Jolyon found June waiting on the platform at Paddington. She had received his telegram while at breakfast. Her abode1 — a studio and two bedrooms in a St. John’s Wood garden — had been selected by her for the complete independence which it guaranteed. Unwatched by Mrs. Grundy, unhindered by permanent domestics, she could receive lame2 ducks at any hour of day or night, and not seldom had a duck without studio of its own made use of June’s. She enjoyed her freedom, and possessed3 herself with a sort of virginal passion; the warmth which she would have lavished4 on Bosinney, and of which — given her Forsyte tenacity5 — he must surely have tired, she now expended6 in championship of the underdogs and budding ‘geniuses’ of the artistic7 world. She lived, in fact, to turn ducks into the swans she believed they were. The very fervour of her protection warped8 her judgments9. But she was loyal and liberal; her small eager hand was ever against the oppressions of academic and commercial opinion, and though her income was considerable, her bank balance was often a minus quantity.
She had come to Paddington Station heated in her soul by a visit to Eric Cobbley. A miserable10 Gallery had refused to let that straight-haired genius have his one-man show after all. Its impudent11 manager, after visiting his studio, had expressed the opinion that it would only be a ‘one-horse show from the selling point of view.’ This crowning example of commercial cowardice12 towards her favourite lame duck — and he so hard up, with a wife and two children, that he had caused her account to be overdrawn13 — was still making the blood glow in her small, resolute15 face, and her red-gold hair to shine more than ever. She gave her father a hug, and got into a cab with him, having as many fish to fry with him as he with her. It became at once a question which would fry them first.
Jolyon had reached the words: “My dear, I want you to come with me,” when, glancing at her face, he perceived by her blue eyes moving from side to side — like the tail of a preoccupied16 cat — that she was not attending. “Dad, is it true that I absolutely can’t get at any of my money?”
“Only the income, fortunately, my love.”
“How perfectly17 beastly! Can’t it be done somehow? There must be a way. I know I could buy a small Gallery for ten thousand pounds.”
“A small Gallery,” murmured Jolyon, “seems a modest desire. But your grandfather foresaw it.”
“I think,” cried June vigorously, “that all this care about money is awful, when there’s so much genius in the world simply crushed out for want of a little. I shall never marry and have children; why shouldn’t I be able to do some good instead of having it all tied up in case of things which will never come off?”
“Our name is Forsyte, my dear,” replied Jolyon in the ironical18 voice to which his impetuous daughter had never quite grown accustomed; “and Forsytes, you know, are people who so settle their property that their grandchildren, in case they should die before their parents, have to make wills leaving the property that will only come to themselves when their parents die. Do you follow that? Nor do I, but it’s a fact, anyway; we live by the principle that so long as there is a possibility of keeping wealth in the family it must not go out; if you die unmarried, your money goes to Jolly and Holly19 and their children if they marry. Isn’t it pleasant to know that whatever you do you can none of you be destitute20?”
“But can’t I borrow the money?”
Jolyon shook his head. “You could rent a Gallery, no doubt, if you could manage it out of your income.”
June uttered a contemptuous sound.
“Yes; and have no income left to help anybody with.”
“My dear child,” murmured Jolyon, “wouldn’t it come to the same thing?”
“No,” said June shrewdly, “I could buy for ten thousand; that would only be four hundred a year. But I should have to pay a thousand a year rent, and that would only leave me five hundred. If I had the Gallery, Dad, think what I could do. I could make Eric Cobbley’s name in no time, and ever so many others.”
“Names worth making make themselves in time.”
“When they’re dead.”
“Did you ever know anybody living, my dear, improved by having his name made?”
“Yes, you,” said June, pressing his arm.
Jolyon started. ‘I?’ he thought. ‘Oh! Ah! Now she’s going to ask me to do something. We take it out, we Forsytes, each in our different ways.’
June came closer to him in the cab.
“Darling,” she said, “you buy the Gallery, and I’ll pay you four hundred a year for it. Then neither of us will be any the worse off. Besides, it’s a splendid investment.”
Jolyon wriggled21. “Don’t you think,” he said, “that for an artist to buy a Gallery is a bit dubious22? Besides, ten thousand pounds is a lump, and I’m not a commercial character.”
June looked at him with admiring appraisement23.
“Of course you’re not, but you’re awfully24 businesslike. And I’m sure we could make it pay. It’ll be a perfect way of scoring off those wretched dealers25 and people.” And again she squeezed her father’s arm.
Jolyon’s face expressed quizzical despair.
“Where is this desirable Gallery? Splendidly situated26, I suppose?”
‘Ah!’ thought Jolyon, ‘I knew it was just off somewhere. Now for what I want out of her!’
“Well, I’ll think of it, but not just now. You remember Irene? I want you to come with me and see her. Soames is after her again. She might be safer if we could give her asylum28 somewhere.”
The word asylum, which he had used by chance, was of all most calculated to rouse June’s interest.
“Irene! I haven’t seen her since! Of course! I’d love to help her.”
It was Jolyon’s turn to squeeze her arm, in warm admiration29 for this spirited, generous-hearted little creature of his begetting30.
“Irene is proud,” he said, with a sidelong glance, in sudden doubt of June’s discretion31; “she’s difficult to help. We must tread gently. This is the place. I wired her to expect us. Let’s send up our cards.”
“I can’t bear Soames,” said June as she got out; “he sneers32 at everything that isn’t successful”
Irene was in what was called the ‘Ladies’ drawing-room’ of the Piedmont Hotel.
Nothing if not morally courageous33, June walked straight up to her former friend, kissed her cheek, and the two settled down on a sofa never sat on since the hotel’s foundation. Jolyon could see that Irene was deeply affected34 by this simple forgiveness.
“So Soames has been worrying you?” he said.
“I had a visit from him last night; he wants me to go back to him.”
“You’re not going, of course?” cried June.
Irene smiled faintly and shook her head. “But his position is horrible,” she murmured.
“It’s his own fault; he ought to have divorced you when he could.”
Jolyon remembered how fervently35 in the old days June had hoped that no divorce would smirch her dead and faithless lover’s name.
“Let us hear what Irene is going to do,” he said.
Irene’s lips quivered, but she spoke36 calmly.
“I’d better give him fresh excuse to get rid of me.”
“How horrible!” cried June.
“What else can I do?”
“Out of the question,” said Jolyon very quietly, “sans amour.”
He thought she was going to cry; but, getting up quickly, she half turned her back on them, and stood regaining37 control of herself.
June said suddenly:
“Well, I shall go to Soames and tell him he must leave you alone. What does he want at his age?”
“A child. It’s not unnatural”
“A child!” cried June scornfully. “Of course! To leave his money to. If he wants one badly enough let him take somebody and have one; then you can divorce him, and he can marry her.”
Jolyon perceived suddenly that he had made a mistake to bring June — her violent partizanship was fighting Soames’ battle.
“It would be best for Irene to come quietly to us at Robin38 Hill, and see how things shape.”
“Of course,” said June; “only. . . . ”
Irene looked full at Jolyon — in all his many attempts afterwards to analyze39 that glance he never could succeed.
“No! I should only bring trouble on you all. I will go abroad.”
He knew from her voice that this was final. The irrelevant40 thought flashed through him: ‘Well, I could see her there.’ But he said:
“Don’t you think you would be more helpless abroad, in case he followed?”
“I don’t know. I can but try.”
June sprang up and paced the room. “It’s all horrible,” she said. “Why should people be tortured and kept miserable and helpless year after year by this disgusting sanctimonious41 law?” But someone had come into the room, and June came to a standstill. Jolyon went up to Irene:
“Do you want money?”
“No.”
“And would you like me to let your flat?”
“Yes, Jolyon, please.”
“When shall you be going?”
“To-morrow.”
“You won’t go back there in the meantime, will you?” This he said with an anxiety strange to himself.
“No; I’ve got all I want here.”
“You’ll send me your address?”
She put out her hand to him. “I feel you’re a rock.”
“Built on sand,” answered Jolyon, pressing her hand hard; “but it’s a pleasure to do anything, at any time, remember that. And if you change your mind. . . .! Come along, June; say good-bye.”
June came from the window and flung her arms round Irene.
“Don’t think of him,” she said under her breath; “enjoy yourself, and bless you!”
With a memory of tears in Irene’s eyes, and of a smile on her lips, they went away extremely silent, passing the lady who had interrupted the interview and was turning over the papers on the table.
Opposite the National Gallery June exclaimed:
“Of all undignified beasts and horrible laws!”
But Jolyon did not respond. He had something of his father’s balance, and could see things impartially42 even when his emotions were roused. Irene was right; Soames’ position was as bad or worse than her own. As for the law — it catered43 for a human nature of which it took a naturally low view. And, feeling that if he stayed in his daughter’s company he would in one way or another commit an indiscretion, he told her he must catch his train back to Oxford44; and hailing a cab, left her to Turner’s water-colours, with the promise that he would think over that Gallery.
But he thought over Irene instead. Pity, they said, was akin14 to love! If so he was certainly in danger of loving her, for he pitied her profoundly. To think of her drifting about Europe so handicapped and lonely! ‘I hope to goodness she’ll keep her head!’ he thought; ‘she might easily grow desperate.’ In fact, now that she had cut loose from her poor threads of occupation, he couldn’t imagine how she would go on — so beautiful a creature, hopeless, and fair game for anyone! In his exasperation45 was more than a little fear and jealousy46. Women did strange things when they were driven into corners. ‘I wonder what Soames will do now!’ he thought. ‘A rotten, idiotic47 state of things! And I suppose they would say it was her own fault.’ Very preoccupied and sore at heart, he got into his train, mislaid his ticket, and on the platform at Oxford took his hat off to a lady whose face he seemed to remember without being able to put a name to her, not even when he saw her having tea at the Rainbow.
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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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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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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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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overdrawn
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| 透支( overdraw的过去分词 )； (overdraw的过去分词) | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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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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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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appraisement
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| n.评价，估价；估值 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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30
begetting
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| v.为…之生父( beget的现在分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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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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regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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sanctimonious
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| adj.假装神圣的，假装虔诚的，假装诚实的 | |
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impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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catered
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| 提供饮食及服务( cater的过去式和过去分词 )； 满足需要，适合 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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