in the Park like a common wench! Such thoughts were inconceivable; and from tree to tree, with his noiseless step, he passed.
Once he was sworn at; once the whisper, “If only it could always be like this!” sent the blood flying again from his heart, and he waited there, patient and dogged, for the two to move. But it was only a poor thin slip of a shop-girl in her draggled blouse who passed him, clinging to her lover’s arm.
A hundred other lovers too whispered that hope in the stillness of the trees, a hundred other lovers clung to each other.
But shaking himself with sudden disgust, Soames returned to the path, and left that seeking for he knew not what.
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1
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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2
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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impasse
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| n.僵局；死路 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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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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7
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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8
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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9
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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13
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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14
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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15
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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16
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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17
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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18
forerunners
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| n.先驱( forerunner的名词复数 )；开路人；先兆；前兆 | |
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19
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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24
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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custodians
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| n.看守人，保管人( custodian的名词复数 ) | |
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arteries
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| n.动脉( artery的名词复数 )；干线，要道 | |
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27
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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28
lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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29
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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30
stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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31
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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32
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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33
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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34
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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35
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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36
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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37
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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