Trees take little account of time, and the old oak on the upper lawn at Robin1 Hill looked no day older than when Bosinney sprawled2 under it and said to Soames: “Forsyte, I’ve found the very place for your house.” Since then Swithin had dreamed, and old Jolyon died, beneath its branches. And now, close to the swing, no-longer-young Jolyon often painted there. Of all spots in the world it was perhaps the most sacred to him, for he had loved his father.
Contemplating3 its great girth — crinkled and a little mossed, but not yet hollow — he would speculate on the passage of time. That tree had seen, perhaps, all real English history; it dated, he shouldn’t wonder, from the days of Elizabeth at least. His own fifty years were as nothing to its wood. When the house behind it, which he now owned, was three hundred years of age instead of twelve, that tree might still be standing4 there, vast and hollow — for who would commit such sacrilege as to cut it down? A Forsyte might perhaps still be living in that house, to guard it jealously. And Jolyon would wonder what the house would look like coated with such age. Wistaria was already about its walls — the new look had gone. Would it hold its own and keep the dignity Bosinney had bestowed5 on it, or would the giant London have lapped it round and made it into an asylum6 in the midst of a jerry-built wilderness7? Often, within and without of it, he was persuaded that Bosinney had been moved by the spirit when he built. He had put his heart into that house, indeed! It might even become one of the ‘homes of England’— a rare achievement for a house in these degenerate8 days of building. And the aesthetic9 spirit, moving hand in hand with his Forsyte sense of possessive continuity, dwelt with pride and pleasure on his ownership thereof. There was the smack10 of reverence11 and ancestor-worship (if only for one ancestor) in his desire to hand this house down to his son and his son’s son. His father had loved the house, had loved the view, the grounds, that tree; his last years had been happy there, and no one had lived there before him. These last eleven years at Robin Hill had formed in Jolyon’s life as a painter, the important period of success. He was now in the very van of water-colour art, hanging on the line everywhere. His drawings fetched high prices. Specialising in that one medium with the tenacity13 of his breed, he had ‘arrived’— rather late, but not too late for a member of the family which made a point of living for ever. His art had really deepened and improved. In conformity14 with his position he had grown a short fair beard, which was just beginning to grizzle, and hid his Forsyte chin; his brown face had lost the warped16 expression of his ostracised period — he looked, if anything, younger. The loss of his wife in 1894 had been one of those domestic tragedies which turn out in the end for the good of all. He had, indeed, loved her to the last, for his was an affectionate spirit, but she had become increasingly difficult: jealous of her step-daughter June, jealous even of her own little daughter Holly17, and making ceaseless plaint that he could not love her, ill as she was, and ‘useless to everyone, and better dead.’ He had mourned her sincerely, but his face had looked younger since she died. If she could only have believed that she made him happy, how much happier would the twenty years of their companionship have been!
June had never really got on well with her who had reprehensibly taken her own mother’s place; and ever since old Jolyon died she had been established in a sort of studio in London. But she had come back to Robin Hill on her stepmother’s death, and gathered the reins18 there into her small decided19 hands. Jolly was then at Harrow; Holly still learning from Mademoiselle Beauce. There had been nothing to keep Jolyon at home, and he had removed his grief and his paint-box abroad. There he had wandered, for the most part in Brittany, and at last had fetched up in Paris. He had stayed there several months, and come back with the younger face and the short fair beard. Essentially20 a man who merely lodged21 in any house, it had suited him perfectly22 that June should reign23 at Robin Hill, so that he was free to go off with his easel where and when he liked. She was inclined, it is true, to regard the house rather as an asylum for her proteges! but his own outcast days had filled Jolyon for ever with sympathy towards an outcast, and June’s ‘lame ducks’ about the place did not annoy him. By all means let her have them down — and feed them up; and though his slightly cynical24 humour perceived that they ministered to his daughter’s love of domination as well as moved her warm heart, he never ceased to admire her for having so many ducks. He fell, indeed, year by year into a more and more detached and brotherly attitude towards his own son and daughters, treating them with a sort of whimsical equality. When he went down to Harrow to see Jolly, he never quite knew which of them was the elder, and would sit eating cherries with him out of one paper bag, with an affectionate and ironical25 smile twisting up an eyebrow26 and curling his lips a little. And he was always careful to have money in his pocket, and to be modish27 in his dress, so that his son need not blush for him. They were perfect friends, but never seemed to have occasion for verbal confidences, both having the competitive self-consciousness of Forsytes. They knew they would stand by each other in scrapes, but there was no need to talk about it. Jolyon had a striking horror — partly original sin, but partly the result of his early immorality28 — of the moral attitude. The most he could ever have said to his son would have been:
“Look here, old man; don’t forget you’re a gentleman,” and then have wondered whimsically whether that was not a snobbish29 sentiment. The great cricket match was perhaps the most searching and awkward time they annually30 went through together, for Jolyon had been at Eton. They would be particularly careful during that match, continually saying: “Hooray! Oh! hard luck, old man!” or “Hooray! Oh! bad luck, Dad!” to each other, when some disaster at which their hearts bounded happened to the opposing school. And Jolyon would wear a grey top hat, instead of his usual soft one, to save his son’s feelings, for a black top hat he could not stomach. When Jolly went up to Oxford31, Jolyon went up with him, amused, humble32, and a little anxious not to discredit33 his boy amongst all these youths who seemed so much more assured and old than himself. He often thought, ‘Glad I’m a painter’ for he had long dropped under-writing at Lloyds —‘it’s so innocuous. You can’t look down on a painter — you can’t take him seriously enough.’ For Jolly, who had a sort of natural lordliness, had passed at once into a very small set, who secretly amused his father. The boy had fair hair which curled a little, and his grandfather’s deepset iron-grey eyes. He was well-built and very upright, and always pleased Jolyon’s aesthetic sense, so that he was a tiny bit afraid of him, as artists ever are of those of their own sex whom they admire physically34. On that occasion, however, he actually did screw up his courage to give his son advice, and this was it:
“Look here, old man, you’re bound to get into debt; mind you come to me at once. Of course, I’ll always pay them. But you might remember that one respects oneself more afterwards if one pays one’s own way. And don’t ever borrow, except from me, will you?”
And Jolly had said:
“All right, Dad, I won’t,” and he never had.
“And there’s just one other thing. I don’t know much about morality and that, but there is this: It’s always worth while before you do anything to consider whether it’s going to hurt another person more than is absolutely necessary.”
Jolly had looked thoughtful, and nodded, and presently had squeezed his father’s hand. And Jolyon had thought: ‘I wonder if I had the right to say that?’ He always had a sort of dread35 of losing the dumb confidence they had in each other; remembering how for long years he had lost his own father’s, so that there had been nothing between them but love at a great distance. He under-estimated, no doubt, the change in the spirit of the age since he himself went up to Cambridge in ‘65; and perhaps he underestimated, too, his boy’s power of understanding that he was tolerant to the very bone. It was that tolerance36 of his, and possibly his scepticism, which ever made his relations towards June so queerly defensive37. She was such a decided mortal; knew her own mind so terribly well; wanted things so inexorably until she got them — and then, indeed, often dropped them like a hot potato. Her mother had been like that, whence had come all those tears. Not that his incompatibility38 with his daughter was anything like what it had been with the first Mrs. Young Jolyon. One could be amused where a daughter was concerned; in a wife’s case one could not be amused. To see June set her heart and jaw39 on a thing until she got it was all right, because it was never anything which interfered40 fundamentally with Jolyon’s liberty — the one thing on which his jaw was also absolutely rigid41, a considerable jaw, under that short grizzling beard. Nor was there ever any necessity for real heart-to-heart encounters. One could break away into irony42 — as indeed he often had to. But the real trouble with June was that she had never appealed to his aesthetic sense, though she might well have, with her red-gold hair and her viking-coloured eyes, and that touch of the Berserker in her spirit. It was very different with Holly, soft and quiet, shy and affectionate, with a playful imp12 in her somewhere. He watched this younger daughter of his through the duckling stage with extraordinary interest. Would she come out a swan? With her sallow oval face and her grey wistful eyes and those long dark lashes43, she might, or she might not. Only this last year had he been able to guess. Yes, she would be a swan — rather a dark one, always a shy one, but an authentic44 swan. She was eighteen now, and Mademoiselle Beauce was gone — the excellent lady had removed, after eleven years haunted by her continuous reminiscences of the ‘well-brrred little Tayleurs,’ to another family whose bosom45 would now be agitated46 by her reminiscences of the ‘well-brrred little Forsytes.’ She had taught Holly to speak French like herself.
Portraiture47 was not Jolyon’s forte48, but he had already drawn49 his younger daughter three times, and was drawing her a fourth, on the afternoon of October 4th, 1899, when a card was brought to him which caused his eyebrows50 to go up:
Mr. SOAMES FORSYTE
THE SHELTER, CONNOISSEURS51 CLUB, MAPLEDURHAM. ST. JAMES’S.
But here the Forsyte Saga53 must digress again. . . .
To return from a long travel in Spain to a darkened house, to a little daughter bewildered with tears, to the sight of a loved father lying peaceful in his last sleep, had never been, was never likely to be, forgotten by so impressionable and warm-hearted a man as Jolyon. A sense as of mystery, too, clung to that sad day, and about the end of one whose life had been so well-ordered, balanced, and above-board. It seemed incredible that his father could thus have vanished without, as it were, announcing his intention, without last words to his son, and due farewells. And those incoherent allusions55 of little Holly to ‘the lady in grey,’ of Mademoiselle Beauce to a Madame Errant (as it sounded) involved all things in a mist, lifted a little when he read his father’s will and the codicil56 thereto. It had been his duty as executor of that will and codicil to inform Irene, wife of his cousin Soames, of her life interest in fifteen thousand pounds. He had called on her to explain that the existing investment in India Stock, ear-marked to meet the charge, would produce for her the interesting net sum of L430 odd a year, clear of income tax. This was but the third time he had seen his cousin Soames’ wife — if indeed she was still his wife, of which he was not quite sure. He remembered having seen her sitting in the Botanical Gardens waiting for Bosinney — a passive, fascinating figure, reminding him of Titian’s ‘Heavenly Love,’ and again, when, charged by his father, he had gone to Montpellier Square on the afternoon when Bosinney’s death was known. He still recalled vividly57 her sudden appearance in the drawing-room doorway58 on that occasion — her beautiful face, passing from wild eagerness of hope to stony59 despair; remembered the compassion60 he had felt, Soames’ snarling61 smile, his words, “We are not at home!” and the slam of the front door.
This third time he saw a face and form more beautiful — freed from that warp15 of wild hope and despair. Looking at her, he thought: ‘Yes, you are just what the Dad would have admired!’ And the strange story of his father’s Indian summer became slowly clear to him. She spoke62 of old Jolyon with reverence and tears in her eyes. “He was so wonderfully kind to me; I don’t know why. He looked so beautiful and peaceful sitting in that chair under the tree; it was I who first came on him sitting there, you know. Such a lovely day. I don’t think an end could have been happier. We should all like to go out like that.”
‘Quite right!’ he had thought. ‘We should all a like to go out in full summer with beauty stepping towards us across a lawn.’ And looking round the little, almost empty drawing-room, he had asked her what she was going to do now. “I am going to live again a little, Cousin Jolyon. It’s wonderful to have money of one’s own. I’ve never had any. I shall keep this flat, I think; I’m used to it; but I shall be able to go to Italy.”
“Exactly!” Jolyon had murmured, looking at her faintly smiling lips; and he had gone away thinking: ‘A fascinating woman! What a waste! I’m glad the Dad left her that money.’ He had not seen her again, but every quarter he had signed her cheque, forwarding it to her bank, with a note to the Chelsea flat to say that he had done so; and always he had received a note in acknowledgment, generally from the flat, but sometimes from Italy; so that her personality had become embodied63 in slightly scented64 grey paper, an upright fine handwriting, and the words, ‘Dear Cousin Jolyon.’ Man of property that he now was, the slender cheque he signed often gave rise to the thought: ‘Well, I suppose she just manages’; sliding into a vague wonder how she was faring otherwise in a world of men not wont65 to let beauty go unpossessed. At first Holly had spoken of her sometimes, but ‘ladies in grey’ soon fade from children’s memories; and the tightening66 of June’s lips in those first weeks after her grandfather’s death whenever her former friend’s name was mentioned, had discouraged allusion54. Only once, indeed, had June spoken definitely: “I’ve forgiven her. I’m frightfully glad she’s independent now. . . . ”
On receiving Soames’ card, Jolyon said to the maid — for he could not abide67 butlers —“Show him into the study, please, and say I’ll be there in a minute”; and then he looked at Holly and asked:
“Do you remember ‘the lady in grey,’ who used to give you music-lessons?”
“Oh yes, why? Has she come?”
Jolyon shook his head, and, changing his holland blouse for a coat, was silent, perceiving suddenly that such history was not for those young ears. His face, in fact, became whimsical perplexity incarnate68 while he journeyed towards the study.
Standing by the french-window, looking out across the terrace at the oak tree, were two figures, middle-aged69 and young, and he thought: ‘Who’s that boy? Surely they never had a child.’
The elder figure turned. The meeting of those two Forsytes of the second generation, so much more sophisticated than the first, in the house built for the one and owned and occupied by the other, was marked by subtle defensiveness70 beneath distinct attempt at cordiality. ‘Has he come about his wife?’ Jolyon was thinking; and Soames, ‘How shall I begin?’ while Val, brought to break the ice, stood negligently71 scrutinising this ‘bearded pard’ from under his dark, thick eyelashes.
“This is Val Dartie,” said Soames, “my sister’s son. He’s just going up to Oxford. I thought I’d like him to know your boy.”
“Ah! I’m sorry Jolly’s away. What college?”
“B.N.C.,” replied Val.
“Jolly’s at the ‘House,’ but he’ll be delighted to look you up.”
“Holly’s in — if you could put up with a female relation, she’d show you round. You’ll find her in the hall if you go through the curtains. I was just painting her.”
With another “Thanks, awfully!” Val vanished, leaving the two cousins with the ice unbroken.
“I see you’ve some drawings at the ‘Water Colours,’” said Soames.
Jolyon winced73. He had been out of touch with the Forsyte family at large for twenty-six years, but they were connected in his mind with Frith’s ‘Derby Day’ and Landseer prints. He had heard from June that Soames was a connoisseur52, which made it worse. He had become aware, too, of a curious sensation of repugnance74.
“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” he said.
“No,” answered Soames between close lips, “not since — as a matter of fact, it’s about that I’ve come. You’re her trustee, I’m told.”
Jolyon nodded.
“Twelve years is a long time,” said Soames rapidly: “I— I’m tired of it.”
Jolyon found no more appropriate answer than:
“Won’t you smoke?”
“No, thanks.”
Jolyon himself lit a cigarette.
“I wish to be free,” said Soames abruptly75.
“I don’t see her,” murmured Jolyon through the fume76 of his cigarette.
“But you know where she lives, I suppose?”
Jolyon nodded. He did not mean to give her address without permission. Soames seemed to divine his thought.
“I don’t want her address,” he said; “I know it.”
“What exactly do you want?”
“She deserted77 me. I want a divorce.”
“Rather late in the day, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Soames. And there was a silence.
“I don’t know much about these things — at least, I’ve forgotten,” said Jolyon with a wry78 smile. He himself had had to wait for death to grant him a divorce from the first Mrs. Jolyon. “Do you wish me to see her about it?”
Soames raised his eyes to his cousin’s face. “I suppose there’s someone,” he said.
A shrug79 moved Jolyon’s shoulders.
“I don’t know at all. I imagine you may have both lived as if the other were dead. It’s usual in these cases.”
Soames turned to the window. A few early fallen oak-leaves strewed80 the terrace already, and were rolling round in the wind. Jolyon saw the figures of Holly and Val Dartie moving across the lawn towards the stables. ‘I’m not going to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds,’ he thought. ‘I must act for her. The Dad would have wished that.’ And for a swift moment he seemed to see his father’s figure in the old armchair, just beyond Soames, sitting with knees crossed, The Times in his hand. It vanished.
“My father was fond of her,” he said quietly.
“Why he should have been I don’t know,” Soames answered without looking round. “She brought trouble to your daughter June; she brought trouble to everyone. I gave her all she wanted. I would have given her even — forgiveness — but she chose to leave me.”
In Jolyon compassion was checked by the tone of that close voice. What was there in the fellow that made it so difficult to be sorry for him?
“I can go and see her, if you like,” he said. “I suppose she might be glad of a divorce, but I know nothing.”
Soames nodded.
“Yes, please go. As I say, I know her address; but I’ve no wish to see her.” His tongue was busy with his lips, as if they were very dry.
“You’ll have some tea?” said Jolyon, stifling81 the words: ‘And see the house.’ And he led the way into the hall. When he had rung the bell and ordered tea, he went to his easel to turn his drawing to the wall. He could not bear, somehow, that his work should be seen by Soames, who was standing there in the middle of the great room which had been designed expressly to afford wall space for his own pictures. In his cousin’s face, with its unseizable family likeness82 to himself, and its chinny, narrow, concentrated look, Jolyon saw that which moved him to the thought: ‘That chap could never forget anything — nor ever give himself away. He’s pathetic!’
收听单词发音 |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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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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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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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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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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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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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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modish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的 | |
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immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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snobbish
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| adj.势利的，谄上欺下的 | |
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annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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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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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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incompatibility
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| n.不兼容 | |
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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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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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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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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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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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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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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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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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connoisseurs
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| n.鉴赏家，鉴定家，行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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saga
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| n.(尤指中世纪北欧海盗的)故事，英雄传奇 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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codicil
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| n.遗嘱的附录 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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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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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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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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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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defensiveness
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| 防御性 | |
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negligently
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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