When Soames entered his sister’s little Louis Quinze drawing-room, with its small balcony, always flowered with hanging geraniums in the summer, and now with pots of Lilium Auratum, he was struck by the immutability1 of human affairs. It looked just the same as on his first visit to the newly married Darties twenty-one years ago. He had chosen the furniture himself, and so completely that no subsequent purchase had ever been able to change the room’s atmosphere. Yes, he had founded his sister well, and she had wanted it. Indeed, it said a great deal for Winifred that after all this time with Dartie she remained well-founded. From the first Soames had nosed out Dartie’s nature from underneath2 the plausibility3, savoir faire, and good looks which had dazzled Winifred, her mother, and even James, to the extent of permitting the fellow to marry his daughter without bringing anything but shares of no value into settlement.
Winifred, whom he noticed next to the furniture, was sitting at her Buhl bureau with a letter in her hand. She rose and came towards him. Tall as himself, strong in the cheekbones, well tailored, something in her face disturbed Soames. She crumpled4 the letter in her hand, but seemed to change her mind and held it out to him. He was her lawyer as well as her brother.
Soames read, on Iseeum Club paper, these words:
‘You will not get chance to insult in my own again. I am leaving country to-morrow. It’s played out. I’m tired of being insulted by you. You’ve brought on yourself. No self-respecting man can stand it. I shall not ask you for anything again. Good-bye. I took the photograph of the two girls. Give them my love. I don’t care what your family say. It’s all their doing. I’m going to live new life. ‘M.D.’
This after-dinner note had a splotch on it not yet quite dry. He looked at Winifred — the splotch had clearly come from her; and he checked the words: ‘Good riddance!’ Then it occurred to him that with this letter she was entering that very state which he himself so earnestly desired to quit — the state of a Forsyte who was not divorced.
Winifred had turned away, and was taking a long sniff6 from a little gold-topped bottle. A dull commiseration7, together with a vague sense of injury, crept about Soames’ heart. He had come to her to talk of his own position, and get sympathy, and here was she in the same position, wanting of course to talk of it, and get sympathy from him. It was always like that! Nobody ever seemed to think that he had troubles and interests of his own. He folded up the letter with the splotch inside, and said:
“What’s it all about, now?”
Winifred recited the story of the pearls calmly.
“Do you think he’s really gone, Soames? You see the state he was in when he wrote that.”
Soames who, when he desired a thing, placated8 Providence9 by pretending that he did not think it likely to happen, answered:
“I shouldn’t think so. I might find out at his Club.”
“If George is there,” said Winifred, “he would know.”
“George?” said Soames; “I saw him at his father’s funeral.”
“Then he’s sure to be there.”
Soames, whose good sense applauded his sister’s acumen10, said grudgingly11: “Well, I’ll go round. Have you said anything in Park Lane?”
“I’ve told Emily,” returned Winifred, who retained that ‘chic’ way of describing her mother. “Father would have a fit.”
Indeed, anything untoward12 was now sedulously13 kept from James. With another look round at the furniture, as if to gauge14 his sister’s exact position, Soames went out towards Piccadilly. The evening was drawing in — a touch of chill in the October haze15. He walked quickly, with his close and concentrated air. He must get through, for he wished to dine in Soho. On hearing from the hall porter at the Iseeum that Mr. Dartie had not been in to-day, he looked at the trusty fellow and decided16 only to ask if Mr. George Forsyte was in the Club. He was. Soames, who always looked askance at his cousin George, as one inclined to jest at his expense, followed the pageboy, slightly reassured17 by the thought that George had just lost his father. He must have come in for about thirty thousand, besides what he had under that settlement of Roger’s, which had avoided death duty. He found George in a bow-window, staring out across a half-eaten plate of muffins. His tall, bulky, black-clothed figure loomed18 almost threatening, though preserving still the supernatural neatness of the racing19 man. With a faint grin on his fleshy face, he said:
“Hallo, Soames! Have a muffin?”
“No, thanks,” murmured Soames; and, nursing his hat, with the desire to say something suitable and sympathetic, added:
“How’s your mother?”
“Thanks,” said George; “so-so. Haven’t seen you for ages. You never go racing. How’s the City?”
Soames, scenting20 the approach of a jest, closed up, and answered:
“I wanted to ask you about Dartie. I hear he’s. . . . ”
“Flitted, made a bolt to Buenos Aires with the fair Lola. Good for Winifred and the little Darties. He’s a treat.”
Soames nodded. Naturally inimical as these cousins were, Dartie made them kin5.
“Uncle James’ll sleep in his bed now,” resumed George; “I suppose he’s had a lot off you, too.”
Soames smiled.
“Ah! You saw him further,” said George amicably21. “He’s a real rouser. Young Val will want a bit of looking after. I was always sorry for Winifred. She’s a plucky22 woman.”
Again Soames nodded. “I must be getting back to her,” he said; “she just wanted to know for certain. We may have to take steps. I suppose there’s no mistake?”
“It’s quite O.K.,” said George — it was he who invented so many of those quaint23 sayings which have been assigned to other sources. “He was drunk as a lord last night; but he went off all right this morning. His ship’s the Tuscarora;” and, fishing out a card, he read mockingly:
“‘Mr. Montague Dartie, Poste Restante, Buenos Aires.’ I should hurry up with the steps, if I were you. He fairly fed me up last night.”
“Yes,” said Soames; “but it’s not always easy.” Then, conscious from George’s eyes that he had roused reminiscence of his own affair, he got up, and held out his hand. George rose too.
“Remember me to Winifred. . . . You’ll enter her for the Divorce Stakes straight off if you ask me.”
Soames took a sidelong look back at him from the doorway24. George had seated himself again and was staring before him; he looked big and lonely in those black clothes. Soames had never known him so subdued25. ‘I suppose he feels it in a way,’ he thought. ‘They must have about fifty thousand each, all told. They ought to keep the estate together. If there’s a war, house property will go down. Uncle Roger was a good judge, though.’ And the face of Annette rose before him in the darkening street; her brown hair and her blue eyes with their dark lashes26, her fresh lips and cheeks, dewy and blooming in spite of London, her perfect French figure. ‘Take steps!’ he thought. Re-entering Winifred’s house he encountered Val, and they went in together. An idea had occurred to Soames. His cousin Jolyon was Irene’s trustee, the first step would be to go down and see him at Robin27 Hill. Robin Hill! The odd — the very odd feeling those words brought back! Robin Hill — the house Bosinney had built for him and Irene — the house they had never lived in — the fatal house! And Jolyon lived there now! H’m! And suddenly he thought: ‘They say he’s got a boy at Oxford28! Why not take young Val down and introduce them! It’s an excuse! Less bald — very much less bald!’ So, as they went upstairs, he said to Val:
“You’ve got a cousin at Oxford; you’ve never met him. I should like to take you down with me to-morrow to where he lives and introduce you. You’ll find it useful.”
Val, receiving the idea with but moderate transports, Soames clinched29 it.
“I’ll call for you after lunch. It’s in the country — not far; you’ll enjoy it.”
On the threshold of the drawing-room he recalled with an effort that the steps he contemplated30 concerned Winifred at the moment, not himself.
Winifred was still sitting at her Buhl bureau.
“It’s quite true,” he said; “he’s gone to Buenos Aires, started this morning — we’d better have him shadowed when he lands. I’ll cable at once. Otherwise we may have a lot of expense. The sooner these things are done the better. I’m always regretting that I didn’t . . . ” he stopped, and looked sidelong at the silent Winifred. “By the way,” he went on, “can you prove cruelty?”
Winifred said in a dull voice:
“I don’t know. What is cruelty?”
“Well, has he struck you, or anything?”
Winifred shook herself, and her jaw31 grew square.
“He twisted my arm. Or would pointing a pistol count? Or being too drunk to undress himself, or — No — I can’t bring in the children.”
“No,” said Soames; “no! I wonder! Of course, there’s legal separation — we can get that. But separation! Um!”
“What does it mean?” asked Winifred desolately32.
“That he can’t touch you, or you him; you’re both of you married and unmarried.” And again he grunted33. What was it, in fact, but his own accursed position, legalised! No, he would not put her into that!
“It must be divorce,” he said decisively; “failing cruelty, there’s desertion. There’s a way of shortening the two years, now. We get the Court to give us restitution34 of conjugal35 rights. Then if he doesn’t obey, we can bring a suit for divorce in six months’ time. Of course you don’t want him back. But they won’t know that. Still, there’s the risk that he might come. I’d rather try cruelty.”
Winifred shook her head. “It’s so beastly.”
“Well,” Soames murmured, “perhaps there isn’t much risk so long as he’s infatuated and got money. Don’t say anything to anybody, and don’t pay any of his debts.”
Winifred sighed. In spite of all she had been through, the sense of loss was heavy on her. And this idea of not paying his debts any more brought it home to her as nothing else yet had. Some richness seemed to have gone out of life. Without her husband, without her pearls, without that intimate sense that she made a brave show above the domestic whirlpool, she would now have to face the world. She felt bereaved36 indeed.
And into the chilly37 kiss he placed on her forehead, Soames put more than his usual warmth.
“I have to go down to Robin Hill to-morrow,” he said, “to see young Jolyon on business. He’s got a boy at Oxford. I’d like to take Val with me and introduce him. Come down to ‘The Shelter’ for the week-end and bring the children. Oh! by the way, no, that won’t do; I’ve got some other people coming.” So saying, he left her and turned towards Soho.
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1
immutability
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| n.不变(性) | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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plausibility
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| n. 似有道理, 能言善辩 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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7
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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placated
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| v.安抚，抚慰，使平静( placate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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acumen
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| n.敏锐，聪明 | |
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grudgingly
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untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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15
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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17
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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18
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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20
scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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21
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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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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24
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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25
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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26
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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27
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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28
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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29
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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32
desolately
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| 荒凉地，寂寞地 | |
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33
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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34
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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35
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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36
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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